Like a Sister(22)

She nodded. “My butt just buzzed.”

“Great. I should get going.” I wanted to talk to Naut ASAP.

“No prob. I can finish.”

The place was still a mess. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You don’t want to check out?”

“There’s no rush.” Mel was paying for it, and I wanted to be able to come back if need be. “I’ll just put a privacy sign on the door.”

We went back into the living room of the suite. She grabbed her bag but hesitated, as if remembering Desiree was gone. “You’ll let me know about the funeral?”

“Of course.”

“Great. Let me know how I can help. I’d be happy to come up and see your grandmother’s town house. Desiree talked about it so much.”

I flashed on Erin in my neighborhood. Staring slack-jawed at the corner boys and the titis, avoiding the “New York rain” dispensed from overworked window air conditioners, covering her ears as the bass boomed from each passing car.

“I’d love to have you stop by,” I said.

*



I called Green as soon as I left. He was the last person I wanted to speak with but the best person to ask if Desiree was pregnant when she died. When he didn’t pick up, I left a quick message, asking him to call back.

Then I called Aunt E to tell her I’d be late and to eat without me. She was upset—I could hear it in her voice—but she wasn’t the type to complain. Still, for a second, I thought about going home. But then I reasoned I’d be there for breakfast tomorrow. Maybe by then I’d have an appetite.

By the time I hung up, I was a block from the subway. I caught the A, making the best use of the twenty-minute-ish ride to 125th figuring out a plan of action. I didn’t know Naut’s apartment number, but I was sure the buzzer had a directory. He was probably listed under his real name: Neil Marks.

If he wanted to know who I was, I’d say I had a package. If he wasn’t home, I’d wait until he was. If he asked how I’d known where he lived, I’d blame Erin. I’d blamed her for far worse since her photo first popped up on Desiree’s Instagram. If he didn’t ask, I’d act like I thought they were still together and gently ask about what had happened last night.

Satisfied I’d covered every possible scenario, I spent the rest of the trip searching out info on Desiree and Naut’s relationship. I started simple: Desiree’s name.

Google is like a mom who tries so hard to be helpful she just ends up being annoying and intrusive. Perhaps its worst offense is trying to predict the exact thing your nosy ass is trying to find. Pre–finally giving in to full stalker mode and setting up a Google Alert, I’d searched “Desiree Pierce” enough to know the top phrases related to her name. “Reality show.” “Net worth.” “Instagram.” “Father.” “Dating.” But a new suggestion had already been added: “Desiree Pierce dead.”

I’d been so focused on how Desiree had died, I’d managed to not think about how she was actually gone. Looking at those three words made my wrist itch. Was this what it was going to be from now on? I was prepared to avoid Usher songs and Lemon Drops and all the other ten billion things I knew would make me instantly think of her. It also looked like I’d have to add Google to that list. I’d have to find another search engine.

Desiree and DJ Naut had gotten together after I was long gone. Their relationship had started with a few Sightings mentions of her at his gigs. A tagged photo credit confirmed they were a thing.

A Google search showed a ho-hum white guy with straight brown hair, sleepy brown eyes, and one day’s worth of stubble all on top of a scrawny body. The type you’d pass on the street and never know he was one of the biggest names in music. He’d blown up in the time they’d been together—first as a DJ and more recently as a producer—peaking when he made the cover of Rolling Stone. It was a shot of him completely naked—besides some Calvin Klein tighty-whities and of course the helmet.

I skimmed the article for any mention of her. She got one line that didn’t even include a name, just that his girlfriend had introduced him to a few party promoters. It was as close as he got to admitting how many hours, days, and months she’d put into his “overnight” success.

Disappointing.

I went to Instagram, which is as dependable as your period on the first day of vacation. Naut hadn’t posted any tributes to Desiree. He hadn’t posted anything at all. At least not for the last week or so. The few posts he did have this month were single covers and artsy-fartsy pics of studio and DJ equipment. Nary a selfie in sight, much less any Groupies—both the photo and the human kinds. His profile pic wasn’t even him, just a shot of his helmet sitting next to a soundboard. He also used the familiar fuzzy transmission signal on all his music productions, sometimes at the beginning, sometimes at the end, sometimes buried between the chorus and a verse. Always letting you know you were listening to a DJ Naut production.

His Instagram was all work to Desiree’s all play. Opposites attract and all that. She had no shots of him either, though she had once upon a time. But they were all gone now. Deleted. The twenty-first-century version of letting the world know you’re over. Right up there with no longer following each other. She wasn’t. He was.

I got off the subway, went up the stairs, and headed east. The last time I’d popped up on a guy had been an ex at Penn and it’d been three in the morning. Hopefully I wouldn’t find Naut in bed with his engaged TA.