Into the Dark Read online

  Then she found Morasco in the lobby. He started to ask her how it went, but she cut him off. “Did you find out from Danny exactly where Orion was arrested?”

  “Vacant lot next to a parking area. Middle of Columbus Boulevard,” he said. “Why?”

  “Because I think Robin Tannenbaum was shot to death by Shane Smith. And if we go into the building across the street, we’ll find his body.”

  Morasco called both Danny Cavanaugh and his grandfather Wayne and arranged for them both to meet him—along with Wayne’s partner, Danny’s partner, and a team of squad cars from the Mount Temple station—at the parking lot on Columbus Boulevard where Orion Nichols had been arrested. “Got a tip on a possible murder in the building across the street,” he said to Wayne, who followed up with his office, no questions asked. That’s the type of clout Morasco had now. Brenna and Morasco, actually, thanks to the Neff case. When Morasco let Danny Cavanaugh know, over the phone, that private investigator Brenna Spector was coming, he told her that the young officer had “squealed. Literally. I kid you not.”

  Flattering as it was to know that she’d made a cop squeal, the best part of all this was that Brenna no longer had to sneak onto crime scenes—at least not in Westchester County. She hoped it would last.

  She was in her Sienna, following Morasco’s car to Mount Temple, when her cell phone chimed. She looked at the screen, recognized the number of Gary Freeman’s new disposable phone. Finally, he was returning her call of this morning. About time. She hit send, activating the Bluetooth in her ear.

  “Yes, I’m alone,” she said, before he could ask. She really couldn’t stomach that question one more time.

  Gary Freeman said, “You found something out about RJ Tannenbaum?” His voice sounded strange. Slurry. From what she’d read about him online, Gary Freeman didn’t drink. Plus, even if he did, it was before noon in California. Maybe it was just the connection . . .

  “Yes. I found out two things,” Brenna said. “The first is that three years ago, RJ Tannenbaum broke into your house.”

  He breathed thickly into the phone, not saying anything for close to a minute. Brenna followed Morasco onto the ramp for 287. They’d already passed the Katonah exit by the time he finally spoke.

  “What’s the second thing?”

  “Mr. Freeman,” Brenna said.

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Uh . . . Okay, Gary. You can’t just change subjects on me.”

  “That’s still the same subject. You told me the first thing. Now I’m asking you for the second.”

  He pronounced it shecernd. Definitely drunk. “Is something wrong?” she said.

  “I don’t give a shit about RJ Tannenbaum. I don’t know who he is. I hired you to find Lula Belle.”

  There was something so strange about him—and it wasn’t the fact that he was clearly lying about knowing Tannenbaum, or even that he was early morning drunk-calling her after posting an essay on the Wise Up Foundation’s blog November 25 called “Why I Always Say No to Drugs and Alcohol.”

  No, it went beyond that. Gary Freeman of the warm character actor’s voice, Gary Freeman, whom Brenna had decided she liked, without really knowing why—that Gary Freeman seemed to have disappeared.

  “I explained to you,” she said, as patiently as she could. “RJ Tannenbaum was, in all probability, with Lula Belle when she disappeared.”

  “I don’t care about him! He’s a fucking nobody!”

  His voice roared in Brenna’s ears. She gritted her teeth. “He went to your alma mater.”

  “Only for three months.”

  Brenna’s eyebrows went up. “You do know him.”

  “No.”

  “He called your agency four times in late September,” she said. “What did you talk about?”

  “I never spoke to him.” Schpoke.

  “Do you know Shane Smith, Gary?”

  “No!”

  “How about Diandra? I don’t have a last name on her, but that’s an unusual enough first name, I’d think you’d—”

  “You’re fired.”

  “What?”

  “You’re fired, you mental freak!”

  Click.

  Should have run a background check. Brenna kept driving. “I’m finding her anyway,” she whispered. “I’m finding Lula Belle.” She clutched the steering wheel and stared out through the windshield. “But first,” she said, “I’m finding RJ.”

