The Blue Religion

Such a Lucky, Pretty Girl by Persia Walker

I was fifteen when my stepfather died. I don’t remember much about it. The doctors said I didn’t want to. “Selective amnesia,” they called it. Whatever it was, I thanked God for it. For years, I managed to put that time out of my mind. For years, everything was fine.

Until the Snow case.

They still talk about Chrissie Snow on West 86th Street. They still whisper about how she looked coming down, like a doll, with her T-shirt billowing out and her hair trailing behind her. She didn’t claw at the air or put out her hands in any desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable.

She simply came down. Fast.

It was three o’clock on an icy Saturday afternoon in mid-January. My partner and I caught the call. Chrissie was still warm when we got there.

Even sprawled on a sidewalk, in a pool of blood, she was lovely, with a mass of soft bronze hair and ebony eyelashes that beat any they sell over the counter. She couldn’t have been much more than sixteen – seventeen, at most. She wore a pastel-pink T-shirt with strawberry-colored bows dotting the collar, light-blue jeans, and pale-blue socks. She was on her stomach, her hair fanned out, blood trickling from her ears, her right leg bent at an impossible angle. Stab wounds punctured her chest. Her right hand gripped a panel of curtain. The left side of her face was crushed, but her right eye was good, and it was open. She moved her lips, struggling to speak or breathe, but nothing came out – nothing but a bubble of blood.

Seconds later, her struggle was over.

Such a pretty girl, said an inner voice. The words chilled my soul.

We were standing before an old tenement from the early 1900s. Six floors up, I could see an open window, and a curtain flapping in the breeze.

The emergency medical team declared the girl dead at the scene. The uniforms held back rubberneckers and questioned those on the street. Ellis Bates of the Crime Scene Unit photographed and measured the scene and the body. My partner and I checked her for ID.

Lee went through her pockets. “Found something,” he said, and pulled a note from her back pocket. “It’s got the name of a hotel. Very expensive, very first-class. You’ll recognize it.”

When I saw it, I did.

The place was swanky, all right. Nothing you’d think a kid could’ve afforded on her own.

Lee and I joined Bates in going into the building. The lock on the front door was broken, and so was the one on the inner door. Stylish, it wasn’t, but the place was a rare haven in Manhattan for low-income, rent-stabilized tenants. A narrow, creaking elevator took us up in a jerky ride. We got off on the sixth floor and walked down a narrow, funky hallway, counting doors till we came to the one that seemed right.

It was unlocked.

We entered the apartment to a gust of frigid air. It was a two-bedroom that looked as though it had been cut off of a neighboring unit. The kitchen wasn’t much more than a sliver. The place was austere, devoid of knickknacks. It was immaculate, with the precise cleanliness of an institution.

The apartment ran along the front of the building. I went from room to room, checking the windows. Those in the kitchen, living room, and bathroom were fine; the one in the bedroom was not. There were the gaping window and the flapping curtain I’d seen from the street. Dark-red dots spattered the wall next to the window and the hardwood floor.

A school ID card lay on her desk. It gave her name and birthday. She was all of fifteen years old.

It was not the room of a typical teenager. There was nothing of the sweet jumble of jeans, sweaters, sneakers, photos, posters, stuffed animals, and heart-shaped makeup kits of my niece’s room. Nothing personal here. Nothing childish. There was something very adult about this place, something that said this little girl had put her toys away a long time ago.

Such a lucky girl, whispered that inner voice. I rubbed my temples and tried to repress a shudder.

Bates gestured to the window. “She didn’t go easy, but I don’t think she fought either – didn’t have time. Probably taken by surprise.” He nodded toward the blood on the walls. “Looks like she was driven back and then fell… or was pushed. Of course, it’ll be a few days before we know if the blood is hers.”

A search warrant was obtained. Lee and I walked the scene, beginning with her bedroom. He went through her desk. I checked the night table, looked under her pillow, her mattress, her bed, all the usual places. Bates continued his work, systematically checking for trace evidence, fingerprints, a weapon, etc. Lee left to check the roof, and a minute later a uniform ducked in to say, “We got a guy here, says he’s the father.”

“Bring him in,” I said.

He was in his late forties, had short gray hair and thick bags under pale-blue eyes.

“I’m Detective Stone.” I flashed my shield.

“What happened here? Who are you people? Where’s my daughter? Where’s my Chrissie? Downstairs, they said… They tried to tell me that…”

I stepped outside into the hallway. There’s no way to sweeten bitter news. I’ve found that it’s better not to try. He put a fist to his mouth to stifle a groan.

“Mr. Snow, we need to know where you were when it happened.”

He was mute with shock.

“Mr. Snow?”

“Downtown,” he whispered. “I wanted to buy her a sweater. I didn’t see anything I liked, so I came back and… I don’t believe this. It can’t be real.”

