Stay With Me: A Brenna Spector Novel of Suspense Read online

  He smiled, and she smiled back. She’d forget him in a week, a day, an hour, he knew. But for now they were old friends, sharing a secret.

  Baus is such a tool.

  Morasco pushed open the heavy door to the station house. As he passed the front desk, Sally signaled him.

  “What’s up?” he said, and only then did he notice the strange look in her eyes.

  “We got a call from the NYPD—Missing Persons Unit,” she said. “A teen runaway they’ve tracked here.”

  “Okay, forward me the info. I’ll get somebody on that.”

  He started into the squad room. She held a hand up. “You also got a call from Brenna.”

  “Okay, thanks, Sal—”

  “No.” She frowned, her face coloring. “You don’t understand.”

  “I don’t?”

  “Brenna’s call,” she said. “The call from New York. They’re about the same girl. Brenna’s daughter.”

  Morasco couldn’t find a squad car fast enough, but the good news was, Maya wasn’t far. Police at the Twentieth Precinct had pinged her phone, narrowing its location to the corner of Van Wagenen and Main, which was just about ten miles away from the station. Everything in Tarry Ridge was fairly close. Though it had quadrupled its population within the last fifteen years, the town had grown up, not out—a dense but small bedroom community, bursting at the seams, but all of it accessible. When there wasn’t much traffic—and on a cold Sunday evening post-Christmas season, there was hardly any—you could get to most places within Tarry Ridge in twenty minutes or less.

  Morasco was on the way now, Danny Cavanaugh driving, with his partner, Rich Cerulli, in the passenger’s seat, Morasco in the back, calling Brenna’s cell.

  “I’m on my way,” Brenna said by way of answering.

  “Me too,” said Morasco. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Nick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you ever pray?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Don’t worry. She is okay. Drive safe.”

  “I’m not driving.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I don’t think I could drive. I’m shaking so bad.”

  “Brenna, listen to me. Maya is fine.”

  “I don’t know her . . . I thought I did, but . . . I don’t know anything.”

  “Believe it, okay? She’s fine.”

  Morasco heard a slow intake of breath, a shaky release. “She’s fine,” Brenna said.

  “You’re on your way to pick her up.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re going to hug her and scream at her. Then you will take her home and ground her for the next five years.”

  Another deep breath, in and out. “Thank you. Thank you, Nick.” Brenna ended the call.

  Morasco felt turned around, twisted inside.

  Cavanaugh was flooring it, siren blaring. He ran a red light, swung into a left on Main, and then they saw it, four blocks down, the Lukoil station on the corner.

  Cavanaugh said, “Detective Morasco, isn’t that where the Wentz murder weapon was found?”

  “Yep.”

  Of course, Morasco had thought of that as soon as he’d heard which street corner Maya’s phone had been traced to. Back in the fall, a knife had been found there, in that same gas station’s garbage can. It had tied Nelson Wentz to his wife’s murder—a major turning point in the case that had made Morasco something of a hero to Danny Cavanaugh, a third-generation cop and a law enforcement fanboy if there ever was one.

  More importantly, though, that same case had first brought Nick and Brenna together. Whether this was a significant fact, or whether it was pure coincidence, Morasco didn’t know. Just like he didn’t know what had prompted Maya—a reasonably happy kid from what he’d seen—to pick up and leave her parents without warning. To send them a text like that . . .

  A detective from the NYPD’s Missing Persons Unit had read it to him over the phone in a matter-of-fact, seen-it-all voice. Take comfort in the fact that I am happy.

  It says that? Morasco had asked.

  Word for word, Detective.

  But Missing Persons didn’t know Maya. Maya would never say those words, let alone type them out and hit send. Maya would never think them.

  Danny Cavanaugh said, “Are you getting déjà vu, sir?”

  “Huh?”

  “You know. From the Neff case.”

  “Oh . . . no.”

