The Girl in Times Square (21 page)

Joy appeared at Lily’s doorstep, courtesy of Spencer, in the form of a thin, cranky fifty-year-old woman, who looked inside, took a sniff, and said, “You live here? Your…” She waved in the direction of down the stairs, where Spencer was supposedly and invisibly lurking. “…The man who hired me, he said you had money.”

Taken aback, Lily said, “I do, I do have money, but what does…excuse me, what does
that
have to do with anything?”

“Nothing. Just thought you’d live better, that’s all.” She smiled. “I was expecting a Park Avenue-type apartment.”

“On Avenue C?”

“You’re right, wasn’t thinking.” Joy stepped in.

Lily had gotten home three days earlier, and in a week had to go back to the hospital for her first round of outpatient chemo. Was there going to be gentleness, compassion from Joy? And is that what she needed? Truth was, Lily didn’t know what she needed.

Her apartment was a foreign space to her. Five weeks gone was five centuries gone. It seemed odd to Lily that the president was the same, the year was the same, the deli was still selling peaches, the pizza place around the corner was still having a two-for-one special on Tuesday nights. Her grandmother and her
sisters with her four nieces brought her home. Very soon it got too loud with the little ones.

Before they left, Amanda said “Paint something, Lil. You’ll feel better.”

Lily didn’t know what to make of that. Paint something and you’ll feel better? Did Amanda mean physically? All Lily had to do was paint and the cancer would go? Then why did it come in the first place? Did it come because Lily liked to sleep, was not dedicated enough in her painting? Or did Amanda mean feel better psychologically? Paint something, and you’ll feel better inside. Feel better that you have cancer at twenty-four. Twenty-five now.

Lily stood in front of the full-length mirror in Amy’s room. She stood for mere moments, divided into smaller moments where her memories flashed—of wearing Friday night club clothes, school clothes, of seeing naked bodies with tan lines from bathing suits. Amy’s body in front of that mirror in her matching bra and panties, and Amy saying, I got to lose me some weight, sister, if I’m going to have a prayer of getting a man, but as Lily was remembering Amy saying it, the memory of that moment was tinged with the disingenuousness of it all—Amy was already seeing Andrew then, already had a man, already had Lily’s brother.

Anne grumbled about it but did as Lily asked: she removed the mirrors from the apartment, all three of them, dragging them out on the landing. The bathroom mirror was attached to a bathroom cabinet and could not be removed, but Lily covered it with masking tape and paper and then painted the paper black. Perfect in its lack of reflection and therefore thought.

The Mickey Mouse sweatshirt Amanda had bought her hid the emaciation of her body but couldn’t hide what had happened to Lily’s face in the five weeks of lying on her back or bent over the toilet bowl—the sunken-in cheeks, the skin stretched over bone, the gray, turned down, slightly shaking lips, the bald head.

She took a bandana and tied it below her jaw like a babushka
and suddenly she looked sixty, seventy and felt it, suddenly she looked older than Grandma and felt it. Now in a juxtaposition of souls, Grandma had left her house, was taking cabs and subways to get herself to the hospital to look after Lily. Lily’s cancer made Grandma young again! Free again! Lily is diseased and Grandma, cured of agoraphobia, is taking subways. Yippee. Meanwhile Lily is under strict orders not to venture from the house. Marcie and Dr. D don’t trust her bones not to break from brittleness, for her skin not to tear, for someone not to sneeze on her.

Her first three days went by in a glacial blur. One thing she did do was pick up the phone. She knew her apartment would be like Penn Station at rush hour if she didn’t answer. So she picked it up to remain alone. Yes, I’m fine, feeling pretty good, yes, eating, yes, drinking fluids, yes, showering, even reading, and yes, watching TV, everything is good, thanks for calling.

And then Joy came. Joy had straight brown hair, a hippie bag thrown on her shoulder, a long, loose hippie skirt, and a large shirt, as if Joy were hiding herself. But the face was smart, the nose was smart. Joy kept her face, her hair, her clothes in such a way that she wouldn’t have to think about primping, or make-up, or fashion. Her skin looked as if it had been casually tanned many times, and her brown eyes had traces of old make-up. Days-old make-up.

Joy wanted to know where she would sleep and was pleased with the presence of a second bedroom. Lily wanted to say that she didn’t expect Joy to be staying overnight, but then remembered Joy was hired as a round-the-clock nurse. Uncomfortable with Joy staying in Amy’s room, Lily could not explain it, not even when the woman asked where her roommate was. “She’s been gone a while,” said Lily and to the question of when the roommate would be coming back, Lily replied, “Don’t know, and can we talk about something else?”