Lee returned and answered my unspoken question with a shake of his head. Nothing on the roof.

“Mr. Snow, why don’t we step inside?” I led him into his own kitchen. He sat hunched at the table. Lee followed and leaned against the countertop, and I continued the questioning. We got a description and explained that we’d have to seal the apartment.

“When can I see her?” he asked. “Downstairs, they wouldn’t let me. They…”

“You can see her later, sir.” I watched that sink in, then asked, “Where’s Chrissie’s mother?”

“We’re divorced.”

“You got custody?”

“No. Chrissie and her mother fought all the time, and that man Angela married… Chrissie hated him.” He clasped his hands to control their trembling. “Chrissie moved here only last September.” A bittersweet smile touched his lips. “She said she was going to take care of me. Can you imagine? She was a child, but she was going to take care of Papa.”

Papa will take care of us if we take care of him. Just give him what he needs, and we’ll be fine.

“How’d her mother feel about her moving here?”

The sweetness left his smile, leaving it bitter. “She was against it.”

“Did anything happen to precipitate Chrissie’s moving in with you?”

“No. I would’ve taken her sooner, but… I was in prison.”

Lee and I exchanged looks.

“When did you get out?” I asked.

“In August. I told Chrissie to wait until I got settled and found a job. But she wouldn’t.”

“How’s it been?”

“Rough. I can’t find work.”

“What do you do?”

“Bookkeeper.”

“What’d you get sent up for?”

“Embezzlement.”

Well, that explained that.

I asked him about enemies. Did Chrissie have any?

Snow blinked to hold his tears. “Why would anyone hurt her? She was a great kid.” He put a hand over his eyes and sobbed.

“We’d like you to take a look at her room, sir. Tell us if anything’s out of place,” I said.

“Sure,” he whispered, and dragged himself to his feet.

Bates was still at work. He glanced at the father and gave a polite nod, then kept on working, dusting for prints.

“Mr. Snow, did Chrissie keep a diary?” Lee asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You never seen her scribbling in something?” I asked. “When I was a kid, all my girlfriends kept diaries.”

“Did you?” Lee asked me.

“No… but I was a tomboy. So what about it, Mr. Snow? Did she have one?”

“I told you, I don’t know. She was more of a computer person.” He nodded toward the PC and webcam on Chrissie’s desk.

“Maybe she had a blog,” I said. “One of those online diaries. My niece has three of them.”

“How things change,” Lee said. “When I was growing up, a girl would kill you if she caught you reading her private stuff. Now, they put it out there for the world to see.”

“It’s called ‘hidden in plain view.’” To Snow: “We’re going to have to take the computer.”

He nodded.

“This thing’s pretty expensive,” Lee said. “And the cam’s not cheap either. Mr. Snow, how could you afford this if you don’t have a job?”

“Angela married a rich man. Chrissie had the computer when she moved in. She has a friend – Claire. They were always working on it.”

“That reminds me,” I said. “We’ll need the names of her friends.”

“Other than Claire, try Abigail and Susan. I don’t have their numbers, but they go to Chrissie’s school. The teachers’ll know.”

We found Chrissie’s cell phone in her backpack. Numbers for Abigail Dixon, Susan Bradford, and Claire Wilkerson were on her speed dial.

IT WAS EARLY evening when we went to the Dixons’ Upper West Side condominium. By then, we’d knocked on every door in the Snows’ building and gone up and down their street, checking every business, looking for witnesses. We’d stopped by the hotel too and showed Chrissie’s picture around. Nobody knew anything.

The Dixons had a palatial living room, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Riverside Drive. Their multimillion-dollar layout was a far cry from the Snows’ tiny low-end rental.

Abigail was sixteen, tall and curvaceous, with dark, watchful eyes and even, white teeth that flashed when she spoke. Also sixteen, Susan was similar in build, but neither were her eyes as dark nor was her smile as bright as Abigail’s. Both favored plucked eyebrows, crimson lipstick, and crimson fingernail polish. The hair, the makeup, the nails: all perfect.

Claire was another story. She was flat-chested, narrow-hipped, and makeup-free, with wire-rimmed eyeglasses and frizzy red hair. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick and her eyes were puffy from crying.

Abigail’s mother hovered in the background, every now and then disappearing into the kitchen, where she was baking muffins.

“Did Chrissie seem worried to you?” I asked the girls. “Or frightened?”

They exchanged looks. Abigail answered, “We don’t think so.”

“Did she mention being threatened by anyone? A boyfriend, maybe?” Lee asked.

Claire started to speak but stopped at a look from Abigail.

“Yes?” I prodded.

Claire bit her lip and looked away.

Abigail’s mother spoke up. “Girls, please, if there’s anything you know, then you sh – ”

“We don’t know anything, Mom, so just stay out of it.”

