Locust Lane(57)
* * *
After hanging up with Lily, he checked the latest news. Word on the virtual street not only put Jack Parrish at the Bondurant house on Tuesday night, but also another girl. Evidently they were long gone before the actual crime took place. In fact, they currently appeared to be in the process of providing evidence against Christopher, which earned them a certain amount of online grief from peers.
Patrick dragged himself from bed. There was still the day—well, half of it—to organize. There were a couple of clients coming in, calls to make, markets to fathom. He knew he should just quit. His heart had left the job months, maybe even years ago. And his mind was now in the process of following. But it would be better to let Griff fire him. That would ensure he got severance, COBRA, the whole nine yards. Even though they were drifting farther and farther away from him, he still had Lily and Sam to think about.
Before going to the office, he’d need to manage the colony of cockroaches writhing beneath his skin. His usual morning drink was vodka and water, topped off by a sachet of effervescent vitamin C powder. But all he currently possessed was water. So whisky it was.
This needed to be done right. He poured himself a quarter tumbler of Suntory and positioned himself at the sink. After taking a deep breath, he tossed down the entire drink. A fire broke out immediately in his throat and spread quickly to his stomach. In response, his body’s sprinkler system dampened every inch of his skin with sweat. He hunched forward, gripping the sink’s stainless-steel edge with all his might, like a prisoner being rectally searched. He stood his ground. He hung in there. The first thirty seconds were crucial. If he didn’t puke by then, all was well.
He didn’t puke.
After another shot, he got the coffee going, then ran the electric razor over his face and climbed into the shower. The hot water and the booze brought on a spell of vertiginous clarity, the sort he imagined someone falling down a well must feel. For the second time that morning, thoughts of Danielle entered his empty mind. When she emerged from the shadows last night, he suspected she was going to accuse him of being a voyeur, a creep, perhaps even a suspect. But she simply wanted his help. He’d been tempted to tell her what he saw in the trees. Problem was, he still didn’t understand what he’d seen. And she was obviously still too raw to be handling that kind of unexploded bombshell. The woman had a hard road ahead. On top of everything else, they were now raking her over the coals online. She didn’t exactly fit the mold of grieving mother. She looked hard. Lashes thickly covered in mascara, like they’d just been rescued from an oil spill. Tattoos spilling out from her clothes onto her hands and her neck. People around here would take one look at her and think, Yes, all right, I get it. She was exactly the sort of person whose daughter got killed.
And then it hit him. He wasn’t sure where it came from but boy did it come hard. He turned off the shower and wrapped himself loosely in a couple of towels. Still dripping, he googled Jack Parrish Emerson on his phone. There were plenty of pictures of the boy. Facebook, Instagram; at school and parties and the beach.
It was him. It had been Jack Parrish he’d seen in the tangle of trees.
He should go to the police. The problem was, he didn’t want to go to the police. The nice detective had given him her card but she’d also made it plain as day that she didn’t want to see him ever again. No, he wouldn’t be returning to Public Safety Plaza. Not yet, at least.
He dried and dressed and drove to work, at a loss what else to do. His route took him by Papillon, whose front door was now covered with an impromptu sign. God, this had to be rough for Michel. Patrick knew the feeling. Your kid’s name out there, a talking point for the world. The mix of private helplessness and public shame. He was a good guy, Michel. Friendly, without overdoing it. He remembered names; he’d pull up a chair. He was always giving you tastes of things, unsolicited desserts and appetizers that never turned up on your bill. And there was never even the slightest glimmer of judgment in his eye when Patrick ventured a little too deeply into the drinks side of the menu.
He slipped into his office without incident, just in time for his meeting with Benny Karim, an anesthesiologist who’d expressed concerns about his portfolio. It was one of those meetings that reminded Patrick that most of his clients knew his business as well as he did. It was right there online. To get access to the real druidic mysteries of the markets, you needed billions and billions. Patrick was just a caretaker. Pruning and seeding and, mostly, fertilizing with feel-good bullshit. The real growth happened in the jungle, where he’d long ago proven himself too timid to dwell.
As they spoke, Patrick began to suspect that the good doctor was not here to talk about investment strategies so much as to give his adviser a diagnostic eyeball. Word was getting out. The exam’s results must have been bad, because Karim was frowning noticeably by meeting’s end. Patrick presumed he’d be calling Griff the moment he’d cleared the building.
His phone rang seconds after the client was gone. That was quick, Patrick thought.
“It’s a Danielle,” his assistant announced. “She says you know her?”
“I do,” Patrick said, realizing he’d been expecting this call all day. “Put her through.”
DANIELLE
She called him after the funeral guy left. She’d wanted to get that over with as quickly as possible, but the guy wouldn’t take the hint. It wasn’t as if she was being difficult. Small ceremony, no church, cremation. And no frills—she doubted that a Book of Remembrance would be something she’d treasure in coming years. She’d planned on using the same firm she’d used for her grandmother, but they’d gone out of business. Which was strange, when you thought about it. A funeral director going under. You’d have thought there’d always be another body. This outfit was called Dermot Costello and Son. Dermot had been the one to knock on the door. He had the most profound bags under his eyes she’d ever seen—they made his face look like a used candle. There was no sign of the son, who she’d have bet good money was also named Dermot. For the down payment, she gave him Betsy’s cell number. The woman had called twice about paying. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, so Danielle stopped saying no. The only thing Dermot couldn’t do was schedule a day. That would need to wait until Eden’s body was released.