Into the Dark Page 20
Brenna sighed. She picked up the glass of wine, examined the rim. “And you were wearing pink lipstick because . . .”
“I had a visitor, okay? No biggie. Just . . . just a friend.”
Brenna gave Trent a long look. She took in the mussed hair, the pink lipstick stains on the bandage on his head and his white mesh tank top that clashed with the lip-print tattoo on his pec but matched the stain on the glass, the distracted look in his eye, the smile he kept trying to stifle . . . She decided not to mention any of it. “Just take it easy, okay? Do me that favor?”
He nodded. “So listen, speaking of ass, I’ve had myself a little Shane Smith film retrospective.”
“Really?”
“They’ve got a whole bunch of his shorts on the Web site for the School of the Moving Image. I guess he’s won awards at that place, which proves this new philosophical theory that I’m working on.”
“Which is?”
“Film sucks.”
“Okay . . .”
“Don’t believe me?”
She sighed at him. “I think Casablanca was pretty good. The Godfather. Bad Santa . . .”
“Those are movies. I’m talking about film. Cinema. Whatever. Just check this out and tell me that it doesn’t get boned by goats on a regular basis.” Trent grabbed a laptop off of the edge of the counter, opened it up, and hit play on the film that filled the screen. A title popped up: Soul Window. A Shane Smith Film.
What followed was a black and white close-up of a woman’s eye. “Oh,” Brenna said. “As in, ‘The eyes are the window to the soul’?”
“As in, ‘This chomps butt.’ ”
After around thirty seconds, the eye blinked, and the film was over. Brenna looked at Trent.
“That won that school’s prize for best short film of 2006,” he said. “I kid you not.”
The credits rolled down the screen: Written and Directed by Shane Smith.
“Written?” Brenna said.
“I know, right?” said Trent. “How about directed? What’d he do, yell, ‘Blink now, please!’ ”
The Eye: Mallory Chastain
Lighting Designer: Cameron Keys
Editor: RJ Tannenbaum
“So they really were friends,” Brenna said.
“You ask me, RJ made a big step up with the porn.”
“You find any contact info for Shane?”
He shook his head. “There’s a weirdly large amount of Shane Smiths in So Cal.”
“No pictures of him accepting his awards?”
“Nope,” he said. “Only thing I could find was a group shot of his graduating class. It’s pretty blurry, but it isn’t that big a group, so I’m working on singling him out, blowing it up, making it clearer. I can try some different looks on him, too—thinner, fatter, beard, shaved head . . .”
“You think you can do all that, just from a group photo?”
“You should know by now I’m a god,” he said. “I’ll give him the full Persephone treatment.” His eyes went a little sad at the sound of the cat’s name. “Plus let’s not forget RJ’s computer in my bedroom. I’ve been recovering erased search histories, trying to see if he went looking for his boy.”
“Listen, Trent,” Brenna said. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
He looked at her. “Is it something bad?” His voice cracked, and again, Brenna couldn’t help but see him as a six-year-old beauty pageant contestant. “I feel like you’re going to say something bad.”
Brenna stole a quick glance at the lipstick stain on the wineglass rim. Be nice to him, whoever you are. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Errol Ludlow is dead.”
“What?”
“He died last night. Probable heart attack.”
“He . . . he wasn’t even that old.”
“I know,” Brenna said. “If it’s any consolation, it apparently happened during sex.”
“How did you find out?”
“The police,” she said. “And also, the motel desk clerk.” She swallowed hard. Keep it together. She’s not the only one in the world with that name . . .
“You okay?”
“Yeah . . . just . . . The clerk told me that . . . uh . . . He said that Errol’s date’s name was Clea.”
Trent shook his head. “Asshole.”
“Huh?”
“Obviously he recognized you from TV. He was messing with your head.”