Abigail’s mother blushed, glanced down, and did as her child had told her to. She piped down and backed out of the room. Lee’s face expressed my thought: Who is in charge here?

I was about to press the matter when my pager beeped.

MICHAEL SHIN IS a thin, wiry man, with excellent instincts and a conscientious work ethic. He had just finished the autopsy when Lee and I entered.

“Such a beautiful child.” Shin stripped off his gloves and dropped them into a bin. “Come on, I’ll buy you coffee and give you a rundown.”

We followed him down the corridor to the staff kitchen.

“Three stab wounds to the chest,” Shin said. “A thin, flat instrument. Smooth-edged. The tip broke off in one wound. And the wounds match the tears in the clothing. I also found traces of condom use, foreign pubic hairs, and epidermal cells.”

“Rape?” I asked.

“There was no tearing or bruising. I’d say it wasn’t the first time.”

“A boyfriend? The father?” Lee suggested.

“Get a DNA sample and we’ll see.”

We paused at the kitchen entrance.

“She’d eaten about three hours earlier – pasta with meat sauce – and she must’ve had a snack soon after. Looks like brownies.”

Shin took three cups from a cabinet and poured coffee. Someone had made a fresh pot.

“There’s milk and sugar.” He pointed to the stocked countertop. “Feel free.”

Lee and I took our coffee black.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“She’d been drinking.”

“Beer?” Lee asked.

“No, wine.”

Lee frowned. “A fifteen-year-old who drank wine?”

“Maybe it was there because wine is used to make the sauce,” I said.

Shin shook his head. “Her stomach contained more than could be explained by that. And it wasn’t just any merlot,” he added, “but a rather fine one.”

We checked back with the hotel: room service did indeed serve pasta with meat sauce but no brownies. We asked the manager to check the records. Who had ordered the Pasta Bolognese?

THE NEXT DAY, we went to see Snow. The apartment had been sealed, and Snow had slept overnight in a men’s shelter. He was rumpled, unshaven, and wearing the same clothes. He reeked of whiskey but was steady on his feet. He waved us in. Bates came along.

“We need a DNA sample,” I explained. “Just to keep our records straight.”

He cooperated. Bates took a mouth swab and packed it away. The moment Bates left, Lee asked Snow whether Chrissie had a boyfriend.

“What does it matter?” Snow went behind the open kitchen counter and returned with three glasses and a bottle of vodka. “Have a drink with me, won’t you? Help me toast my little girl.”

“We’d love to,” Lee said, “but that’s not our way.”

“What is?”

“To find out what happened.”

Snow gave a grunt. “You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you.”

Lee glanced at me. We were thinking the same thing: This jack is going to confess. It was written all over him – the need to spill.

“Two days ago, when she was alive, I told her she might as well be dead. That life was shitty and she should go before she realized it.” Snow poured himself a double shot and tossed it back. He stared at his empty glass. “I’m ashamed,” he said. “I’ve ruined everything.” He looked up, his bloodshot eyes leaking tears. “And now, all I can manage to do is get drunk.”

I’ll admit it: I felt a moment of disappointment.

“Help us,” Lee said. “Tell us, did she have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, that was your question, wasn’t it? No. To my knowledge, no. Why?”

“Did she drink or use drugs – of any kind?” I asked.

“Why? Did you find out something?”

“We’re just trying to form a picture,” Lee said.

“No. She didn’t use drugs. Didn’t drink. She was a good girl, a normal kid – with normal dreams.”

“Like what?” Lee asked.

Snow gave a whisper of a smile. “She wanted to be a doctor, work with kids… but drugs? That wasn’t one of her problems.”

“What was?” I asked.

“Her mother… and her stepfather: she hated them.”

CHRISSIE’S MOTHER HAD a Park Avenue address that looked as expensive as it sounded: doormen in gold braid, marbled entryway, massive floral arrangements, thickly carpeted corridors – the whole nine yards.

“Wonder what happened to make Chrissie give all this up,” Lee murmured.

“Whatever it was, it must’ve been pretty bad.”

Rich wood paneling, beautiful antiques, Chinese watercolors, Tiffany lamps, and gilded mirrors. The apartment fit in too – as did the mistress of the house.

Angela Snow was the proper lady in Chanel, with her heavy eighteen-karat-gold charm bracelet, her legs crossed at the ankles, and every hair in place. She jabbed out her cigarette in a heavy crystal ashtray.

“I should’ve known better than to send her to him. I should’ve known he wouldn’t take care of her. When can I have her back?”

“Soon,” Lee said.

“The fall… did it mess up her face?”

She couldn’t be serious. It was the shock talking.

“Mrs. Snow – ” Lee began.

“O’Donnell,” she corrected. “I’m now Mrs. O’Donnell, Mrs. John O’Donnell.”

“As in Assemblyman O’Donnell?”

