Inherit the Dead

12 LISA UNGER

Perry could not get Norman Loki out of his head. He puzzled over the guy’s insane behavior during the whole ride back to Manhattan. The guy was stoned and drunk beyond reason. His daughter was missing. He’d been living a lie, hiding his sexual orientation. Who knew about his homosexuality? Did Angel? Did Julia? Was the guy medicating his personal misery, or was he simply out of his mind? He could not shake the questions, even as he parked, then made his way to his client’s apartment for some answers.

Perry checked his watch. It was almost ten thirty. He’d made good time, but all that driving had him feeling like an old man — back aching, legs stiff. He could still feel that Hamptons chill that had settled somewhere deep inside him. Not that it was any warmer in Manhattan, but the frigid city air was less damp, less invasive somehow. It hurt in a whole different way.

He pulled Nicky’s scarf tighter and dug his hands into his pockets, bracing himself against the painful cold that chewed at his face and snaked down his collar. Just one more block; he was counting the seconds until he felt the warmth of the lobby. He tried to keep his mind on the errand at hand.

Angel’s car turning up — it may or may not mean anything. On the other hand, the finding of an abandoned vehicle in a missing-persons case was never a good thing. He could have, maybe should have, given Julia Drusilla the news over the phone. But he wanted to see her reaction — watch her face, her hands. People said so much without ever saying a word.

And then, yes, the rush of warmth as he brushed past the doorman who was opening the door.

What was it about the rich? thought Perry as he stepped from the chill concrete night into the overwarm, marble opulence of Julia Drusilla’s Park Avenue apartment building. There was a scent and a texture to wealth, an unmistakable aura. It colored the walls, brought out the pink veins in the marble floor. Was it the same calla lily arrangement, which sat high and proud on the round lobby table, or a new one? It was taller than his daughter and probably cost more than Perry made in a week. His mother always used to say, Money will buy what money will buy. And that never made any sense to him then. But lately, he got it. Some people were just barely making it, while others were drifting on a cushion of money high above the rest. And you knew ’em when you saw ’em. They spent money on flowers, while you clipped coupons and bought the day-old bread.

There was a woman wrapped in a black shearling coat in the lobby. Her golden hair flowed long and shimmering; her jeans tried hard to look tattered. She had a black standard poodle on a long leather leash, and she and the dog shared a kind of lean, aloof look. They were waiting for something, something important. The woman stared at her smartphone, tapping with a single, perfectly square pink fingernail. Tap, tap, tap.

“May I help you, sir?” The voice bounced off the walls and the hard floor. The young woman didn’t even look up.

Had the doorman leaned on the word sir with just a touch of irony? Perry didn’t like to think so. But the guy had the same look as the poodle, owned by wealth. Pampered, in a sense, manicured by association, well kept. Perry strode over to the desk and locked the other man in his hardest, nowhere-to-hide cop stare, and was gratified to see the other man squirm. A poodle, while smart enough, was no match for a pit bull. And there was much less blood shed if everyone knew this going in.

The woman and her dog left in a cloud of Chanel No. 5—which Perry recognized because it was the scent Noreen used to wear. Even though he could ill-afford it, he always made sure Santa left a bottle of the cheaper eau de toilette in her Christmas stocking, and she made sure to use it only sparingly. And that’s how normal people afforded little luxuries. Thinking of it, how he’d never been able to give her what she wanted, not really, made something inside him go hollow and angry. After so many years, one would think he could move on. But that was the thing about a pit bull; when he sunk his teeth in, you might have to break his jaw before he could let go.

Suddenly, he felt self-conscious about the fray on the collar of his trench, his old dress shoes, the jagged conditions of his cuticles. But he wouldn’t show it. No, never. A real man didn’t feel bad about his appearance.

“She’s something,” Perry said. He’d watched the doorman’s dark brown eyes drift after the young woman and her poodle. “Man. For real.”

The young Latino gave Perry a polite half smile. “May I help you?” he said again.

“I saw her checking you out,” said Perry. “You didn’t notice?”

The doorman issued a little snort, but Perry saw the color come up in his cheeks. “Not likely.”

“I don’t know,” said Perry. He let the sentence trail, singsong and light. It was the same doorman from his first visit, though the guy didn’t seem to recognize or remember him. Perry noticed he had manicured nails, not polished but shaped and buffed. His skin was so dewy and fresh that he might have just come from a facial.

“Anyway,” Perry went on. “I’m here for Mrs. Drusilla. She in? Name’s Christo. I’ve been here before.”

The doorman looked him over again, then picked up the phone and dialed.

