The Lost Girl of Astor Street(47)

“True. You did speak to me long enough to find out if anyone called for you. That’s not exactly the type of . . .”

Walter’s words fade away when I see it—the touring sedan parked outside my gate.

Mariano is seated on the top step, and my heart seems to climb up into my throat. It’s the way he’s sitting—elbows on his knees, head drooped—that makes me shove open the door before Walter has come to a complete stop. That makes me ignore Walter’s hollering about being patient, letting him park the car.

“What is it?” I fumble with the gate latch and fling it open. Mariano stands, and I see his face is creased with fatigue and heartache. “Is there . . .” My vision has already blurred. “Is there news?”

“I’m so sorry, Piper.” His voice is graveled. Regretful.

Mariano swallows hard before saying the words I’ve dreaded since the moment we met. “We found her body.”





CHAPTER


ELEVEN


Dead.

She’s dead.

She’s dead, and I can’t seem to cry.

I know Mariano is telling the truth. I know the truth is devastatingly unchangeable. But those facts just flutter around my head without landing on my heart.

I sink to the steps. “Where was she found?” My voice has a cold, unrecognizable quality to it.

“The river.”

I shiver as his words conjure images of Lydia’s pale-skinned body floating lifelessly in the murky water. “Here?”

Walter has joined us. “Let’s not do this now, Piper.”

At another time I would have snarled at him to not boss me around, but a numbness has spread throughout me. “When should we do it?” Walter doesn’t reply, and I look back to Mariano, waiting.

“They found her on Monday in the Lower West Side.”

Monday. He and I were pointlessly sniffing around the North on Clark Street. I think of his downcast expression when he rejoined me at the train station, after he’d called into the office. It matches the one he wears now. “That was the bad news, wasn’t it? When you called into work?”

Mariano nods.

“Do we know who did it?”

“Not yet.”

My nostrils flare with my exhale. Whoever did this is still walking around. The thought makes my nails dig into my palms. “What happened to her? Can they tell?”

He shifts his attention to Walter before looking back to me. “Maybe you should absorb the shock first, Piper.”

“He’s right.” Walter looks down the street, eyeing the mob of reporters outside the LeVines’ gate. “Let’s get you inside.”

“No, I want to know. I want to get it done with.”

Mariano’s gaze holds mine. “Are you sure?”

I’m not. I won’t be able to unhear those details. Won’t be able to unsee them play out in my imagination. But I also can’t find who did this—can’t bring him to justice—if I bury my head. “Yes.”

Mariano reaches inside his jacket pocket and withdraws a trifolded sheet of white paper.

“What’s that?” Walter asks.

But Mariano looks at me when he answers. “The coroner’s report.”

“You can’t let her see that!” Walter’s voice rises high with indignation. “Those aren’t details she needs.”

“Maybe they’re details she wants,” Mariano says in that quiet but authoritative way of his. He holds out the piece of paper. “I removed the photographs.”

Walter paces several steps away, then several steps back, and then away again. His frustration is palpable.

I don’t open it, though. Just hold the paper between my thumb and forefinger. “I called you. A lot.”

“I wanted to call back. I was afraid I would say too much, and we didn’t know for sure yet.”

I run my fingers down the crease of the coroner’s report. “I had information.”

Walter stops pacing and stares at me.

Mariano frowns. “You didn’t say so in your message.”

“I didn’t know I had to bribe you to call me.” Anger bubbles in my stomach, but the words are still coming out calm and cold. “Matthew left me a letter before he blew out of town.”

Mariano whips his notebook from his breast pocket. “What’d it say? Can I see it?” He’s morphed from Mariano to Detective Cassano in less than a second.

As I summarize Matthew’s parting words, Mariano’s pencil scratches continually against his paper. I feel Walter gaping at me, much like Nick did when I told him everything on our walk. My words, and even Mariano and Walter, feel miles away from where my head is.

Lydia is dead. And just like with my mother, I can’t do anything. It’s done, and it’s forever.

“But he didn’t say where he was going?” Mariano asks.

Apparently, I had stopped talking. “No.”

“Any guesses? Anything you can think of from your time with him?”

I shake my head. “He was always very quiet. Very . . . careful.”

Mariano absently taps his pencil against the notepad. “Taking this into account . . . Well, Piper. He skipped town the same day we found the body. I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you how this looks. He was the closest thing we had to a suspect even before an organized crime connection.” Mariano’s gaze goes unfocused as he stares off at nothing in particular. “Finnegans. Yet again.”