Restoration Heights Page 7

  He wheeled slowly in the center of her floor, viewing it all from a distance, one final pass to see if anything felt wrong. There was nothing here that would have spooked Buckley—only the emptiness, the carefree negligence that argued she might return at any minute. She hadn’t packed, hadn’t prepared for a trip. He had seen enough.

  He went back through the apartment, to make sure he hadn’t left anything out of place. The window was shut, the bowl lined up on the sill. He set the latch on the door to lock behind him and looked through the peephole, listened for the elevator. Once he was sure it was quiet he opened the door, slipped into the hall and left.

  Six

  He rode his adrenaline to Bushwick, told Beth Han and Dean all of it over drinks.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Dean said.

  “What if you had been caught?” Beth asked. “You could have been arrested.”

  “I didn’t take anything.”

  “That isn’t the point.”

  “A note on every door? Now our entire building knows, okay, A, you’re nuts, and, B, your email address.”

  “Dean, do you really think that’s what matters right now?” Beth seemed shaky, unsure of how to calibrate her reaction. She turned back to Reddick. “That cop isn’t going to help you if he knows you literally broke into someone’s apartment.”

  “Look, he didn’t hurt anything, he didn’t get caught.”

  Dean reached over the table and rubbed her shoulder. She took a drink, sighed and closed her eyes. “Reddick, just tell me that you see that what you did was crazy.”

  “I was careful.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Dean turned to Reddick, interrupted Beth before she could get worked up again. “Forget this and paint. Lane gave you, like, a week off. Just lock yourself into your studio and get to work. Order takeout. Pretend you’re back in school.”

  Reddick checked his email as he listened. “I had to do something,” he said. “I keep seeing her step into that open door. The back of the alley was dark—she was just a shape back there, an outline, kind of glowing from the light of her phone. And then wham, the door opens and she goes in, and she’s gone. I should have—I don’t know—followed them. Gone up to the party to look for her friends.”

  “You don’t know what happened, though,” Beth said. “That arm could have belonged to one of her friends. Why is she your responsibility?”

  “She was in trouble, and I happened to be there. That has to mean something.”

  “I get it,” Dean said. “There is a lot of literature about this, you know—ethics and obligation and moral luck.”

  Beth cut him off. “Which none of us cares anything about.”

  “Beth to the rescue,” Reddick said.

  “I’m just saying. It’s interesting and it does sort of apply.”

  “I’m sure it does.” She patted his hand and turned to Reddick. “Look, it’s not like you witnessed a crime.”

  “Maybe I did.”

  “But even if you did, you had no way of knowing. It’s just as likely that whoever opened that door was a genuine friend of hers, someone she trusted. Whatever happened to her might have come hours later.”

  “Which I kind of agree with that cop,” Dean said. “Can she really be missing if no one has reported her?”

  “Enough with the philosophy.”

  “I meant that literally.”

  Reddick stabbed at a bobbing ice cube with his straw. “It isn’t just the way she disappeared. I mean, yeah, that spooked me and the image has been hard to shake. But you remember that girl that was killed in Coney Island a couple years ago?” They nodded and he continued. “Well, Allen was telling me about it yesterday.”

  “Telling you?” Beth said. “You hadn’t heard about it? It was literally everywhere.”

  He tried to recall that summer. It was mostly flashes of painting and basketball, indistinguishable from the months before or after. He remembered the girl he was dating, the maraschino-red bikini she wore to Fort Tilden—he averaged about one listless relationship a year, rushes of sexual intrigue that all fizzled the same way, dwindled into amicable dissolution. Restoration Heights was underway and brooding about the changes it represented had begun to swallow his time. Maybe he had heard about the murder.

  “I think I did,” he said. “A little.”

  “I’m pretty sure we talked about it,” Beth said, “and you just don’t remember.”

  “The point is she had friends there, at the party. And they let her go off with these two guys, these killers, and no one stopped to question it. I’ve been thinking—no one at that party had a bad feeling about her leaving with them? What if someone did, only they didn’t do anything about it because they didn’t really know her, or because no one else thought it was something worth caring about. Everyone around them thought everything was fine, so they didn’t listen when their guts told them it wasn’t. And yeah, I get that it was no one at that party’s responsibility to intervene, but that doesn’t change the fact that if someone had done it anyway, even though it wasn’t their responsibility, that girl would be alive. And could you live with that? If you had a feeling and did nothing and someone died because of it?”