“Detective Perry Christo.” He saw the kid’s eyes brighten a bit. Everyone thought he was living in a Law & Order episode when you said you were a detective. It was definitely a pop-culture advantage. People just loved to talk — about themselves, about everybody else.

“There’s a Detective Christo here for you, Mrs. Drusilla.” A pause followed by an obedient nod. “Of course.”

Of course. It was in the lilt of his words that Perry picked up on something he’d missed. The doorman probably hadn’t been checking out the girl. He might have been admiring her shoes or her hair — but not her ass.

“You may go up, sir,” he said. “Twenty-fourth floor. That’s the penthouse. Penthouse A.”

“Thanks,” said Perry. “I know.” He started to move toward the elevator.

“Be careful,” said the doorman. He lowered his voice to a sly whisper. “She bites. But maybe you know that, too.”

Oh, an invitation to dish. Sometimes, Perry thought, you just get lucky.

“Is that so?” He moved back slowly. Somewhere outside a siren wailed.

“Um-hmm,” the doorman said. Perry leaned in close. He knew that he might not have polish — he needed a shave, could stand to pull a brush through his hair — but Perry knew what he had, and he wasn’t shy about using it.

“She been in tonight?” he asked.

“Oh, she’s been in all right,” the doorman said. The tag on his uniform read LUCAS. He tapped on it. “You can call me Luke.”

“So, she’s been in all night, Luke?”

Luke raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. Perry saw that there was something dark to him, dark appetites, dark sense of humor, something moving beneath the smooth, practiced surface. Perry suddenly liked him better.

“Alone?”

The doorman made a show of organizing his desk — pen in its little mesh cup, papers in a tidy pile. He lifted a logbook and opened it.

“You must see it all here, huh?” asked Perry. “The rich are different, right?”

“Oh, no,” Luke said. “They’re not different at all. They’re as dirty and mean as any thug in the projects. They’re just prettier.”

There were about three different notes of bitterness in the young man’s tone, and Perry planned to play them all if he had to.

“So who was here tonight?” he asked.

He saw a battle play out on the guy’s face between what he wanted to say and what he knew he should say. Finally, as though remembering what had gotten him talking in the first place, he leaned in closer to Perry.

Perry could smell the other man’s cologne. To be honest, their proximity made him a little uncomfortable. But he stayed where he was.

“There was a man earlier,” he said. Luke leaned back, brought a hand to his throat, and rubbed. It was a self-protective gesture; something about the encounter had left Luke feeling threatened. “I’ve never seen him before. Cute. In a vapid, shallow sort of way.”

Perry looked down at the leather logbook in Luke’s hand. “Is his name in here?”

Luke shook his head. “He didn’t give his name,” he said. “He wouldn’t.”

“And you didn’t insist?”

Luke gave him a tired look. “Doormen don’t insist, Detective. We do as we’re told.”

“But Mrs. Drusilla probably wouldn’t want you talking about her visitor, right?”

Luke shrugged and put his hand to his throat again.

Something about Mrs. Drusilla made Luke nervous. Perry couldn’t say that he blamed the kid; she was about as warm and cuddly as a python.

“Good night, Detective,” said Luke.

Perry slid a card over the marble countertop. “Anything interesting, give me a call.”

Luke pocketed the card, but he didn’t say anything else, just cast his eyes down to those manicured nails. Perry had been dismissed. By the doorman. At least he knew where he stood on the totem pole.

The elevator carried the scent of the calla lily arrangement up to the penthouse. The elevator chimed at each passing floor: eleven, twelve, thirteen… Perry thought that there weren’t any thirteenth floors in New York City, something about bad luck for the building. The people in this building might have thought they were above all of that. And maybe they were. Maybe rich people didn’t have any bad luck that they couldn’t buy their way out of.

At the end of the long, carpeted hall, the door to Penthouse A stood ajar. Perry pushed on the gold knob and took in the place for the second time, the towering ceilings, the panoramic view of Manhattan, the black marble floors, the low, white leather couches — it was his ex-wife’s dream apartment. If she died and could create her own little piece of heaven, this would be it. You shouldn’t have married a cop, he’d teased, with dreams like that. You’re setting yourself up for disappointment.

Now you tell me, she’d joked. Or had she been joking?

Maybe it was him, but the place seemed colder as he moved from the foyer into the main room. And it wasn’t just the fact that his client kept the air-conditioning going in the dead of winter. There was no place soft or cozy to sit, nothing out of place. It would be hard to be a kid in a place like this. Every spill a disaster. Every trip or fall into some hard edge. He found himself wondering what it was like to be Angel. She hadn’t grown up with her mother, not after the divorce. Of course the beach home in Montauk was no less opulent. And clearly, Daddy Dearest was a lunatic in his own right. Maybe Angel never had a soft place to land.

