Friends Like These(26)
“Oh, Bates is terrific,” Maeve said, smiling, but not with her eyes. “He’s really wonderful.”
But was he really all that wonderful? I didn’t think so. Her face had not lit up at the mention of his name. Objectively, it had not. In fact, the word that came to mind was bereft. There was trouble in paradise. I was about to very gently root around for details when the door swung open behind me.
“What the hell is going on out here!” Finch boomed. “I thought we were going to dinner! I’m starving.”
“Yes!” Keith shouted. His eyes were glassy as he bounded out of his room. Maybe he’d just used. Or needed to. Apparently, with opioids, being too high and not high enough were both a problem. “I could use another fucking drink, too.”
Stephanie appeared in the doorway opposite. She leaned against the doorframe, studying Keith, her mouth turned down. Because worrying about him was her sole priority right now. Unlike me, who really could think only of Maeve.
“I know exactly the place to get something to eat downtown,” Jonathan said, coming briskly into the hall, jacket already in hand. “The Falls. It’s got a nice local vibe. And they have great barbeque.”
Stephanie’s brow furrowed slightly. “You’ve never been there, have you?”
“No, but Peter has.” Jonathan forced an unconvincing smile. “And there’s a first time for everything.”
TWO WEEKS (AND TWO DAYS) EARLIER
I’ve been watching Keith for nearly an hour from inside Bessell’s café, across the street from his gallery. Well, not for the entire hour. Technically, I can only see him when he’s near the front window or outside, where he is rather frequently, taking phone calls, looking around. Smoking. Must have been nearly ten cigarettes in just that period. It’s revolting, honestly. This is probably why he looks so thin, so gray. Well, not the only reason. There’s the drugs and all. The guilt probably isn’t helping either.
They all feel very guilty, too— for the bad decisions, for failing a friend.
And I mean, fair enough. The guilt should be eating them alive, as far as I’m concerned. It’s actually a wonder Keith can even live with himself, given that he is the person most responsible. Were there intervening acts? Sure. But if you look deep down into the dark core of everything awful that happened— you end up eye to eye with Keith.
To be clear, it’s all self-serving anyway. They carry the guilt around so they can excuse getting on with the rest of their lives, enjoying themselves, despite what they did.
And so, after all these years, there I sit, watching. Gathering my evidence, bit by tiny bit. Someone is responsible. Someone is always responsible. And sometimes you really do get the best view from a distance.
I know what you did. Genius in its brevity.
“Is somebody sitting here?” A shaggy young guy with a knit hat and headphones, a laptop in his hands and a stressed-out look on his face, is pointing to the oversize bag occupying the stool next to me.
“So sorry.” I smile apologetically as I move the bag. Not that he seems to care as he dives for the seat.
Set on the ground floor of a prime piece of Chelsea real estate across the street, the Keith Lazard Gallery has an all-glass front and a polished concrete floor. There’s an overly wide desk that stretches across the front, a gorgeous young blond woman perched behind it like a piece of art herself, a huge arrangement of white orchids on her right. I wonder if Keith is fucking her. I mean, presumably, right? Keith is always fucking somebody— but discreetly, irrelevantly. That’s his extra way of making amends— denying himself love. Stupid, honestly. Because it benefits exactly no one.
Keith has soldiered on quite well professionally, though. The Keith Lazard Gallery is very well respected. Of course, owning a gallery isn’t the same thing as succeeding as an actual artist. Keith used to paint these enormous abstract canvases— bright blues and reds. Striking, really. And then there was his Family of Origin series, which he worked on for years. Kind of presumptuous, if you ask me, but they were beautiful paintings. Keith was going to be the famous artist. He did have the talent. But alas, he decided to snort all his gifts up his nose.
It’s not that I’m happy it didn’t work out for him. I’m not petty that way. I just believe in people getting what they deserve. And maybe Keith doesn’t deserve all the bad things to happen to him. But I’m not sure he deserves all the good things either.
I sound bitter. I know. And honestly, I am feeling unusually resentful right now. Everything just feels so loaded, the stakes so high. I know what I need to do: stay composed, keep my eyes on the prize. The problem is, I have way too much on the line. I can’t sit around and wait for something to happen.
A box truck pulls up in front of Bessell’s front window, double-parking and blocking my view. It’s time to go anyway, even if once again I am leaving empty-handed.
DETECTIVE JULIA SCUTT
SUNDAY, 6:18 A.M.
As I’m getting out of the car at the Cumberland Farms, my phone buzzes with a text from Cartright. Are you coming back? These people are getting restless.
Back in fifteen, I type out quickly. I already know it’ll be longer. Handle it.
I feel a guilty little tug as I turn off my ringer and tuck my phone away. Like I’m not where I should be. But that’s ridiculous. In fact, it would be negligent for me not to check if Keith and Derrick were in the Cumberland Farms the night before, to verify the timing, ask for surveillance tapes. However, it would feel better if I’d been planning on heading here before my friend in the pink sweats mentioned Bob Hoff.