Brenna exhaled. “I didn’t even think of that.” She thought back to the clerk’s face. The way he’d looked at her when she’d turned to him. Kevin Wiggins. Desk Clerk to the Stars. Not a hint of recognition in that smile, and he’d stared so closely at her face. Anybody ever tell you, you look a little like Barbara Stanwyck? “He didn’t seem like he was lying,” Brenna said.
But then again, there was the way he’d grinned at her when he’d told Tim Waxman, The lady’s name was Clea. Was it the grin of a lonely man, trying a little too hard to flirt with a stranger—or had he been watching for Brenna’s response to the name?
“Listen, Brenna. I screen your work e-mail, right?” Trent said. “You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I never show you.”
“Such as . . .”
“Clea sightings.”
“Really?”
He nodded “Each one more full of crap than the next. Just last week, some dipshit claimed he knows for a fact that Clea’s a one-eyed Wal-Mart greeter in Erie, Pennsylvania. Another freak swore up and down that Clea is his wife’s divorce lawyer—and oh, by the way, her name is Alfred now. She’s a dude.”
She shook her head, Kevin Wiggins’s grin still in her mind. “I never should have let Faith talk about Lieberman’s book.”
His bathroom door opened. A very curvy blonde slipped out.
Brenna looked at Trent.
“Uh . . . That’s . . . um . . .”
“Your friend. Who was visiting.”
“Yeah, she’s . . .”
“I’m Jenny,” the girl called out. She wore a pink angora sweater and jeans, both of which she was poured into to the point of overflow, sky-high spike-heeled pumps—your basic Trent LaSalle wet dream. Though there was something a little off about the look, Brenna thought. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it had to do with the way her stilettos so perfectly matched the sweater, the deliberate way she tossed her hair and rolled her hips as she moved toward the door. It was almost as if she were in costume, playing a role.
“Sorry to interrupt you guys,” Brenna said.
“It’s okay,” said Jenny. “I was just leaving.” She had a high, velvety voice.
“Are you sure?” Brenna asked.
Jenny turned to her, for just a few seconds. “I have something I need to be at,” she said. And for the first time, Brenna got a good look at her face . . .
Jenny was saying something to Trent—some hasty, polite, nice-talking-to-you type of comment, her hair flipping into her eyes as she spun back around, heading for the door, shouting good-bye to Trent, Trent making that tired “call me” gesture with his thumb and pinkie, mouthing the words “call me,” at the back of her blonde head, just in case she found that gesture too cryptic.
But Brenna wasn’t paying attention to any of it. In her mind, she was on the Maid of the Mist on October 30, Maya sitting next to her . . . She feels the chill wind at her back, wet hail hitting her face, so cold it burns. The boat is docking now, everyone stumbling to get off. Brenna watches the others as they pass—the elderly women, the little boy crying against his mother’s side, the shell-shocked young girl, her mascara dripping . . . Brenna stares at this poor, pretty mess of a girl, then at her boyfriend standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder, the fingertips white from the tightness of the clutch. She looks at the girl’s face, at the mascara streaks on her cheeks, so awful for the wear—worse than Maya and me put together—and then, into the eyes . . . such fathomless sadness as she meets Brenna’s gaze, her boyfriend oblivious, smiling a little. She doesn’t want to be here. None of us do, but
. . .
The girl taps her lip three times like a Morse signal.
Brenna heard Trent’s door close and she came back, that thought scrolling through her mind again . . .
She wants to die . . .
Trent was staring at the closed door as if he was about to propose to it. “I like her,” he said.
“Your friend. Jenny.”
“Yeah.”
“You might be a rebound, you know.”
“Huh?”
“She had a boyfriend on October 30.”
“Cut it out.”
“I’m serious.”
“You saw her?”
“She was on the Maid of the Mist with Maya and me. Some guy had his arm around her. Maybe it was just a date.”
“Wait. Are we talking the same boat ride where you saw the lip tapper?”
Brenna looked at him. “She was the lip tapper.”
Trent’s eyes went huge.
“Small world, I guess. Huh?”
“You’re telling me that the same girl you saw on that boat—the one who made the exact same gesture as Lula Belle does on the download . . . That was her?”