He heard his own daughter’s voice. You’re hardly ever here, Daddy. Sometimes I don’t even know who you are. The sting of those words had never faded, mainly because they were all too true, even if he knew she loved him.

“Detective.”

Julia Drusilla didn’t walk; she glided. It was as if there wasn’t enough weight to her so that she actually had to touch the earth. She had that delicate, brittle look. He’d taken a minute to surf the Internet on his phone, found pictures of her as a younger woman, at this gala or that one, on the social scene from the time she was a girl; and of course, she’d always possessed that patrician thinness that was inherited and not simply “achieved.” But age and illness had robbed her of any of the lushness youth had once bestowed. Once again, Perry took in her collarbone, which seemed to strain against her skin, and the knobs on her wrists that were as round and hard as marbles.

“What news?” She looked at him eagerly, wringing her bejeweled hands. She drifted over to the window, her dove-gray silk robe trailing behind her like a cloud.

He had waited this long to tell her in person in order to judge her reaction, so he wasn’t going to soften his delivery. “We’ve found Angel’s car. But no Angel. You told me not to lie. This isn’t good news.”

She bowed her head into her hands and released a strangled sound. He almost moved to comfort her. But she had too many hard edges. He found himself remembering what Luke had said. She bites.

“Mrs. Drusilla,” he said carefully, “I think it’s time to call in the cops. This is a real missing-persons case, and now we have evidence of foul play.”

She looked up at him. Though her face was a mask of sadness and fear, he couldn’t help noticing that her eyes were dry.

“No,” she said vehemently. “No.”

“Mrs. Drusilla—” he began. But she raised her hand.

“I’m begging you,” she said. She moved over toward him, took his hand in hers. “No police.”

“The police have resources that will be helpful in finding Angel,” he said. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“It will be a media circus,” she said. Here she issued a little cough and seemed to swoon. He led her by one spindly elbow to a low couch, where she sank, leaning back. But was it an act? He wasn’t sure. The white silk pajamas beneath her robe — it all seemed to coordinate perfectly with the room around her. The ivory walls, the plush slate-colored area rug, the glossy gray and white tables. Above the fireplace, that gigantic Jackson Pollock painting dominated — a rage of black and white and gray splatters, with some angry slashes of red.

The coughing started lightly and seemed to pick up pitch and intensity. She pointed off behind the fireplace, and he assumed she was indicating where he could find water. He found his way to the granite and stainless steel kitchen, which was enormous and so spotlessly clean that it looked never to have been used to prepare food. He rummaged through the cabinets for a glass, ran some water from the faucet, then rushed back.

She took some tentative sips, and Perry looked on helplessly. He felt guilty now for doubting her. Finally, the hacking subsided. Then she found her voice again.

“I’m dying, Detective. You know that.”

“I’m sorry.”

She took a shuddering breath. “Spare me your pity,” she said. He thought he detected a flash of nastiness, but it passed quickly. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and pleading. “I need you to find Angel before I die. I want her to know what belongs to her. But more than that, I want her to know that even though I wasn’t the mother I should have been, I loved her. I need her to know that.”

It was a variation on the same speech she’d given before.

He wanted to say something to convince her that the police could help her better than he could, but she went on.

“I can’t afford red tape, bureaucratic delays, institutionalized incompetence. I don’t have that kind of time. I need you to find her, Perry.”

Her face was slack, and she stared out through the glass doors that led to the wide terrace spanning the length of the apartment. Outside millions of lights glittered like jewels on a blanket of velvet.

Every light is a life, a story, his wife used to say. The Manhattan skyline is a little bit of everything isn’t it? Life, death, joy, misery, love, hate, murder, rescue — it’s all playing out right there.

“Do you know what it is to fail your child?” She asked the question as if she already knew the answer. Maybe one failure could recognize another. It was a mark they wore, visible only to other bad parents.

He didn’t answer her. He didn’t sense that she was interested in whatever tale he had to tell.

“I need to make this one wrong right before I die.” She was staring at him, searching his face, and he felt a creeping discomfort. She wanted something from him that he wasn’t sure he could give. But he wanted to give it to her. He needed to find Angel, to be the one to bring her home to her mother. He wanted that for a million reasons, none of them pure or right or having anything to do with Angel.