Amy’s bedroom was much larger than Lily’s, and Joy offered gladly to switch, but Lily declined, so Joy said she would sleep in the room until Amy came back and then she would take the
futon. Lily asked how long Joy expected to stay. After all, she wanted to say,
I’m not going to be sick forever.

“I will stay until you’re not sick anymore, how’s that? But if I’m not working out for you, you say one word and I’m outta here. I will need Sundays off, though. It’ll be your easiest day anyway. Can you swing that? And who’s paying me, you or your…” She waved again.

“Me.”

“Um, who is he anyway?”

“He’s the one who takes care of things.”

Lily felt better having Joy sleep in Amy’s room when she realized that most of Amy’s personal things had been confiscated by Spencer as evidence. Amy’s pictures, her clothes, her books, bags, knick-knacks all made exhibits A through ZZZ in the small evidence room at the precinct.

Lily gave Joy three hundred dollars and asked her to go get new sheets and new towels, and as soon as she was left alone she called Spencer and asked him if he thought Joy was a good choice.

“She is just what you need,” he said. “You’ll see, and trust me.”

Why should I trust you? Lily thought. You want to put my brother in prison.

Unfortunately Spencer was right about Joy. The woman never stopped moving, cleaning, cooking, shopping. She called Amanda and Anne and Grandma and told them all to stay home on Monday and Tuesday, as she would be taking Lily to the hospital for her chemo sessions. Somehow Lily’s being in protective, capable hands made everyone feel better, including Lily. And Dr. D seemed exceedingly pleased with Joy as a choice of nurse. Turned out he knew of her. A doctor-friend of his treated Joy’s husband for lymphoma. Joy still had a wedding band on her finger, but when Lily casually asked her how her husband was letting her stay with someone 24/7, Joy replied that her husband had died a year ago in August after a bone-marrow transplant left him with a raging pneumonia.

Lily didn’t know how to respond. She wanted to say, don’t
they have antibiotics for that, but before she could speak, Joy added, “So don’t worry, I’ve seen plenty sicker than you.”

And to that Lily did respond.

“I don’t want to hear that other people have also suffered,” she said. “I don’t want to hear that other people had it worse than me, were sicker, felt terrible. That’s why I’m not rushing to any support groups. I’m sorry about your husband, but knowing about him only makes me feel worse because I can’t imagine anything worse than this. What makes me feel better is to think that I’m unique, that I’m unbelievably sick, and yet unbelievably strong, too, like my brother, a mighty Quinn. I don’t want to hear about other people. I don’t want to read about other people. I don’t want to read their cancer stories. I’m living my own, thank you. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” said Joy. “You’re surprisingly verbal for someone so weak.” They’d just returned home after Lily’s first chemo.

“Actually, I don’t feel too bad.” Just two plastic bags, one of VePesid, one of cytarabine dripped for two hours into her right atrium.

Lily shouldn’t have spoken so quickly because after Tuesday’s two bags, she quickly deteriorated. Days went by without food. She didn’t want to eat. Joy insisted. Her grandmother with her chicken soup insisted. Amanda, as ever a mother, with her brownies insisted. Anne with her take-out Thai, paid for by Lily, insisted. Spencer with pizza insisted, and Lily had a piece of what he was offering before she went to the bathroom to throw it up. In front of the bathroom stood Joy. “You can’t throw up the only bite of food you’ve had all day.” She did not move from the door. Lily had no choice but to lean forward and throw up at Joy’s feet onto the wide plank wood floor as Spencer turned his head. After that Joy no longer blocked the bathroom, but tried to find and make food that Lily would keep. Harder realized than imagined. After the second week, Lily couldn’t keep anything down at all Mondays and Tuesdays. By Wednesday she would have some chicken soup. Spencer brought the soup from
Odessa. “Lily, you have to eat. You understand? You can’t not eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care what you are. It’s not about the hunger, it’s about the food. Your strength comes from food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care. Eat.”

“Talk to me. Any news?”

“I won’t tell you unless you eat.”

So Lily, because she was curious, would have some liquid, some crackers, and then listen to Spencer, all the while fighting with herself not to retch. If she lay very quietly on the futon and did not speak or nod her head, she felt in balance.

What can I do to make you feel better? What can I do to help?

Rachel. Paul. Dennis, Rick the manager, Grandma, Amanda, Anne, Spencer all in unison now, WHAT CAN I DO TO HELP?

Stop talking to me about Andrew. Stop. I can’t hear another word of it. I’m sick, can’t you see? But sometimes, Lily had to turn away from the cancer, too.

Where to turn to?