  DeeDee’s view was spectacular. Of course it was. Gary paid the rent and it was astronomical. Three years ago, when she’d left L.A. on his suggestion and found this place, Gary had considered it a small price to pay for her continued silence about the evening they’d spent together—an evening he remembered very little of, to be honest, blacked out as he’d been from Scotch. He never drank.

  A year later, when, after buying the Bat Phone just for emergencies, he’d found himself calling this girl and confiding in her on a regular basis—about his money problems, his career troubles, his hopes and fears and finally, his past—Gary had thought of the rent as therapy money. And once DeeDee had begun telling him, “I’ll do anything for you,” and proving it . . . (He wasn’t exactly sure how she was proving it, mind you, but he sure as hell hadn’t heard from RJ Tannenbaum again, which said something.) Well, Gary kept depositing the checks. Enough said.

  But now . . .

  Now as Gary stood on DeeDee’s balcony, the wind biting his face as he watched puffy Christmas clouds swirling over the East River, Gary could only think of the havoc DeeDee Walsh had wreaked on his life, financially, emotionally, spiritually.

  She loved him, for all his flaws. Supported him through every bad thing he did, knew his darkest secrets and still hung on, hung on to him tight, even when he knocked her to the ground. She hung on to him and kept him afloat when it would have been so much better if she’d just let him sink, so much better for them both.

  DeeDee. His girl. His poor, misguided girl. Did you give away our secrets, DeeDee? Did you find a confidant of your own?

  Shane Smith. Good-looking kid. Took a seminar on working with child actors Gary had taught as a guest lecturer. He’d asked lots of questions. To be young again, Gary had thought. Gary, who had once been very much like Shane. Same swagger, same grin. Ready to take over the world . . . We can beat that Murder Mile, baby. We can beat it straight to death.

  Once, Shane had stayed after class as Gary collected his things, waiting with that smile on his face, like they had a shared secret. “My girlfriend used to be a client of yours as a kid,” Shane had told him. “DeeDee Walsh. Do you remember her?”

  Gary, who hadn’t remembered her at all, had said, “Sure. DeeDee. Of course.”

  “She talks about you all the time.”

  “She does?”

  “Says you are the most gifted man she’s ever met.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Uh-huh. To tell you the truth, I’m a little jealous.”

  “What’s she doing now? Still acting?”

  “Trying. She’s gorgeous. All she needs is a break. For now, she’s waiting tables at Barney’s Beanery.”

  And who could blame a man for going out to dinner on his own, just once? Who could blame him, if his wife and kids were out of town and he couldn’t cook worth a damn, to grab a burger at Barney’s Beanery, where he hadn’t eaten since . . . man . . . since back when he was Shane’s age . . .

  It had been three years since that one night out, but it may as well have been thirty. Gary felt so old, so tired. The walls in the apartment were lined with black and white head shots of DeeDee—or Diandra Marie, as she was now known. In one, she was wearing glasses and a high-buttoned shirt. In another, she had wet lips and hair, her shoulders bare . . . What kind of road was it that brought him here to this overpriced actress pad, this grown-up playhouse, when less than forty-eight hours ago he was sitting in his kitchen in Pasadena, Hannah complaining to him about the Tooth Fairy?

  DeeDee was at her regular job rig
ht now—waiting tables at a place called Harry’s Hamburger in the theater district, which wasn’t really all that different a name from Barney’s Beanery when you thought about it. You get some rest, she had told Gary in that practiced, breathy voice of hers as she headed out the door. I’ll be home before you know it.

  For the life of him, he still couldn’t remember her as a client. Of course he had no desire to try.

  DeeDee had been working that Harry’s Hamburger job since she moved here, taking a brief hiatus to become one of Errol’s Angels and spy on Ludlow. Gary wondered what DeeDee’s coworkers at Harry’s thought of this showplace their fellow waitress lived in. Sugar daddy. They had to think that, right? He wondered if DeeDee had told them about him, too.

  She’d told Shane about him, after all. Shane Smith—Spector had named him, over the phone. And if ever a name could knock a man down . . .