“What will it take?” She reached for him again, got his hand in her cold, hard grip. “There’s nothing that’s wrong in your life that I can’t fix, provided it can be fixed with money.”

What would money solve in his life? He’d already lost everything: his job, his wife, his only child. Sure, he lived in a tiny apartment. But even if he lived in a palace, he’d live there alone, without the only people who meant anything to him. He couldn’t buy his way out of failure like Mrs. Drusilla seemed to think she could. The rich were different.

“I don’t want your money,” he said.

“Then what?” she said. She looked flustered, confused, but suddenly rejuvenated. She had the creamy skin of a much younger woman, a pretty blush to her cheeks. And her eyes glittered. Right now he wouldn’t have known she was ill if she hadn’t told him so. Even in her terrible thinness, there was something intense and vital about her. “What do you want?”

He wanted not to be the man he was, a disgraced cop, an ex-husband, a part-time father. Maybe finding Angel wouldn’t change all of that. But maybe it was a start. His dad used to say, Every morning, you gotta face the guy in the mirror. Make sure you like him. He couldn’t remember the last time he truly liked himself. What did that even feel like?

He pulled his hand from hers and walked over to the fireplace, his eyes scanning the room. Nothing had changed. There was not a photograph or a personal item in sight, not a book, an open magazine. Everything in here was for show, even the lovely, wasted woman on the couch.

“Your ex-husband—”

“Yes,” she said flatly, as if the conversation about Loki already bored her.

“I just saw him, and he was—”

“Drunk?”

“More than drunk. He was completely out of control, belligerent, barely making sense, and—”

“Were you expecting me to be surprised? When Norman drinks, he becomes a totally different person. I told you that. Alcohol is poison to him. It’s one of the reasons we—” She sighed. “You have to excuse him, Detective. If he was drunk, I’m certain he had no idea what he was doing or saying. He is upset by Angel’s disappearance: that’s why he’s drinking. It’s no excuse, but… ”

“And do you know that your ex-husband is… ” Perry stopped. Did it really matter?

“That he’s gay?” She offered a mirthless smile. “Of course. Norman and I led quite separate lives.”

“And Angel?”

“I have no idea what Angel knows or doesn’t know about her father.”

Once again Perry found himself wondering what it was like to be Angel with these two people as parents.

“Where would Angel go?” he asked, half thinking aloud. “If she was afraid, in trouble, if she just needed a break, where was her haven?”

Julia shook her head, then sank it again into her hand. “I have no idea. Isn’t that awful? A mother who knows nothing about her daughter.”

She released that strangled sobbing sound. But when she looked up at him, her eyes were still dry as dust.

“A childhood friend, a boyfriend, a godparent?” he asked. He found himself watching her, for what he didn’t know. “Anyplace she felt safe, not judged.”

“I hardly speak to my daughter,” said Julia. “She judges me, thinks everything is my fault. That’s the way it is with young people — everything’s black and white, no shades of gray.”

He found himself agreeing, a way to keep her talking. “They’re so sure of themselves, aren’t they?” he asked. “So harsh in their judgments.”

“Age brings wisdom, at least,” said Julia. “At least we’re smart enough to know that we don’t know anything — especially about each other.”

“You had a visitor tonight,” he said. Just thought he’d toss it out there, see what kind of a reaction he’d get.

She was too cool to startle, but he saw a micro-expression dance across her face. Anger, fear — he couldn’t tell. It wasn’t pretty, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

“My massage therapist,” she said. She looked away from him, started twisting a ring on her hand. The chunky emerald was as big as a Volkswagen. “He works wonders. I’m carrying so much tension. I’m sure you can imagine.”

She coughed a bit, reached for her water, took a long sip.

Is she using the illness as a prop? he wondered. “He’s been here before?”

“Many times,” she said. Again a little flash of something across her face. “But never so late. It was an emergency; I’m in so much pain.”

A massage emergency — that was a new one. He thought about pressing her. Wouldn’t the doorman have known her masseur? But she’d covered that by saying he’d never come so late. Still, why would the masseur refuse to give his name? Something off about that, but her fragility kept him from pushing her too hard. After all, she’d hired him to find Angel. If she was having a handsome young man up to meet whatever emergency needs she had, what business was it of his?

“So you’ll keep working?” she asked. “No police?”

It wasn’t right. It was a matter for the cops. But he found himself nodding, reaching out a comforting hand, which she took and squeezed.

You never could resist a damsel in distress, his wife used to tease.

But it was more than that, wasn’t it? He wanted to be the one to find Angel. It was his case. He’d started it, and he wanted to finish it. And there was a tangle of other feelings knotting up in his gut, too many, too complicated, too messy to contemplate.