“Yeah, what’s the big deal?”
“You’re definitely sure? What am I talking about? You’re always sure. Oh my God.”
“Trent, you’re overreacting. You don’t know because you don’t remember faces the way I do, but coincidences like this happen all the time. The world’s a lot smaller than you think it is. You’d be surprised at how often I see the same people in different places. Sometimes it’s years apart.”
“You don’t understand.” Trent said.
“I do,” she said. “Jenny had the same dumb idea I did to go on the Maid of the Mist in sub-zero weather. It’s not that big a deal.”
“I’m serious. You don’t understand. Her name’s not Jenny.”
“Huh?”
“It’s Diandra.”
“What?”
“That was Diandra. I told her to lie about her name because I knew you’d be pissed.”
“The Errol’s Angel? What the hell was she doing here?”
“I sent her a text today, Brenna, I swear. I told her we were through. Well, what I said was, ‘later,’ which means the same thing.”
Brenna looked at him. “Wow. You broke up with her by text.”
“I’m crappy at dumping girls. You’re probably going to find this surprising, but I don’t have a lot of practice.”
“Uh-huh . . .”
“But see, after I sent the text, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. I was all ready to take a nap. But then she shows up at my door with those . . . with that sweater.” He cleared his throat. “So I un-dumped her.”
Brenna stared at him.
“Come on, Brenna. I’m a guy,” he said.
“Whatever.”
“Anyway, I figured I could still hang with her, as long as I didn’t mention any cases . . . Hell, she’s out of work now anyway, right? Ludlow . . .”
Brenna shrugged. “I’m surprised he hired her.”
“Why?”
“She’s so eye-catching. Errol’s Angels tend to be a little subtler—hard to fade into the background and spy on a guy when you look like that.”
Trent swallowed hard. “This is weird, Brenna.”
“Well I’m sure she doesn’t wear that sweater to stake-outs.”
“Not that,” he said. “I’m talking about Diandra in general. She’d just started working for Errol when I went to see him for that pitch meeting. Before that, she was on the Maid of the Mist with you.”
“The Maid of the Mist couldn’t have been planned, Trent. How would she have even known I was in Niagara Falls?”
Trent picked at a nail. “I’m . . . uh . . . I’m pretty sure I told somebody you were going up there.”
“You did? Who?”
“Page Six.”
“Oh for God’s sake.”
“Plus, I mean . . . I know I’m irresistible and all, but she has been on me like you wouldn’t believe. I mean, come on. A girl like that?”
“Good point,” Brenna said. “You think she’s following us?”
“I think she’s following the Lula Belle case.”
Brenna nodded, very slowly.
“And she taps her lip in the same way Lula Belle does in a lot of those videos.”
“Eighteen,” Brenna said quietly.
“Huh?”
“She taps her lip in eighteen of the videos.”
“Brenna?”
“Yeah?”
What if Diandra is her?”
“Her?”
“Lula Belle,” Trent said. “What if she knows we’re trying to find her and wants to make sure that we don’t and so she’s trying to distract me . . .”
“So she’s sticking around and getting close to all the people looking for her, when she could far more easily leave town?”
“Hiding in plain sight,” Trent said. “Oldest trick in the book.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Looks-wise, she could be Lula Belle.”
“Lula Belle is a silhouette.”
“Yeah, but she’s got the body. She’s got the flexibility, too, trust me on that.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
Brenna was breathing hard, now. Her jaw was tight. “Because she’s just a kid.”
Trent opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.
“How would she know all that stuff about my family?” Brenna said. “How would a twenty-year-old girl like that . . . How would she . . .”
“You don’t think Diandra is Lula Belle,” Trent said, “because Diandra can’t be Clea.”
Brenna didn’t say anything.
“Listen, whether or not she’s Lula Belle,” he said, “she’s got a sick interest in this case.”
Brenna stared at her hands.
“Brenna?”