  “But no one is dead,” Beth said. “I get it, her apartment didn’t look like she had packed for a long trip—and I haven’t changed my mind that what you did was wrong, but Dean’s right, what’s done is done—and fine, you saw what you saw. But maybe she left in a hurry? Maybe she’s planning on coming back for her stuff. You don’t know anything for certain.”

  “It’s everything together, though. The condition that she was in that night, Mrs. Leland’s support. And if you had seen the way Buckley overreacted to me—tell her, Dean, it was crazy how he just shut down when I mentioned Bed-Stuy, like he was afraid of something.”

  “It was weird but, dude,” he grabbed Reddick’s arm, “if you would spend three-quarters of this energy on your painting.”

  Reddick’s response was interrupted by the chime of a new email downloading. He shook free of Dean’s grasp and checked his phone. “Holy shit, it’s them.”

  “Who?” Beth asked.

  “The people in our building. The ones who threw the party.” He scanned the rest of the message. “They’re home. They said I could come by tonight.”

  He stood up and threw cash on the table. “I’ll see you later?”

  “I don’t think so,” Dean said. “I’m knee-deep in work right now.”

  For the first time in what felt like ages, Reddick thought, so was he.

  * * *

  The boy who opened the door at 3C was about twenty, wiry and good-looking. He invited Reddick in, seemingly immune to the strange circumstances. The apartment’s floor plan was a mirror image of his and Dean’s, which Reddick found disorienting, almost dreamlike. The walls were hung with haphazard drawings and framed posters, a blend of irony and high culture. There were four other kids inside—two girls and two boys, in flannel and faded denim. They hummed with entitled confidence.

  One of the girls, her head cradled in a diving helmet of curly brown hair, lit a joint. “So you’re looking for someone who was at our party?”

  On the way down Reddick had decided which pieces of the truth to use. He didn’t mention the Sewards or Buckley by name, just that Hannah was a friend’s fiancée, and that he thought she might have been at their party, and that now she was missing.

  He showed them the picture on his phone.

  “She was definitely here,” the girl said.

  “She was?” one of the roommates asked.

  “Yeah. With those neighborhood guys.”

  “Oh shit. That’s her? I didn’t recognize her at all.”

  “She was talking with that guy, Frank?”

  “Who’s Frank?” Reddick asked.

  �
�Honestly, I don’t know, man.” The girl had passed the joint along, and one of the boys offered it to Reddick. He waved it off. The boy continued. “I’m not sure who invited him. He’s just this old guy who I’ve seen around at parties.”

  “One of the neighborhood guys?”

  The curly-haired girl shook her head. “No way. Not this guy. That was the other two. They kind of, uh—stood out, you know what I mean?”

  Reddick looked at the room of cherubic faces, their pale skin. “You mean they were black?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean, yeah, they were, but, you know, we have black friends.”

  “Saul is black. He’s over here all the time. So is his boyfriend.”

  “Saul’s boyfriend is Dominican.”

  “Yeah, but he’s like, Dominican black. That counts, right?”

  The curly-haired girl interrupted them. “Anyway. What I was trying to say was that these guys looked like they were maybe from around here. Originally. Neighborhood guys, you know.”

  “Fine. So she was here with three guys. Two black guys and an older white guy. Did it look like she was actually with any of them?”

  They shook their heads. The other boy spoke up. “I just want to note that we aren’t the ones bringing their race into this? Anyway, yeah, I don’t think Frank knew those other two. He seemed kind of, I don’t know, pissed that they came with her.”

  “Did they argue?”

  “No. I just mean he was sulky. He was in the kitchen talking to some other girls when she showed up, with them. I was getting a beer, and I remember that he seemed put out.”

  “Did they leave together, Frank and this girl?”

  The kids looked at each other for answers. Finally the curly-haired girl said. “They just left, you know? It was a party. No one was keeping track of who went with who.”

  “Whom,” the wiry boy said. The two girls rolled their eyes.