“Yes,” she said with pride. “So I do hope you’ll show discretion. No one’s connected John with this mess so far. We would like it to stay that way.”

Maybe it wasn’t shock. Maybe she was that cold.

“Mrs. O’Donnell,” Lee said, “did Chrissie have a boyfriend? An older man, perhaps?” Wine. Expensive hotel. We were thinking an established man with money.

“I wouldn’t know. She and I had no contact after she moved out.”

“And why did she leave?” I asked.

She lifted her chin. “Chrissie felt sorry for her father. He was coming out of prison. She didn’t want him to be alone.”

“We’ve heard that she didn’t get along with your husband,” I said.

“He told you that, didn’t he?”

“Is it true?” Lee asked.

She hesitated. “Chrissie was difficult. She… said things.”

“What kinds of things?” I asked.

“Nothing worth repeating.”

“Mrs. O’Don – ”

“I won’t repeat those lies. Not now, not ever.”

Inside my head, I could hear a young girl pleading. Mama, can I talk to you? Talk to you right now?

“We’d like to speak with your husband,” Lee was saying.

“He can’t help you. He doesn’t know anything.”

Mama, can I talk to you? He hurt me – hurt me real bad – and I can’t stand the pain.

“How long have you two been married?” I asked.

“Five years.”

“We need to talk to him,” Lee said.

Another chin lift. “Well, you can’t. He’s in Albany. He won’t be back for a couple of days.”

“Have him call us when he’s in.” Lee gave her his card.

THE HOTEL MANAGER had phoned in the names of guests who’d ordered the Pasta Bolognese that Saturday and the time they’d ordered it. The list had nineteen names. One of them was “Jake” O’Donnell.

“Coincidence?”

Lee’s smile was grim. “What do you think?”

I picked up the phone and dialed the Park Avenue number. “Mrs. O’Donnell? Detective Stone here. Have you spoken to your husband yet?”

“I told you – ”

“I strongly suggest you get him on the phone… now.”

“Detec – ”

“Let me put it like this: it’s better you call than me.”

A worried silence.

“All right. He’ll be back by tomorrow evening. I’ll make sure of it.”

“You do that.”

OUR SHIFT OVER, we stopped at McKinley’s bar on 17th Street. Lee ordered whiskey and soda. I usually did too, but that night I took it straight. Lee noticed.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He played with his stirrer. “It’s always lousy when it involves a kid.”

“I’m handling it.”

“You don’t look like it. You look like shit… beautiful shit, but shit.”

“Thanks.”

He’s the only one I’d let talk to me like that, and he knew it. We’d grown up around Cathedral Parkway on the Upper West Side. Now it’s up-and-coming. Back then it was Cocaine Central. After my stepfather died, I moved away, and Lee and I lost contact. Years later, I looked up and there he was, at the academy. We’d been partners ever since.

“Look,” he said, “I remember what happened with your stepfather – ”

“Don’t go there.”

“All I’m saying – ”

“I said – ”

“ – is that if you want to talk about it, I’m here. That’s all. I’m here.”

But it hurts. It hurts so bad. And the blood…

Hush, child.

But –

You let him do what he’s got to do, ’cause he’s our bread and butter.

The mirror behind the bar reflected my image. Lee was right. I did look like shit. I turned away and pressed my glass against my cheek. It felt cool and refreshing.

“Sometimes, I feel like I’m a ghost, you know? Sometimes, I wonder who really died that night. Him or me?”

“That’s crazy.”

“I’ve been hearing things, Lee. Don’t tell the captain, but I’ve been hearing my mother’s voice. Haven’t thought of her in years. Don’t know if she’s alive or dead. But ever since we caught this case, she’s been whispering to me.”

“What’s she saying?”

“Same things she used to say, to get me to cooperate.” I set the glass down. “You think I’m crazy?”

“No.”

“Got any advice?”

“Tell her to leave you alone. Next time she says something, tell her to get the hell outta your head and leave you the fuck alone.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I thought about it. He was right.

Get the fuck outta my head, Mama. It sounded fine to me.

MONDAY AFTERNOON, ABIGAIL and Susan sat behind a table on the sidewalk around the corner from their school, near Central Park. They had two large sliced cakes – one chocolate, one strawberry – plus an array of brownies and cupcakes. A big sign next to them read: bake sale to benefit chrissie’s family.

Crumpled dollar bills and assorted change half-filled an upended water-fountain jar on the table.

“Looks like you’re doing a brisk business,” Lee said.

“Yeah,” Susan said. “We’re doing pretty well.”

“Where’s Claire?” I asked.

Something ugly flitted across Abigail’s face. Susan started to speak, but Abigail put a staying hand on her wrist, and the girl snapped her mouth shut.

“Claire’s not part of this,” Abigail said, flashing an extrabright smile. “Says she’s got too much work to do.”

Lee raised an eyebrow. “Even for a good cause like this?”

