Whisper to Me (39 page)

“Uh-huh,” said Brian. “When dispatch put the call through, I was already on the scene. I just had to drive up. That’s how come I was so fast.”

“You were there already,” I said. “So you could have killed her.” It was
such
a lame thing to say. So direct and unsubtle. But this is real life, where you don’t have time to think through everything you say before you say it. This isn’t some Nancy Drew story. That much is going to become rapidly obvious.

“I loved her!” said Brian. “She was everything to me. And what are you thinking anyway? That I, like, murdered her in the house and then somehow hid her body and got back to my
police
car, and then drove up?”

Put like that, it did sound kind of dumb.

“I mean, how does that even work?” he continued. “We searched that house. What would I have done with the body?”

“Maybe you hid her in the trunk,” I said, without much conviction.

“Of my squad car? Yeah.”

We sat there in silence for a moment.

“How did you meet her anyway?” I asked.

Brian blushed.

“Oh,” I said, figuring out right away what the blush meant.

“Yeah,” said Brian. “It was a party. She … did her thing.”

“She took her clothes off,” said Julie, with a little acid in her voice.

“But … it was more than that,” said Brian. “I mean, for me. She was … she was an incredible person. That sounds cheesy. But … she was, like, lit up, you know? Like neon.”

“I know,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Julie.

There was another long moment where no one said anything. I got the sense Julie would very much have liked Brian to leave the apartment but was too polite to say so.

“Okay,” I said finally. “So assuming you’re telling the truth, Brian, who do you think did kill Paris?”

“Why?” he said. “Because you’re going to solve the case? Like some Nancy Drew ****?”

“Maybe,” I said.

He stared at me for a moment, the smile slowly dying from his lips. “You’re serious?”

“What are we going to do? Just
forget
about her?” I said.

Brian turned to Julie. “You’re involved in this?”

Julie shook her head.

Oh great, thanks, Julie.

“You should leave it to the agents,” said Brian to me. “That guy Horowitz is good. He blew my timeline in, like, a day. Confronted me about it. I mean, he
knew
I got there too fast. I had to tell him … what I just told you.”

“But he doesn’t know who the killer is,” I said.

“He doesn’t talk much. But I think he has a theory. I think he maybe has a suspect.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“And you don’t know who this suspect might be?”

The most fractional hesitation. “No.”

“Then we’ll keep looking,” I said.

“I would say that it’s dangerous and that you totally should not do that,” said Brian. “But I don’t think it would make much difference, would it?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Okay. What’s your next move?”

I shook my head. I had no clue. “You have any ideas?” I said.

“You’re … what? You’re recruiting me to your little Nancy Drew gang?”

“Will you stop talking about Nancy Drew?” I said.

“And it’s not a gang,” said Julie. She cut me a look, a sort of angry look. Like she didn’t like me wanting to find the killer.

“Anyway,” said Brian to me. “You want me to
help
you? This is crazy. I’m a
cop
.”

“Exactly.”

He sighed again. “I’m not going to help you get yourself killed.”

Another awkward, quiet moment.

“Hey, Cass,” said the voice.

Oh, yes. Just what I needed.
Come back after
— I started saying, silently, inside my head.

“No, wait,” said the voice. “Ask him why he thinks Horowitz has a theory.”

“What?” I said. I realized I had said this out loud when I saw the others looking at me. “I mean … ,” I said to them, “… what am I supposed to do, abandon my friend?”

Brian shrugged.

“He
hesitated
,” continued the voice. “He hesitated when you asked if he knew who the suspect was.”

I rewound my mental tape. The voice was right.

You’re helping me now?
I asked, silently this time.

“I’m not allowed to help you?” said the voice.

No, of course. Of course you can.

“Good. So ask him.”

“Why do you think Horowitz has a theory?” I asked.

“I don’t know, he doesn’t talk much, he just—”

“No. I don’t mean, what makes him have this theory? I mean, what makes
you
think that he has a theory?”

“Oh.” Brian thought for a moment. I could see that he was weighing up the risks of talking to me. He seemed uncomfortable with the whole situation actually, and I figured that was good for me. It might make him talk, just to get out of there. “It was something he said about an alibi.”