Outside, he pulled his too-thin coat tight around him and wound Nicky’s scarf even tighter. The cold air snaked up his cuffs and down his collar, chilling him to the core. Fatigue, which he’d been holding at bay with caffeine and junk food, was now a weight on his back, pulling down his shoulders, making every step feel as if he was slogging through mud. Trekking down the street, he pulled out his phone and dialed his daughter’s cell. He didn’t want to talk to his ex-wife, endure her snipes, all delivered in the happy lilt of her voice. She was happy — rich new boyfriend (whom Perry’s daughter just loved by the way), living in the boyfriend’s nice big apartment in Brooklyn Heights, working in a preschool (she’d always wanted more kids; now she had ’em). He wanted to be happy for her. But he wasn’t, because he was a prick — as she was fond of reminding him.

“Hey, Dad,” Nicky answered. “Where are you?”

“Heading home,” he said. “Sorry to call so late. What are you doing?”

“Ugh,” she said, “calculus.” He heard the television going in the background, some sitcom with laugh tracks. It sounded tinny and strange on the line, almost mocking.

“With the television on?”

“Its helps me concentrate,” she said. “A little noise helps you focus, you know. It’s proven.”

The kid was a brainiac, a 4.0 average, star of her track team, frighteningly gorgeous — as pretty as her mom and then some. Every time he saw her, he just wanted to wrap her up in blankets and hide her away somewhere. Did they still send girls to the nunnery? Was that an option?

“You sound tired,” she said.

Kid, you have no idea. I’m tired to the bone. I could sleep for a thousand years. “No,” he said, forcing himself to sound bright. “I’m good. I’m great.”

“Are we getting together tomorrow?”

Shit. Was that tomorrow?

“I’ve got a case,” he said. The words stuck in his mouth, tasted bitter, like a piece of gum he’d chewed way too long.

“No problem,” she said, light, resigned, as if she was used to being disappointed by him. She expected very little. Do you know what it is to fail your child? Julia had asked him. Of course he knew. Of course, he did. He hadn’t abandoned her, no. He wasn’t a deadbeat. He’d always paid his alimony and child support on time. He was saving for her education. He’d never missed a birthday. But he’d failed her in a million little ways. It added up. She’d learned she couldn’t count on him, and now she didn’t. Not at all.

“You didn’t let me finish,” he said. “I just need to do it a little earlier.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, really. Tomorrow is Saturday, so how about brunch? I have an eight o’clock appointment and—”

“Oh my God. Not at eight.”

“No. After. It will be closer to nine thirty or ten. You can handle that, right?”

They chatted a while longer about how her best friend was going out with a jerk, how Mom and Cornelius wanted to take her to the Bahamas for spring break, how calculus was so hard — who ever needed calculus in the real world, anyway? And then they hung up. And even though the talk had been good, that hollow place he’d felt open in the lobby of Julia’s building grew wider and wider until he thought he might disappear in there, never to be heard from again.

Finally at home, he tossed and turned before falling into an uneasy sleep. He dreamed that he stood on the balcony of Julia’s apartment, looking down those long twenty-four floors to the river of traffic below.

“We all go there sooner or later, Detective,” Julia said.

She was beside him, her gnarled hand on his shoulder. When he turned to look at her, the silk pajamas were gone, replaced with a black cloak and hood. In her hand, she held a sickle. She pulled back her hood to reveal the gray, twisted face of an old crone.

He backed away from her, a scream of horror caught in his throat. In the enormous living room was Angel’s car, dark and abandoned. He looked inside and saw only empty leather seats and a Gucci bag opened on the floor.

He heard a strange knocking and realized quickly that it was coming from the trunk. But he didn’t have the key. The knocking grew ever more panicked and insistent, and his fear ratcheted to a crescendo. He started banging on the trunk.

“Angel,” he yelled. “I’m coming, baby.”

But then Angel was standing there, golden and willowy, smiling. She issued a little chuckle, as if the whole thing was terribly funny. He reached for her, but she shimmered like a mirage.

“Don’t worry,” she said.

She clicked the small black remote in her hand, and the trunk opened with a pop. He raced to it, and inside he found his own daughter curled tight into a fetal position. She was purple pale and so, so still. He called her name over and over and took her into his arms, rocking her the way he’d done when she was a child.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” But they both knew it was far too late.

Perry continue to rock her, but then she was gone and everything was black and it was raining hard and he was trying to get across the street, to get somewhere, anywhere.