Abigail shrugged. “You know how it is: different people, different priorities.” Another false smile. “So, how’s your investigation going?”

“We have more questions,” Lee said.

“Sure. We’re always ready to help.”

“I see that.” I glanced at the grip on Susan’s wrist.

Abigail colored and withdrew the hand; Susan rubbed the spot as though she’d been freed from shackles.

“Maybe we could speak to each of you separately.” I raised a hand before Abigail could object. “That way, the table will stay manned. You won’t miss any donations, and no one can walk away with the jar.”

She didn’t like it, but she couldn’t argue. She gave Susan a warning look, stepped away from the table, and turned to me.

“What is it?”

“Did Chrissie ever mention an older guy?”

Abigail set her jaw.

“Look,” I said, “if you don’t give me a straight answer, we’ll be having a conversation at the station with your mother.”

She tried to look brave. Folding her arms across her chest, she said, “You have no right to threaten me.”

“Sweetie, we have the right to threaten anyone with cause – and you’re giving us cause. Now, did Chrissie ever mention an older man?”

“Yeah,” she said resentfully. “Her stepfather.”

“They were having problems?”

“You could say that. He started raping her when she was ten.”

Mama, can I talk to you? Talk to you right now?

Pressure started building at the back of my skull. “Did she tell anyone?”

“She tried. But her mother didn’t care.”

“You mean, her mother didn’t know.”

“What’re you, deaf? Her mother knew but didn’t care. All she cares about is being Mrs. Big Shot. She even tried to stop Chrissie from moving in with her dad. She was scared Mr. Big Shot would leave her.”

“Why should Chrissie’s moving-”

Again that irritated superior look.

“Don’t you get it? Having sex with Chrissie was part of the deal. That’s how her mother got that guy to marry her.”

It always hurts the first time, child. Just let him do what he’s got to do, ’cause he’s our bread and butter.

JIMMY WATTS IN forensics had left us a message to stop by. He was at his desk, working on a ham-and-tomato sandwich. Watts weighed more than two hundred pounds, but in the eight years I’d known him, I’d never seen him eat a large meal.

He waved to us, dabbed his mouth with a tissue, and got up. We followed him as he lumbered past shelves of confiscated equipment in stages of disassembly. Chrissie’s computer and webcam were on a table by themselves.

“She had a sweet hookup,” he said. “Surprisingly good security for a teenage girl. Simple but effective.”

“But you could bypass it, right?” I asked.

“Oh, sure. I’m logged in now. I just let it sleep until you came.”

He sat down, touched a key, and the dark computer screen lit up. He double-clicked one of the icons littering the screen. A browser window opened.

“Look at this.”

Lee and I leaned forward. We were viewing a blog. It was called “Selling the Pink.”

“Does that mean what I think it means?” I asked.

“’Fraid so.”

Lee and I scanned the entries. The teenage author was running her own porn site. She’d started an earlier one with three friends-“Amber,” “Chloe,” and “Elektra” – but then decided to go off on her own. The decision sparked a feud, and she was still reeling from it.

But the fight with her friends/business partners wasn’t the focus of her most recent entry – or even her deepest concern. She was worried about a man, someone she called “Mr. Big Shot.”

“We got him,” Lee whispered. “The stepfather. It’s him.”

A link from the blog led us to stills from archived footage.

“That poor kid,” Lee said.

“Poor, she was not,” said Watts. “She was raking it in. So far, I’ve found two online accounts – one’s got one hundred fifty thou and the other’s got thirty-five.”

You’re such a pretty girl. Such a lucky, pretty girl. Men’ll always give you what you want when you’re such a pretty girl.

I gave myself an inner shake. Go away, I said inwardly, but the words had no strength.

“She was going to surprise her father,” Watts was saying, “help him open a new business and send herself to college.”

“Any sense of how long she was at it?” I asked.

“I’d say about two and a half years.”

So she’d started when she was thirteen.

“What about the e-mails?” Lee asked.

Watts’s fingers danced across the keyboard, and another window opened up. “You’ll find this interesting.” A few more clicks with the mouse, and rows of messages flowed down the screen.

The e-mails were furious and taut. They spoke of broken promises and angry betrayals. Most were from Amber, who spoke for Chloe and Elektra.

“Can you print them out?” I asked.

“Already did. Printouts are on my desk. But wait,” Watts said. “You guys are gonna love this.”

He double-clicked another icon. Chrissie’s mail program opened up.

“She left all her messages on the server – all except these. These, she downloaded.”

A ream of messages opened up, all from Mr. Big Shot. He was obsessed with her. She didn’t want to see him again, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. The clincher came when he threatened her father:

“I can make sure he’s sent back,” he wrote. “I can and I will.”

A date was set. It was the day she died.