  Cavanaugh pulled in to the Lukoil station and Morasco got out of the car. The street was dark, the stores closed. Tarry Ridge wasn’t exactly known for its hopping night life, especially on a Sunday night of a nonholiday weekend.

  The gas station, too, was nearly empty. Only ways you’d know it was open at all were the lit up sign and the soccer mom who stood in her fitted black coat, pumping gas into a shiny blue Lexus. Morasco jogged up to her, flashing his badge, Danny Cavanaugh and his partner Cerulli right behind. Words flew out of all their mouths at once. “Ma’am, have you seen a blonde girl, about five-foot-nine . . .”

  “Excuse me, Miss, have you seen a thirteen-year-old . . .”

  “. . . any strange activity involving a blonde girl . . .”

  The woman’s eyes widened. She clutched the pump. Morasco’s eyes went to the back bumper of her car. The peeling sticker: “My Child Is an Honor Student at George Washington Elementary.” Then back to her face—tasteful makeup, terror flickering across the features, the mouth twitching. Morasco doubted she’d been this close to danger in her entire life. He thought of her kid, her elementary school honor student, probably at home right now with Dad, his face buried in a biology book, safe and warm and free from fear . . .

  “Is something wrong?” she said. “What happened?”

  They all three started to speak again, but Morasco held up a hand. He felt somebody watching him. Across the street, a figure stood outside a closed Starbucks, hiding in the shadows. A man. “Finish up,” he said to Cavanaugh, then he headed across the street, fast. Behind him he heard Cavanaugh saying, “Missing girl,” Honor Mom saying, “Oh my.”

  The man turned fast, started heading up the sidewalk, shoes clicking. Morasco followed. “Hello,” he said. “Sir? I need to ask you a few questions.”

  The man kept walking, as though he had an appointment to make. He was a couple of inches taller than Morasco, and broad. A big man. He wore a long, dark coat.

  “You and I are the only people on the street,” Morasco said. “How long are we going to keep this up?”

  The man stumbled a little. His hands were straight out at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching.

  “You know who I am,” said Morasco. “You saw me back there.”

  The man started to slow.

  “Police. Halt.” Morasco didn’t shout it. He didn’t have to—it was that quiet. A car buzzed by—Honor Mom’s Lexus, the only car on the street.

  The man stopped, turned around. “Yeah?” he said.

  The light from a streetlamp hit the side of his face—clean shaven but wet with sweat. His eyes were half closed, the mouth slack. Pills, Morasco thought. He felt the weight of his gun at his shoulder holster. “Can you please put your hands up where I can see them?”

  “On what grounds?”

  “On the grounds that I want to see your hands.”

  The man slowly raised his hands. “I wasn’t doing anything,” he said.

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  Morasco leveled his gaze at him. He slipped his hand beneath his coat, touched the .45 in his shoulder holster, making sure the guy noticed.

  “It’s okay,” the guy said. “Takeiteasyofficer.” The words slurred out of his mouth, bumping into each other. From where he was standing, Morasco detected an acrid, BO smell. Beads of sweat swelled on
his upper lip, rolled down his face. “It’s okay,” he said again. “I wasn’t trying to piss you off. I was just walking.”

  “Have you seen a young girl around here? Thirteen years old? Blonde hair?”

  “I haven’t seen any girls.”

  Morasco heard something, a sound coming out of the guy’s coat. Doorbell chimes.

  The guy started to shake. “Oh shit,” he whispered.

  Morasco rested his hand on the .45. “Keep them up,” he said. He moved closer. The chimes echoed on the quiet street. “Ring tone?” he said.

  The smell was worse close up. Under the coat he wore a white button-down shirt, the collar dark with sweat. His eyes were wide open now, the irises huge, eclipsing the pupils. “I don’t know, man.”

  Morasco slipped his hand into the guy’s coat pocket, pulled out the slim thing as it chimed.

  The phone’s case was encrusted with pink glitter.