A week after Andrew got home, Spencer drove out to Port Jefferson to talk to him. Harkman came along, but extremely reluctantly, suddenly mumbling about other cases, other leads, other investigations, things piling up on his desk, but mostly about not feeling well. Spencer started to argue, then stopped. There was no point. Something had to be done about Harkman. Spencer needed a new partner. He needed his friend Gabe from homicide. They drove to Port Jefferson in stony silence.

Spencer knew he might have to bring Andrew in for questioning, and to do that, Andrew would have to be formally detained and then formally charged. But with what?

“Have you no decency?” said Andrew. “I can’t believe you’re here. I told you last time, I know nothing about Amy’s disappearance, and nothing’s changed since then. Have you any idea what this is doing to my wife?”

“Would you like to come with us then and speak privately at the station?”

“Why are you here?” Andrew swung open the door.

“Because I have new information. Believe me, if I had nothing new to ask you, I wouldn’t be here.” Spencer walked through.

“You’ve got something against me,” Andrew said. “You’ve had
it from the start. You sit on your bar stool and you moralize about me—”

Spencer’s eyes darkened. “Whoa,” he said. “This has nothing to do with me. No matter how flattering it is to talk about myself with a United States Congressman, we are going to talk about
you.
Here or at the station? Your pick.”

“Here, but I’m telling you, detective, for the last time.”

Spencer took a step toward a bigger, bulkier Andrew. “I’m telling you, Congressman,” he said, nearly cornering Andrew into the hall. “I will talk to you as many times as I need to, and when you stop talking to me, I will book you for obstructing justice, is that clear? I don’t give a damn how many friends you have on the police force.”

Andrew didn’t respond. Spencer and Harkman followed him into his office. He slammed the door and bounded to his desk. “What?” he said loudly. “What is it now?”

Harkman was standing next to Spencer with an expression almost as sour and angry as Andrew’s.

“Did you buy Amy a $195 belt from Ferragamo on 5th Avenue back in March?” Spencer asked.

Andrew laughed. “Are you honestly asking me if I remember buying a
belt
six months ago?”

“No. I’m asking you if you remember paying cash for a $200 belt six months ago.”

“Detective, I can honestly say, I don’t recall.”

“Is that
honestly
to contrast with all the other times you said you didn’t recall?”

Andrew’s face grew swiftly colder. “Have you got anything else besides the belt?”

“Yes. Tiffany’s, Prada, Guess, Gucci, Versace, Mont Blanc, Louis Vuitton. All gifts from you?”

“I don’t know. Some possibly. Not all.”

“My point is, you treated her rather well, didn’t you?”

“Detective, what in the world does this have to do with your business?”

“I’m going to explain. Now, I don’t mean to be indelicate, and I’m going to ask this as politely as I can, but surely you and Amy didn’t just go shopping when you got together?”

Andrew said nothing.

“Your train from D.C. drops you off, you two meet, you have lunch, and then? Where did you go when you weren’t having drinks at 57/57, or buying pens at Mont Blanc?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

“I have to be
more
blunt?” Spencer shook his exasperated head. “Where did you go when you—”

“Here, there. A hotel.”

“The Sheraton? The Grand Hyatt? The Marriott? The Hilton? The Holiday Inn?” Spencer said that disparagingly.

“I can’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No,” Andrew returned defiantly.

Such intransigence. Spencer had to take a chance here. But Andrew was being so evasive, leaving Spencer no choice. “I see. Well, Amy has quite a stash of little shampoo and lotion bottles from a certain hotel. Would looking at them perhaps help you remember?”

Andrew heaved out a breath. “The Four Seasons, if you must know.”

Aha. So the congressman answered truthfully only when his back was to the wall. “The Four Seasons.” Spencer whistled. “I didn’t know the Four Seasons was the kind of establishment that rented rooms by the hour.”

“Oh, enough already!”

They were all standing. Andrew stood with his arms crossed. Harkman was sweating. It was difficult for him to stand so long: his legs became swollen and numb. His sour smell filled Andrew’s office.

Spencer glared at Andrew. “You obviously knew where you used to stay. Why not just say so?” he said quietly. “What you’re doing is the definition of obstructing justice. You’re giving me
ample reason to believe that you are hiding a great deal more than I’m asking you.”

“Detective, you’re being remarkably obtuse for an investigator. I’ve got a
wife
whom I have not taken to the Four Seasons! I feel extremely uncomfortable talking to you about this,
now
do you understand why perhaps I’m not being as forthcoming as I might be if we were talking about sports or politics?”

“Indeed, you treated Amy McFadden extremely well.” Spencer was studying him. There seemed to be plenty of reason for Andrew not to be honest. $600 a day hotel rooms with his wife’s old Hartford money.

“Under what name did you register at the Four Seasons?”

“You know what?” said Andrew. “I refuse to answer that question. I simply refuse.”

“Why?”