THAT EVENING, AFTER pouring myself a generous shot of Johnnie Walker, I turned on my computer and found the first entry on Chrissie’s blog. It described how, days earlier, she’d set up a webcam and posted information on a Web directory, hoping to find friends. She’d gotten her first contact within minutes. It was another girl, she thought, but as they chatted, she sensed that something was wrong. Eventually, the “girl” admitted to being a guy. Chrissie started to sign off, but the man was friendly, apologetic. He was witty and flattering – and ready with gifts. Within hours, she’d “met” others just like him.

One evening, one of her digital admirers said he was feeling blue. How could she cheer him up? she asked. Looking at her made him feel good, he said. He loved looking at her. If she wanted to be kind, all she had to do was raise her blouse and let him see her. He’d pay her “fifty bucks for three glorious minutes.” He’d pay it into her online account. It was like cash in the hand. She didn’t have an account? He’d help her open one.

It wasn’t as though she didn’t know what he was after. It wasn’t as if she didn’t sense where his request might lead. It was the money and sense of power his asking gave her – that and a feeling of despair. Was this kind of attention the only kind she could hope for? If so, then why not make the best of it? According to her blog, she was suffering at her stepfather’s hands nightly. She couldn’t fight him. But here, she had the power to say no and the right to exact payment when she said yes. Here, the men couldn’t even touch her. They could only watch her, long for her – and only for as long as she let them.

Chrissie said she had more than a thousand “fans” who made monthly “donations” for her performances. They advised her on the best camera and software to use. They even paid for it, having suggested that she set up a “wish list” on online stores. She could ask for anything she wanted, they said. She could list DVDs, CDs, clothes, jewelry, computer hardware – anything. They would pay for it, and the stores would deliver while keeping her address secret.

It was a hell of a ride, and Chrissie was holding on tight. But it wasn’t all fun and games. She battled fear and self-loathing. Certain men were terrifying. One wrote that he wanted to possess her. Many pressed her to meet them, but she refused – all except one.

Enough. I drained the last drop of whiskey, turned off the computer, and went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about her, trapped with her stepfather, and about another girl I’d known, likewise trapped.

Mama, can I talk to you? I can’t take the pain.

Shush, it always hurts the first time, child.

Stop him, Mama. Stop him, ’cause I won’t let him near me again.

I thought about the day my stepfather died. For years, all I could remember was what they told me: that my mother heard me screaming, rushed into my room, and found him on me. He was dead, bleeding like a stuck pig, and I was under him, holding the knife. That’s all. Simple.

I didn’t serve a day in jail. I didn’t live another day with my mother either. The court forgave me. She didn’t. I’d killed her man, taken her livelihood. She left town and never looked back. I decided to do the same. That was that. Simple.

Until Chrissie.

Around midnight, Shin called. “The wine was definitely a merlot. It matches a bottle from the hotel. Also, you remember I said she ate brownies?”

“Now that you mention it… what about them?”

“Ever heard of bud brownies?”

Brownies made with pot. “You telling me she was high?”

“As the wind blows.”

O’DONNELL MET US at the door with a brandy in hand. His tie was loosened and his jacket tossed across a chair. He looked stressed. Good. Chrissie’s mother was nowhere in sight. Even better.

“Look, I’m stunned,” he said, “but guys, c’mon. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Let’s sit down,” I said.

He glanced at his watch. “I have to get back tonight. You shouldn’t have sent for me. We could’ve talked on the phone.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Lee and I made a show of consulting our notes.

“We know,” I said, “that you met Chrissie at a hotel on Saturday, that you had sex with her and bought her lunch.”

“Preposterous.”

I eyeballed him. “Think about it.”

“There’s nothing to think about. I was in Albany. I’ve been there since Friday.”

I was tired and short-tempered after a bad night. “Mr. O’Donnell, the hot-and-heavy e-mails on Chrissie’s hard drive will tell us they came from you. Your credit cards will tell us where you stayed and when. DNA taken from Chrissie’s body will tell us that it came from you. Now, do you really want us to go to all that trouble? Trust me, sir. If you make it hard for us, we’ll make it hard for you.”

He broke out in a sweat. “You’re bluffing.”

“Try me.”

He ran a hand through his thick silver hair, sorting options, finding none. “All right. But I left her at the hotel – alive. And I loved her. I never would’ve hurt her.”

I felt cold inside, cold enough to kill without batting an eyelash.

“You’re sick,” Lee told him. “You know that, right?”

“I had nothing to do with her death.”

“She threatened to reveal you,” Lee said. “You had to shut her up.”

O’Donnell licked his lips. “Listen, I was nowhere near her when she died. I can prove it. I usually take a train to Albany, but I was late, so I flew instead. The flight was at four. I have the boarding pass.”

“Let me see it,” I said.

He dug it out of his wallet and handed it over.

The pass was legit. I showed it to Lee.

“You’re not off the hook,” I said.