  The Bat Phone was in his jacket pocket. He grabbed it, called DeeDee’s cell. She answered after the first ring. “Hello?” Gary heard restaurant noise in the background—the hum of voices, pop music, a baby crying . . . which made him think of Hannah.

  His brain was thick and foggy, headache settling in. Scotch and hangover fighting it out in his skull. A battle royal, to be sure. “What’s going on between you and Shane Smith?” he said.

  He thought he might have heard a gasp. “Uh . . . let me take this outside.”

  “Take it wherever you want,” he said. “But you’d better tell me the truth.”

  As she hurried to find a quiet place, Gary could hear DeeDee panting into the receiver. He could almost feel her trembling. She was such a kid, really, and for a moment, he felt sorry for her. His half-full glass of Scotch was on the living room table. He took another swig, felt the strength of the burn, the softness in his chest dissipating.

  “What are you talking about?” DeeDee said now.

  “Brenna Spector was asking me about you, RJ Tannenbaum, and Shane Smith,” he said. “What does Shane Smith have to do with anything?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Don’t take that tone with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I . . . I used to date him back in L.A. But he means nothing to me.”

  “I don’t give a damn what he means to you, DeeDee,” he said. “I want to know what he knows. I want to know what you told him.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Well, why did Brenna Spector—”

  “Maybe RJ told him something, before . . . you know. They were friends back in film school for a while.”

  “Have you been in touch with Shane since you’ve been in New York?”

  She gulped air. “You don’t have to worry about him. I swear that on my life.”

  “DeeDee?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Do you know anything about Lula Belle that you’re not telling me?”

  “No.”

  “Does Shane know about Lula Belle?”

  “No,” she said. “If he did, I would have found her for you.”

  “So you have been in touch with him, liar!”

  She was crying now. At work, which wasn’t a good thing. Gary couldn’t risk another scene. He needed to lay off the alcohol, stop feeling sorry for himself, get his head back together . . . He thought of the way he’d spoken to Brenna Spector over the phone. He heard his own voice in his head—like those drunk Mel Gibson tapes people were making ringtones out of. He cringed.

  That wasn’t him. Talking like that. To her sister. That wasn’t Gary Freeman, whom everyone liked. And now he’d gone and done it. Raised red flags in Brenna Spector’s mind, and she’s an investigator. With perfect memory. She’d remember that rant always—his anger over RJ Tannenbaum. The way he’d exploded at her when she’d asked about the phone calls—but he couldn’t help it. He’d remembered those calls, RJ saying her name—The Shadow’s real name—saying it to Gary over and over again, RJ flinging open that door in Gary’s mind with his questions, breaking the lock, destroying Gary’s life. . . . Four phone calls, each one more unbearable than the last. He had to be stopped. But would Brenna understand that? No. She would never understand.

  And soon she’d find out what Tannenbaum was working on and then what happened to him and she would put two and two together . . .

  Her sister.

  God. If she found out . . . If Brenna found out, Gary would never get his life back again. The door would fly off its hinges, shattering everything. He would lose his clients, his reputation. His family—whom he loved more than anything—he would never be able to get them back.

  He would be alone forever. Alone with his own, ugly past.

  Why had Gary ever contacted Ludlow? Why had he thought that involving Brenna Spector would be a good idea?

  Gary thought about calling Brenna back, apologizing. But what could he say? The horse had been let out of the barn, as they say. The damage had been done, and the only damage control he could hope for in the world was on the phone with him right now. Crying.

  Calm, calm, he told himself.

  DeeDee gasped, “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  Gary took a deep, cleansing breath. His lungs puffed full of air, and then drained themselves—slowly, fully, until he truly felt clean. He heard himself say, “You’re as special a woman as I’ve ever met.”

  She stopped. “I am?”

  He took a cleansing breath. “I love you, DeeDee,” he said. “More than anyone.”

  “Oh, me too, Mr. Freeman. I love you so much.”

  “Can you help me, DeeDee?” he said. “Can you help me one more time?”