“Detective!” Andrew exhaled. “Can’t you see how this is going to look? I’ve already ended my senatorial bid. I’m desperately trying to save my job and my marriage. Your questions are not going to help you find Amy, but they
are
going to cost my wife and me a great deal.”

Spencer noted the absence of an answer. “Under what name?” he repeated.

“Under my wife’s maiden name,” Andrew said through his teeth. “Happy now?”

“Not happy, no. But I understand things just a little bit better. Congressman, what did you do on Friday, May 14? You took your customary train that dropped you at Penn at 10:45 in the morning. But you weren’t at your Port Jeff office until seven o’clock. What happened to you between the hours of eleven, when you took two thousand dollars out of an ATM machine at Penn Station, and five-thirty, when you took the ride to Port Jeff?”

“What happened to me between the hours of eleven and five-thirty?”

“Why do you keep repeating my questions, Congressman?”

“Because I don’t understand what you’re asking me. What hours?”

“The afternoon hours of Friday, May 14, 1999. The hours you usually spent at the Four Seasons, but you have told us yourself you and Amy had ended your relationship in April.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, then, where were you, Congressman, on May 14?”

Andrew nearly stammered. “Frankly, I don’t remember. I don’t understand what the afternoon of May 14 has to do with anything.”

“Six hours in the middle of the last Friday that anyone has seen Amy alive, is what it has to do with.”

“I don’t think you’re listening to me, detective.”

“I hear you loud and clear. If you weren’t with her, where were you?”

“I was—nowhere. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I thought you had no idea when she disappeared?”

“We know when she was last seen alive. You got off the train at eleven, took out two thousand dollars and didn’t show up in Port Jefferson until seven. Where were you?”

“I was nowhere, I tell you. I may have gone shopping.”

“Where you used to go shopping with Amy?”

“Around there.”

“This time did you go shopping with her?”

“Is English your second language? I told you a thousand times, I didn’t see her that Friday!”

“So what did you buy?”

“What did I buy?” Andrew was incredulous. “I don’t remember.”

“You must have bought something.”

“I must have, but it was four months ago. I don’t remember.”

“Do you have receipts for your purchases? You kept an ATM receipt from that day when you took money out in Port Jeff. Did you keep receipts for what you bought that Friday? Perhaps next to the ATM receipt?”

“I don’t have receipts for the things you’re asking. I can’t remember what stores I went to.”

Harkman and Spencer shook their heads. Harkman spoke his first words of the interview. “Congressman, I have never met a man who remembered so little about so much. I don’t think you’re fit to make laws for our country.”

“Give me a fucking break.”

“Will us booking you on suspicion of a capital crime help you remember?”

“How many times do I have to repeat myself? I hadn’t seen her since April when she—when she and I ended it! I didn’t see her that Friday, I tell you!”

“Then why did you take two grand from an ATM at Penn Station?”

“I have no idea! That’s the money I probably spent shopping.”

“Shopping you don’t remember, buying things you can’t recall, in stores you can’t name?”

“Detective, I’m calling my lawyer and your captain because this constitutes nothing but blatant harassment!”

“And you know what else?” said Spencer. “I don’t believe that a man who buys his lover at least four lots of jewelry from Tiffany’s and takes her to the Four Seasons is the same man who can’t remember the first time he met her, the first time they got together, how long the affair lasted, what he bought her and how often he saw her. Either one is true, or the other, but both cannot be true, they don’t make sense. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“I get nothing you’re saying. I’ve stopped listening.”

Harkman struggled up. “Spencer, let’s go,” he said. “Let’s just go.”

“One more thing,” said Spencer. He asked if Andrew knew that Amy volunteered at the shelter.

“Vaguely. Superficially. So what? I’m sure there are a number of things about her I did not know.” Ice was in his voice when he spoke.

“Do you know who Milo is?”

The congressman blinked before he answered. “No.”

“Never heard of him?” Spencer didn’t blink so as not to miss a single thing.

“I can’t recall. I don’t think so. Who is he?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Did Andrew know who Milo was and wasn’t saying? Spencer didn’t understand
anything.

“Congressman, if you know who this Milo is and we can find him, perhaps he knows where Amy is, and if that’s the case, we don’t come here to bother you again. I’m sure this is something you’d like, no? But as things look now, I’m coming back,” Spencer said. “I’m coming back with a warrant for your arrest.”

And in the car, an exhausted Harkman, his eyes closed, said to Spencer, “I don’t remember any empty shampoo bottles from the Four Seasons in the evidence room.”

“Ah,” said Spencer. “That’s because there weren’t any.”

Harkman’s whole body shook in disbelief. “Man, you got some fucking balls.”

Next day’s headlines were full of the congresssman, and the rest.