“Which was?”

Brian looked at Julie for help, but she wouldn’t meet his eye. He looked back at me. “The dad, okay? Horowitz doesn’t like his alibi. Plus … the phone call. To Julie. Paris’s phone call, after she disappeared.”

I thought for a second. “Because she told Julie not to call the cops?”

“Yeah. Why do that? Unless maybe you know the person who has grabbed you.”

Julie was frowning. “So, what, her dad who lives in New York just happens to come down to Oakwood and orders a stripper and thinks, ****, it’s my daughter, so he kills her?”

Brian shrugged. “I guess not. But maybe the dad knows she’s a stripper. Comes down and hires her, to confront her about it. And things go wrong. Get violent.”

A pause.

It seemed plausible, I had to admit.

“But his work colleague said he was with her that night.”

Brian’s mouth was open. “You know about that? How?”

I shrugged. “I know a lot of things.” This was basically straight fronting—there was a lot I didn’t know—but Brian looked impressed, and that was enough for me.

“Yeah, well, Horowitz said anyone could say that. No real way to verify, unless they went to a restaurant or something, which they didn’t.”

I stood up, my head spinning.

Paris’s dad.

Maybe not the Houdini Killer at all.

Maybe her own dad.

“See?” said the voice. “Now you’re getting somewhere.”

Say you’re a father, and you abused your daughter in some way when she was growing up.

You’re not a nice man.

Then one day you hear that she’s doing sex stuff for money, down in New Jersey, where you pay for her to attend college.

Say you’re a psychopath, maybe.

        1.    You travel down to Oakwood.

        2.    You have your daughter’s card, or her cam website, or something. You use these to e-mail, using a new account you have created. You say it’s for a party.

        3.    You make the appointment at a deserted house. Maybe you have searched through foreclosure records.

        4.    Your daughter arrives. You fight. You push her, maybe, and she falls, hits her head on a step. She is out; you think maybe she’s even dead. You put her in the trunk of your car, but you don’t realize that she has her cell, that she is going to call her friend Julie.

        5.    Though, as it turns out, your daughter does not name you anyway.

        6.    And she isn’t dead. But you kill her. You do kill her. Later. So that she can’t talk.

        7.    And you tell some girl from your office to say that you were at home all night.

        8.    
And she does
.

        9.    And the police have to accept your alibi.

        10.    Except that there is one policeman who
is
suspicious. Agent Horowitz.

        11.    And there is me.

        12.    And I’m coming for you.

Or say something else.

Say you’re a cop and you’re in love with Paris. Say you follow her and Julie to a party where she’s going to be stripping.

Say that suddenly you can’t take it anymore, the idea of her exposing herself to other men; you wait till she leaves and you grab her—I mean, Julie’s timeline is shaky; she said herself she fell asleep—and:

        1.    You kill her, you strangle her, I don’t know, or you think you kill her anyway and

        2.    You put her in the trunk of your car and

        3.    She calls Julie but doesn’t give your name because you’re a cop and

        4.    You dispose of her body after you respond to the 911 call and

        5.    You lie to the annoying girl looking into Paris’s death and you tell her that the father did it.

Or it’s neither of those things.

It’s the serial killer, and he’s someone else entirely. Someone who drives a Jeep SRT8.

Or Paris ran away and isn’t dead at all.

I’m nearly at the point where I lost you—where I threw you away.

I’ve been putting it off.

But I can’t put it off any longer.

When you came back from work I was waiting up in my room. Shane was already sitting in one of the deck chairs—you flung yourself down into the other one and Shane handed you a beer.

I went downstairs and out into the yard.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” you said, because our relationship CONTINUED TO BE SCRIPTED BY THE GREAT PLAYWRIGHTS.

“You okay?” you said.

“Yep,” I said, in AN EXCHANGE TO RIVAL MARLOWE.

Shane raised his beer. “Hey, Cass,” he said.

“Hey, Shane.”

Shane started to stand. “Here, take my chair,” he said. “I’ll sit on the ground.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You say that to all the girls?”

“Whatever,” said Shane. “I’m the one being gentlemanly and offering my chair. I don’t see you getting off your butt.”