“But I’ve proved – ”

“You’re going to jail,” Lee said. “For child abuse and rape.”

“You’re crazy.”

“When we’re finished with you, you’ll wish we were.”

Back in the car, Lee scratched his temple. “That SOB. He wasn’t just our main suspect. He was our only one.”

“It’s time we had a meeting,” I said.

“With who?”

“Elektra.”

I MADE THE calls from the car. She was at the station when we got there. I expected to see her mother too, but the girl was alone.

“I sort of expected to hear from you,” she said.

“Why?”

“Abigail and Susan said they’d seen you. I figured you’d want to see me too.”

I ushered her into a small soundproof room with a desk, three chairs, and walls that were bare, except for a one-way mirror. I pointed to the metal fold-up chair set in the narrow space between the desk and the mirror. The room was claustrophobic, the chair uncomfortable. They were meant to be. She sat on the edge of the chair and eyed the mirror.

“Is anyone watching?” she asked.

“Where’s your mom? I thought you’d bring her.”

She gave me an indecipherable look, then said, “She’s busy.”

“I’ll call her.”

“No, please. She doesn’t need to come here.” Panic edged her voice. She pushed her glasses back up on her nose. “Was it the e-mails or the blog?”

“Both.”

She grew paler. “Can this be kept from my mother?”

“Clear this up now, and she’ll never be the wiser.”

She worried her lip.

“At least you were never on camera,” I added.

“Abigail wouldn’t let me. I’m just a geek, so I could only do the technical stuff.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“Abby’s. She found out that Chrissie had this porn site and told her that if she didn’t let her in on it, she’d tell.”

“Only it didn’t work out the way Abigail planned, did it?”

Again, she shook her head. “Abby’s pretty, but not like Chrissie. Chrissie’s the one the guys wanted to see. Chrissie said she was bringing in all the money. She didn’t see why she had to split so much of it with us. So she went back to having her own site and took the best-paying guys with her. Abigail and Susan were left with the crazies, the guys who wanted weird stuff. They got angry.”

“How angry?”

A pause. “Very.”

There was a knock on the door. It was Lee: time for a talk with Amber and Chloe.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, and stepped outside.

“They’re in one and two,” Lee said.

“Parents come?”

“The girls refused to have ’em.”

They were old enough. They had that right.

“Dumb choice,” I said. “But thank God they made it.”

SUSAN HAD BACKED her chair into a corner, so her back was against the wall. She was hugging herself and chewing on a lock of hair.

“Hi, Susan,” I said.

“Hi.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

I had a folder thick with papers and labeled with her name. I slapped it on the desk, and she cringed. Lee leaned against the wall. I perched on the edge of the desk and regarded her with concern. She averted her eyes.

“So, I guess you know why you’re here,” I said. “I can understand why you didn’t bring your mother.”

She licked her lips.

“Susan, we know about the porn sites and we know that you were there, in Chrissie’s room, when it happened.”

Her eyes widened. “No – ”

“We know that you and Abigail gave Chrissie pot-laced brownies. That you baked them in Abigail’s kitchen and told Chrissie they were a peace present.”

“But – ”

“We know that once Chrissie was high, you and Abigail stabbed her and pushed her out the window.”

“No! I would’ve never hurt Chrissie. I – ”

“You were just angry at her because she was being selfish. You guys had worked just as hard as she had. It wasn’t fair that she should end up with the best-paying customers, right?”

“But – ”

“I should tell you that Claire’s in the other room.” I paused. “And she’s told us everything.”

She was frantic. “But she – no! It didn’t happen that way. I swear it!”

“Then what did happen?”

She looked down. “I… I can’t talk about it. Abigail said – ”

“Abigail said to lie to us, didn’t she?”

She didn’t answer.

“Susan, it’s time for me to read you your rights.”

“Does this mean I’m under arrest?”

I didn’t answer, just pulled out a card bearing Miranda and read it to her. I looked at her and shook my head. “It’s a shame.”

“What?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with tears.

“I’d like to believe you didn’t kill Chrissie. But the evidence says you did. And unless you speak up, you’re going down for it.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but I held up my hand.

“Too late,” I said. “I can’t hear another word you have to say – not unless…” I handed her the card and the pen. “Initial it and we can hear your side of it.”

She hesitated, and then, tears rolling down her cheeks, she scratched her initials.

“We didn’t kill her.” She sniffed. “I swear we didn’t.”

“We can prov – ”

“We did give her the brownies. But we really meant to make up with her.”

Lee and I maintained a cynical silence.

She looked from me to him, wide-eyed and terrified. “Please! You’ve got to believe me!”

“Susan, I’m trying to help you. Don’t bullshit me.”

She swallowed and gave in to a shudder but didn’t speak.

“Okay. If that’s the way it’s going to be, then…” I spoke to Lee and pointed to Susan. “Take her out.”