  “This is your phone?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  The hell it is. Morasco turned over the chiming phone, looked at the caller ID screen: “Mom,” it said. Next to the word was Brenna’s picture.

  Morasco froze. Anger burned through him, bubbled in his veins. “Where is she?” he shouted. “Where is Maya?”

  It happened as though in slow motion: the sweating man turning around and moving, knocking the phone out of Morasco’s hand, the phone flying into the gutter, splashing into a puddle from the previous night’s rain, the ring dying along with it. Then Cavanaugh and Cerulli running across the street, the wet crash of their shoes on the wet pavement, another squad car arriving, siren blaring, screeching to a stop.

  And the asshole was running now, full-on racing up the street, faster than any drugged man should know how to run, big legs powering forward, coat flapping behind him.

  “What’s going on?” said Danny Cavanaugh, as Cerulli bent to scoop up the ruined phone and Morasco took off after the running man. His feet thudded on the sidewalk, he pushed hard, but the black coat was that much farther up the block, then crossing the street . . .

  “Stop!” Morasco shouted, the word a rasp.

  The man was slowing, drugs and ill health kicking in, and still Morasco strained forward, gaining on him, close enough now to smell his sweat.

  The man faltered, slowed more. Stopped. Morasco could hear his breathing now, hard and wet.

  “Turn around!” Morasco’s voice echoed up the dark street.

  His whole body moved with each breath, shook with it.

  Morasco kept his hand on his .45. “Turn around,” he said. “Put your hands up.”

  The man turned. He reached under his coat.

  “Put your hands up!” Cavanaugh shouted.

  The man grabbed something and pulled it out, his fist clamped around it . . .

  “Drop it!”

  Maya, just a kid.

  “Put it down!” Cerulli said.

  Morasco heard a loud crack. And then the freak was spinning again, spinning to run, he thought for a split second, but then he was falling, face to the pavement, Cavanaugh chanting, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

  Morasco heard Brenna’s voice saying his name, Brenna rushing up to him, her hands on his arms, his face, in his hair. “What’s happening,” she was saying.

  And only then did Morasco see the blood on the sidewalk, pooling under the man’s head. Only then, with the smell of gunfire in the cold air and the sound of it still pounding in his ears, still numbing him to every real sound, every word, only then did he realize that it was his own gun he’d heard. Only then was he aware of his hands, still wrapped tight around the .45, still aching from the force, his fingers still resting against the trigger.

  10

  “You think Brenna’s gotten to Tarry Ridge yet?” Faith said.

  “Seems like she should have.”

  “Do you think they’ll find Maya there?”

  Jim said, “Yes.” But he didn’t sound like he meant it, and he wouldn’t look at her. Jim never could look Faith in the eyes and lie, which was usually a quality she appreciated, but not now. She could have done with a little lying now.

  They were sitting on a very uncomfortable couch in the cold, marble lobby of Lindsay Segal’s building, waiting for Lindsay to come home. That had been the plan. When police had arrived, and they’d said they could take one parent along with them to Tarry Ridge, the three of them had agreed Brenna would go. (It had been a no-brainer, what with her job and her connection to Detective Morasco.)

  Jim and Faith had agreed to stay here, on the chance Maya really was at the movies with Lindsay and someone had simply stolen her phone. That had easily been an hour ago, maybe more. And with no call from either the police or Brenna, no more texts from Maya, and no Lindsay, Faith was feeling increasingly tense.

  The doorman’s station faced the couch. He was reading The Secret. Every so often, Faith would steal a glance at him, wonder what he was thinking—which is what you do when you can’t stand your own thought process. It’s like being at a restaurant and not liking what you order. You pay more attention to what’s on everyone else’s plate. You envy them, simply for having chosen differently.

  “Good book?” Faith asked the doorman. She never had gotten the doorman’s name, and since she was past the point of politely asking him for it, she’d secretly nicknamed him Happy. “I’ve heard lots of good things about The Secret.”