“Touché,” you said.

“What?” said Shane.

“Never mind.”

Shane gestured at the chair. “Cass, sit.”

“No, it’s cool,” I said.

“You leaving?” you said.

“Actually, no … I was kind of hoping I could speak to you alone for a moment,” I said to you.

Shane raised his hands and opened his eyes wide, doing an exaggerated cluing-in gesture. “Oh hey, I don’t want to get in the way,” he said. “I might hit the bar. Get a drink there, maybe play some pool.”

“You don’t have to—” I began, but my tone must not have been convincing because he laughed and did a big sweeping bow, then walked off down the street, giggling to himself.

“Childish,” you said as Shane disappeared, but there was indulgence in your voice.

“He’s sweet,” I said. “Dumb, but sweet.”

“Yeah,” you said.

“Yeah.”

→
THAT ONE COURTESY OF SHAKESPEARE
←

Anyway.

We sat on the chairs.

“What’s up?” you said.

“I miss Paris,” I said. I kind of blurted it out. Always smooth, me.

You put your arm around me. “I know,” you said. “I know and—”

“No, you don’t,” I said, pulling away. “I want her back. I never had a friend like her. What if I never have a friend like her again?”

You looked slightly hurt by that. “You will,” you said.

I shrugged. “Anyway … so I met this cop, Brian, and he said that they think it’s Paris’s dad. Well, he didn’t say that exactly. But it’s obvious that—”

“Wait,” you said. “You met a cop? Where?”

“Julie’s. But I also took a look at the case file, the other day. See, I kind of know this other policeman named Dwight, he’s a … um … a friend of my dad’s, and I—”

You held up a hand. “Whoa, slow down,” you said. “You’re talking to cops now?”

“Yes. No. I mean, he was just at Julie’s place. The second cop. But what he said … about Paris’s dad. I wondered …” I paused, looked into your eyes. “I wondered if you would drive me to New York. To see Paris’s dad.”

“Jesus, Cass.” You shook your head. “That would be a very stupid thing to do.”

“Excuse me?” I was glaring at you.

You swallowed. “That came out wrong. But … that’s a super dangerous idea, Cass. What if … I mean … what if he did kill her, and you just go and confront him? What if he gets violent?”

I hadn’t really thought of that possibility.

“Um,” I said. “I don’t know.”

“You have to be more careful,” you said. I could see from your gestures and your face that you were really worried; even though I was pissed with you at that moment, there was a warm feeling right inside me about that. “I mean, Cass, I can see why your dad worries about you so much.”

The warm feeling turned cold—hard-pack snow, balling in my chest.

I stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“What? What?”

“You talk to my dad about me?”

You raised your hands. “No! Well, he spoke to me once. Said you were vulnerable. I think it was supposed to be a warning, that kind of thing.”

“I can’t believe you’re chatting to my dad about how weak I am.”

“That’s not—”

“And now!” I shouted. “And now, to make things worse, you’re taking his
side
? ********. You’re supposed to be on
my side
.”

“Whoa, Cass. There are no sides.”

“There are sides. And I want you on mine. On Paris’s.”

You moved your hands in a placating gesture. “You’ve got me, Cass,” you said. “I’m totally here. On your side.” You moved toward me, put those same hands on my hips. “One hundred percent. Always. But I am not driving you to New York to see Paris’s dad.”

I felt the ice core melt a little. I felt the heat of your fingers, that electric power again, like I could charge myself just from contact with you, like energy would surge into my every nerve ending just from your touch.

“You’re really on my side?” I said.

“Yep.”

I sighed. “Well, okay, then.”

“And no trip to New York? At least till we know more?”

I loved that “we.” “Yeah, okay.”

You kissed my forehead. Fireworks went off in my head; Roman candles spun, throwing off sparks, hissing, blazing stars into the blackness behind my eyelids, my closed eyes, waiting for—

You pulled away.

Oh, okay. We were in the yard. That was why. I remembered; I saw the trees, the flowers, the thrush landing on the thin branch of a bush. You weren’t going to kiss me where my dad might come home and see. I got it. I got it, but I still wanted you to.