She couldn’t answer. It was the way Trent had said her sister’s name—the same way Maya had said it this morning, the same shiver in the tone . . . What if Grandma is right about Clea, though? What if she’s crazy and destructive and stuff? She thought of Kevin the desk clerk again. The way he’d said the name of the woman who saw Errol, just before he died. The lady’s name was Clea. Said, not to Brenna, but to Officer Tim Waxman. Would a meek old guy like that really lie to a police officer, just to mess with Brenna’s head? Maybe.
But maybe not. Maybe Diandra wasn’t the only person with a sick interest in the Lula Belle case. Maybe the real Lula Belle really was hiding in plain sight. And maybe, when he’d asked, she’d decided to give Kevin the desk clerk her real name . . .
“Bren, are you okay?” Trent said.
“I’m not sure.”
Brenna’s phone tapped Morse code. She glanced at the screen, and saw a text from Maya. Chanukah tonight, it read. You coming home soon?
Clea, were you at the MoonGlow last night?
Brenna looked at Trent. “I need to see her.”
“Who?”
“The woman who was with Errol.”
He frowned. “How the hell are you gonna manage that?”
“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “It’s a weird one . . .”
He waited.
“I’ll tell you later,” Brenna said as she texted Maya back and hurried out the door. “In the meantime, keep looking for Shane.”
Chapter 16
“You so owe me,” said Maya—a surprisingly deadpan reaction, seeing as five minutes ago, a drunken woman had thrown up on her shoes.
When it happened, Brenna and Maya had just gotten out of the cab on 108th and Second, Maya clutching her giant sketch pad in a way that made Brenna remember her at five years old—March 23, 2002, walking through the living room of Brenna’s then-just-moved-into apartment at 7 A.M. holding her Bob the Builder doll to her chest. Prince Harry and I want breakfast, Mommy.
Com
ing out of the memory, Brenna had thought, God I’m a terrible mother to take her here. And then a sinewy bald woman in a strapless red minidress had stumbled up and puked on Maya’s high-tops, putting exclamation points on Brenna’s thought process.
Worst! Mother! Ever!
“I hate to see what this area is like after 5 P.M.” Brenna was trying to sound cheerful as she went at Maya’s shoes with seltzer water and a wad of paper towels, both of which she’d bought at the bodega next to the hotel. They were in the lobby of the MoonGlow—Errol’s body long gone, and the police presence along with it.
It was 3 P.M. now, a bright, crisp winter day on this dismal block, Christmas decorations wilting on the streetlights outside lobby windows so grimy, it looked as though they were under water.
Brenna hadn’t paid much attention to the decor in here earlier, but if she were to classify it, it would be mid-twentieth-century-what-the-hell-were-they-thinking. Mauve and tan floor tiles, mirrored walls, a chandelier that looked as though it were made of melted plastic. A big faux Ming vase next to the front desk, filled with the dirtiest fake flowers Brenna had ever seen, and an odor pervaded the space—cheap pine air freshener, tinged with sulfur and cheese. “You’re right,” she said to Maya. “I do owe you. Big time.”
“Mom, I can clean my own shoes. This is embarrassing.”
“I don’t want you touching them,” Brenna said. “And who are you embarrassed in front of? I guarantee you, you’re not going to run into any of your friends here.”
“Oh my God! There’s my history teacher coming out of the elevator. Hi Mr. Stewart! Is that your wife?”
Brenna’s head shot up.
“Kidding,” Maya said, but when Brenna looked at her daughter, she could see the fear flickering in her eyes. God, she’s still a child. What am I thinking?
Brenna said, “Do you want to leave, Maya?”
“Mom, stop. I’m fine.”
“Something I can help you with?” said a voice behind them, which Brenna immediately recognized. “Kevin Wiggins.” She sprang to her feet and turned around, stuck out her hand. “Do you remember me, from earlier today?”
He smiled. “Barbara Stanwyck.”
Maya said, “Who?”
“This is my daughter, Maya.”