  Faith could feel Jim cringing next to her. He’d never much appreciated her habit of starting conversations with strangers—particularly now, she imagined. And she and Happy had already talked at length—about the weather, about how they’d spent their Christmases, about which movies they thought deserved Academy Award nominations . . .

  Jim got quiet when under stress. He closed up into himself, spinning his own cocoon. Faith assumed that was part of his being an only child, and that was fine. For him. Faith, on the other hand, had three sisters and a brother, and too much silence got her spooked. Her mind would fill in the blanks, in this case crafting images of Ashley Stanley at thirteen, blonde as Maya, smiling at Renee Lemaire as she first pulled up in her car.

  I have found new friends, a beautiful new life.

  Faith gritted her teeth. She dug her heels into her shoes, pushed away the bad thoughts. She needed to talk to someone, anyone—and if that made Jim feel uncomfortable, she didn’t care. “I’ve had several friends who have read The Secret and adored it,” Faith said, a little too loudly.

  “It’s terrific,” Happy said. “This is the third time I’ve read it.”

  “Isn’t it about the power of positive thinking?”

  “Not thinking.” He adjusted his glasses. “Believing. There’s a big difference.”

  Faith looked at Jim. He was staring down at the marble floor, his hands clasped together. If you didn’t know him, you might think he was praying.

  Happy said, “Belief is a lot more powerful than thought.”

  Faith’s white coat lay across her lap. She smoothed it, feeling the cool fabric under her palms, wanting that to be true.

  “Has it worked for you?” she said. “Do you have any Secret success stories?”

  Jim stiffened. “Jesus, Faith,” he whispered.

  “I need this,” she said, between her teeth. “I need something.”

  Happy said, “I really hope you folks find your daughter.”

  “Can you believe we will?” Faith said. “Can you believe we’ll find her soon?”

  He put his book down. “Yes.”

  “Believe it with all your heart,” she said. “Please.”

  “Sure,” said Happy. Happy, looking sad. “I can believe that.”

  The door pushed open. The doorman’s chin lifted. His thick eyebrows went up, and for a few seconds, Faith thought, Our prayers are answered. Maya, standing at the door. Hap
py said, “Miss Segal, there are people here to see you.”

  Jim and Faith both stood up at the same time and turned toward the door, where a baffled teenage girl stood, holding hands with a tall, scruffy boy of about the same age. Maya was not with them.

  “Lindsay?” Jim said.

  The girl dropped hands with the boy—or maybe it was the other way around. “Yeah?”

  Strange, when Maya had told Faith that she was helping a junior with an art project, Faith hadn’t expected the junior to look so . . . well . . . trashy. Faith wasn’t sure whether it was all the makeup or the bubblegum flatness of her voice or the way she regarded her, the pink mouth hanging open, the blackened eyes half closed with a boredom that looked as though she’d practiced it in the mirror. Or maybe it was just the fact that Maya wasn’t standing there with her. Maybe that was it.

  Faith sucked in her bad feelings, stuck out her hand. “This is Maya Rappaport’s dad, Jim,” she said. “I’m Faith, her stepmother.”

  The boy was the one to shake it. “Hi,” he said. His hand felt a little moist.

  She looked at him. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Sorry. I’m . . . uh . . . Miles.” He said it as though he’d actually forgotten his own name for a few seconds.

  “Nice to meet you, Miles.” She saw something in his eyes, a hint of recognition. She got this a lot from strangers—that don’t-I-know-you-from-somewhere look. Such was the C-list level of her fame, but while she usually helped people out by telling them she was on that morning TV show they sometimes watched, she didn’t care to do that for this scruffy boy (didn’t anyone shave anymore?). Not if he wasn’t going to help her.

  “Lindsay,” Jim said. “Maya never came home.”

  The girl’s eyes widened, the gimlet glaze slipping out of them.

  “We were hoping she’d be with you.”

  “No . . . um . . . She’s not.”

  “And you don’t know where she is?” Faith said.

  “Sorry.”