Missing You(63)

“Then let me spell it out for you. I knew Leburne had killed your father. I knew Cozone had ordered it. You still don’t see?”

“No, I don’t.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “I didn’t visit Leburne to get him to confess,” he said. “I went up there to make sure that he didn’t tell why.”

Stagger downed the entire glass.

“That’s crazy,” Kat said, even as she felt the floor beneath her start to shift. “What about that fingerprint?”

“Huh?”

“The fingerprint found at the scene. You checked it out for Suggs and Rinsky.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m leaving.”

“You’re still lying,” she said.

“It was just some homeless guy’s print.”

“That’s crap.”

“Let it go, Kat.”

“Your whole theory makes no sense,” she said. “If my father was on the take, why would Cozone kill him?”

“Because he wasn’t going to be on the take much longer.”

“What, he was going to turn on him?”

“I’ve said enough.”

“Whose fingerprint was at the scene?” she asked.

“I told you. Nobody’s.”

Stagger slurred his words now. She’d been right about not seeing him drink before. It wasn’t that she didn’t know him. He simply wasn’t a drinker. The alcohol was hitting him fast.

He started for the door. Kat stepped in his way.

“You’re still not telling me everything.”

“You wanted to know who killed your father. I told you.”

“You still didn’t explain what really happened.”

“Maybe I’m not the one you should be asking,” he said.

“Who, then?”

A strange look—something drunk, something gleeful—came to his face. “Didn’t you ever wonder why your dad would disappear for days at a time?”

She stopped, stunned. For a moment, she just stood there, blinking helplessly, trying to get her bearings. Stagger took advantage, moving toward the door, putting his hand on the knob, opening it.

“What?” she managed.

“You heard me. You want to start getting to the truth, but you just bury your head in the sand. Why was Henry always vanishing? Why didn’t anyone in your house ever talk about that?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. “What the hell are you saying, Stagger?”

“It isn’t for me to say anything, Kat. That’s what you’re not getting here. I’m not the one you should be talking to.”





Chapter 24


Kat took the B to the E and then picked up the 7 train out to her old neighborhood in Flushing. She headed down Roosevelt Avenue toward Parsons Boulevard, walking toward her house without conscious thought, as you do with the places of your childhood. You just know every step. She had lived in Manhattan longer, knew the Upper West Side better in some ways, but it never felt like this. Not home exactly. This was stronger than that. This neighborhood felt like a part of her. It felt as though some of her DNA was in the blue clapboards and off-white Cape Cods and cracked pavement and small patches of lawn, like she’d been beamed away à la Star Trek but a few of her particles got left behind. Part of her would always be at Thanksgiving at Uncle Tommy and Aunt Eileen’s, sitting at the “kids’ table,” which was a Ping-Pong table with a king-size sheet doubling as a tablecloth. Dad always carved the turkey—no one else was allowed to touch it. Uncle Tommy poured the drinks. He wanted the kids to have wine too. He’d start off with a spoonful and stir it into your Sprite, making it somewhat stronger as you got older until you reached an age where you left the Ping-Pong table altogether and got a full glass of wine. Uncle Tommy retired after thirty-six years working as an appliance repairman for Sears, and he and Aunt Eileen moved down to Fort Myers, Florida. Their old house was now owned by a Korean family who’d knocked out the back wall and built an addition and slapped on aluminum siding because, when Uncle Tommy and Aunt Eileen lived there, the paint was flaking like it had a bad case of dandruff.

But make no mistake. Kat’s DNA was still there.

The houses on her block had always been crowded together but with all the bloated additions, they were even more so. TV antennas still stood atop most roofs, even though everyone had gone to either cable or a satellite dish. Virgin Mary statuary—some stone, most plastic—overlooked tiny gardens. Every once in a while, you’d see a house that had been totally razed in favor of shoehorning some over-the-top faded-brick McMansion with arched windows, but they always looked like a fat guy squeezing into too small a chair.

Her phone buzzed as she reached her old house. She checked and saw the text was from Chaz: Got license plate off gas station video.

She quickly typed back: Anything interesting?


Black Lincoln town car registered to James Isherwood, Islip, New York. He’s clean. Honest citizen.

She wasn’t surprised. Probably the name of an innocent limo driver hired by her new boyfriend. Another dead end. Another reason to put Dana and Jeff behind her.

The back door off the kitchen was unlocked, as always. Kat found her mother sitting at the kitchen table with Aunt Tessie. There were grocery store coupons spread out on the table and a deck of playing cards. The ashtray was filled with lipstick-tainted cigarette butts. The same five chairs from her childhood still circled the table. Dad’s chair had arms on it, thronelike; the rest didn’t. Kat had sat between her two brothers. They too had abandoned this neighborhood. Her older brother, Jimmy, graduated from Fordham University. He lived with his wife and three kids in a garish mansion on Long Island, in Garden City, and worked on a crowded floor as a bonds trader. He had explained to her a hundred times what exactly he did, but she still didn’t get it. Her younger brother, Farrell, had gone to UCLA and stayed there. He supposedly filmed documentaries and got paid to write screenplays that never get made.