She blanched. “Wha -?”

He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“No!” She twisted around. “Please! I’ll tell you what I know.”

“I don’t have time to waste,” I said.

“I’m not going to jail for her. I want this to be over. I want it to stop!”

She covered her face with her hands and burst into terrified sobs.

ABIGAIL EXAMINED ONE expensively manicured fingernail.

“So,” I said. “Whose idea was it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Am I under arrest?”

“Should you be?”

Abigail pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m leaving. You can’t – ”

“Girlfriend, we can do this hard or we can do it easy. You talk to me alone or with your parents. Either way, you will talk.”

She thought about it, lifted her chin, and flopped back down in the chair. “What do you want?”

“The truth.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Did I tell you that my daddy’s a lawyer? He eats people like you for breakfast.”

“Well, he’s about to get a bad case of indigestion, and you’re the reason why.”

She started to retort but thought better of it.

“We already have you on the porn,” I said. “And now we’re going to get you for murder. We know how you did it and why. Best of all, we have proof: the brownies that made Chrissie so dizzy she couldn’t fight you, and witnesses who saw you leaving the apartment.”

Lee came in and handed me a file with Abigail’s name written prominently on it, and three typed sheets of paper laid atop it. He glanced at Abigail, who gave him a knowing look and ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip. He laughed at her, and she flushed. He started out, then turned back.

“Take some advice,” he told her. “My partner here, she’s not interested in giving you another chance. Me, I think it’s only fair to tell you that Claire’s already cut a deal. She’s hung you out to dry.”

I held up the three sheets. “It’s all here.”

“She said that I…?” Abigail’s mouth dropped open. “That little bitch! That crazy little bitch!” She sat up. “Now, you listen to me…”

“HER MOTHER SHOULD be here,” Lee said.

I agreed.

We glanced through the wired glass pane in the door. She’d taken out a small fingernail file, the handle ornate, not something you’d expect a girl too shy to wear makeup or stylish clothes to have.

The tip was broken.

I went in. “What an unusual file.”

“Chrissie gave it to me.”

“No, she didn’t.”

She went very still. “You’ve been speaking to Abigail, haven’t you? Why do you believe her? She’s a liar.”

“So are you.”

What color she had drained from her face.

“But it doesn’t matter,” I continued. “The nail file won’t lie.”

For a long moment, she forgot to breathe. Then, hands trembling, she continued to file her nails. “So what’s next?”

“We’ve called your mother.”

“She doesn’t care.”

“I’m reading you your rights.”

“Don’t bother.”

I took out the card. “You have the right – ”

“Don’t. Bother.”

Carefully, she stored the file in her backpack. “Am I supposed to sign something? Let’s get this over with.”

“The file: why didn’t you get rid of it?”

“Because it was Chrissie’s. It’s pretty… like she was.” Her voice was calm, her tone rational. “It was their fault. Chrissie’s and Abigail’s. They made it happen. They wanted it. Maybe not Susan – but Abigail definitely.”

“She actually asked you to kill Chrissie?”

“No, but she said Chrissie was a problem and that we had to find a solution. I thought…” A quaver crept into her voice. “I thought that if I did this, then maybe Abigail would help me. Show me how to do my hair and fingernails. Help me be pretty.” A pause. “I’ve always wanted to be pretty.”

She swallowed. “So after Chrissie came back from seeing her stepfather, we took some brownies over. Abigail and Susan left. I told Chrissie I had to talk to her. I thought it would be easy, you know, to get her to open the window… and then come up behind her. But she turned around. I had to do something. The nail file was there.”

She drew a deep breath. “And then, when I told Abigail, she said she didn’t want to have anything more to do with me. She said…” Her voice dropped. “She said I was crazy.”

Lee and I exchanged glances.

“But why didn’t you ask Chrissie to give you a makeover?”

“She refused to. She said I was lucky… lucky to be ugly. Can you imagine?” Angry tears sparkled in her eyes. “That’s when I did it. I pushed her… pushed her out the window, so I wouldn’t have to see her pretty face anymore.”

The image of Chrissie’s face, crushed and contorted by agony but still lovely as she lay broken on the sidewalk, came to mind. The sound of her last breath whispered in my ear. Then came another voice, soft and malevolent.

Such a lucky, pretty girl –

Yeah, dead lucky.

THAT NIGHT, AT McKinley’s, Lee said, “The memories, they’re coming back, aren’t they?”

I nodded. My mother’s screams, the police, the social workers, the decision not to prosecute her for letting her husband do what he did and the judge’s decision to set me free – it was all there.

“But it’s okay,” I said. “No need to worry.”

“No?”

My image in the mirror returned my gaze. I smiled, it smiled back, and it hit me that this was no ghost but a reflection of the living.

“My mother always told me I was lucky. For once, she was right. I am lucky. I survived.”