  “Yes,” she said. Just like that. No questions asked, pure and unconditional, which was the very nature of love, wasn’t it? Without another word, she listened as Gary spoke to her about Brenna Spector, relaying their conversation, voicing his concerns.

  Chapter 22

  “Found something!” Danny Cavanaugh called out. Brenna and Nick looked at each other. They’d been on every floor of this decrepit building, working their way from the ground floor up, until this one, floor seven. It seemed as though someone had started to knock the place down, but had given up on it, leaving the rare visitor to navigate around piles of bricks and debris, on floors that were falling apart to begin with. In certain spots, you could see straight through to the support beams. Treacherous. Brenna couldn’t believe the elevators still worked.

  The ventilation system, on the other hand . . . As cold as it was in here, the whole building had a smell to it that seeped into your pores. No wonder Orion preferred to take his chances outside. This wasn’t a place to squat in, even if you were desperate.

  “You think Danny really did find something this time?” Brenna said.

  Morasco shrugged. “He is a little quick to cry wolf.”

  An understatement. On the sixth floor, Danny had called everyone into a rank little room, right next to the staircase—only to find, behind a crumbling wall, what turned out to be a dead coyote. On the third floor, it had been a couple of dead crows. On the first, a good-sized pile of animal waste. What now, Brenna thought, as everyone hurried down to the end of the floor, to a room with no door on it, Danny standing there, perfectly still in his regulation blue coat and his protective mask, pointing at a tarp in the corner of the room as though it were Scrooge’s grave, he the Ghost of Christmas Future.

  For a split second, Brenna thought it was another false alarm. But then the smell came barreling at her, and one of the uniforms pulled back part of the tarp and she saw it. A leg, in jeans. A blue Nike with a white stripe—the exact same kind of shoe Spielberg had been wearing in the picture next to RJ’s mirror. The uniforms yanked off the rest of the tarp, revealing what was beneath. The body. Brenna saw dark blue skin. She saw black, caked blood, a shattered face. She had to turn away, not because the sight nauseated her, but because of Hildy—Hildy’s big sad eyes in her head, Hildy’s frail voice . . .

  Robbie’s hurt me plenty, but I don’t want to mak
e him disappear. He’s my boy. I want him back.

  Her only son. Her only child. “I’m so sorry,” Brenna whispered, remembering Hildy in her apartment, her curled, hard little back beneath her hands as she hugged her. So frail and brittle Hildy was, and this would destroy her, Brenna knew. Brenna had one child, too, and so she knew. This would turn her to dust.

  She could hear Wayne Cavanaugh, calling the medical examiner’s office, and then she heard her own name. She turned to see Morasco, standing near the body, beckoning to her.

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “No,” he said. “Look at this.”

  She moved over to where he was standing—just a foot away from the body. He removed surgical gloves from his pocket, put one on, and picked it up off the ground—a glittering chain. “What did you say her name was, again? The girl who drugged Trent and Ludlow? The one who dresses like a cartoon on a cocktail napkin?”

  “I never told you her name,” Brenna said. “It’s actually Diandra.”

  “We should probably find a last name for her,” Morasco said.

  “Why?” Brenna moved closer, as he held the chain up and she saw the pendant at the end. It was a tiny silver D.

  Hildy agreed to come to the Westchester County morgue and identify her son’s body. Brenna waited in the lobby for her with Morasco, that pendant filling her thoughts. “I’ve got to find her,” she said.

  “Diandra.”

  “Yes.”

  “You think she killed RJ Tannenbaum, as well as Ludlow,” Morasco said.

  She shook her head. “Diandra killed Ludlow and tried to kill Trent,” she said. “But I don’t think she killed RJ. I think Shane Smith shot him in the head while she looked on approvingly.”

  “Why?”

  “Shooting isn’t her MO,” she said. “If she was the one who’d killed RJ, his pants would have been around his ankles and his face would have been in one piece—probably still smiling.”

  “No,” Morasco said. “I mean, why do you think RJ was killed?”

  “I’m not sure,” Brenna said. “But I bet Diandra could tell me.”