  “Okay. So did anyone else that you know talk with them? Get their names, at least?”

  “Oh yeah. Trisha was flirting with one of them all night.”

  “I think she already knew one of them?”

  “Who?” Reddick tried to keep up. “Frank? Or one of the others?”

  “Now that you say that, I’m not sure his name is actually Frank.”

  “It definitely is.”

  “Really? I thought it had two syllables?”

  “Well one of those syllables is Frank. He introduced himself to me. Not Sunday night, I mean a few months ago. At some other party.”

  “Franklin, maybe?”

  “Maybe. But anyway,” turning back to Reddick, “that’s not who Trisha was flirting with.”

  “Alright, so could you guys hook me up with Trisha? Give me her email?”

  The curly-haired girl smiled at him. “I have her number. But I don’t feel comfortable giving that out to you?”

  “I’m not going to harass your friend. Also, I’m your neighbor.”

  “Have we actually seen you in the building? We know people here.”

  “I’ve lived on the second floor for eight years.”

  She seemed skeptical of this claim. “I’ll tell you what. She works in the neighborhood. You know that specialty food store a few blocks away, on Bedford? She’s there most mornings. Go there if you want to talk to her, so I don’t have to, like, spill her personal information all over Brooklyn.”

  Reddick thanked them and left.

  * * *

  He woke up early, was bundled in his winter layers and out the door in fifteen minutes. Claws of hard ice resisted the morning sun. After a short walk Reddick stamped his boots dry and went inside.

  The store was boxy and cramped. Soft fluorescents fell on rows of metal shelves, glinted dimly off satin finishes, caught the grain of recycled paper—the packaging, like the store, positioned to oppose the high gloss of corporate grocers. The products advertised an ethos, signaled their virtue so clearly you were desperate to pay the higher price. There was a deli in the rear, and a wooden coffee counter near the front. A few tables were jammed into the window. Reddick approached the counter, which was helmed by a sleepy twentysomething, and ordered a large coffee.

  “Trisha?” he asked, after she made change. The girl looked at him blankly for a moment and then asked if he wanted to speak to her. When he said yes she yelled back to the deli.

  Trisha came out wearing an apron, a gray thermal shirt and matching beanie over thick waves of barn-red hair. She was nearly his age, tall and robust with a round, affable face. She shook his hand with suspicion and got a coffee of her own. They sat down at one of the tables. He gave her the same version that he had offered in 3C.

  “Maybe she wants to get away from your friend. She has the right to leave, you know.”

  “Of course she does. That’s not why I’m here. I’m not trying to get her to go back to him or anything like that. I just want to know if she’s okay.”

  “You do? Or your friend?”

  “I want to know for my friend.”

  “This seems a little creepy. I don’t want to help some stalker.”

  The description stopped him. Flashes from the night before—opening Hannah’s drawers, her closet. But he thought of Mrs. Leland, her insider’s confidence that something was awry, and repressed his doubts. He lifted his jaw toward Trisha, tried to convey the virtue of his resolve. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t need your help.”

  “But what if she does?” He showed her the photo. “Do you recognize her?”

  She eyed him for a moment as she wrestled with her suspicions, then squinted reluctantly at the image. “Wow, yeah. She looks really different, but that is definitely her.”

  “They said you spent some time with one of the guys she was with.”

  “Tyler. But he doesn’t know her. He mentioned at the party. She was a friend of his friend, who was also there.”

  “And what’s his friend’s name?” He opened his notebook, which seemed to spook her.

  “Ju’waun. Look this is really weird.”

  “Did they leave together?”

  “I’m not sure. I left before either of them.”

  “Did you get Tyler’s number?”

  “I did. He’s a nice guy. I had Monday off and we spent some time together.”

  “Did he stay over Sunday night?”

  “That’s none of your business. Really none of this is your business.”

  “This girl is missing. Vanished.”

  “So where are the cops?”

  “I’ve done everything I can to convince her boyfriend to call them. It’s complicated. But if I can make some headway—if you help me—then the police will get involved. They’ll have to. But I could use your help. I need to talk to Tyler.”

  She measured him briefly. “I don’t see what it can hurt—but that’s his choice, not mine. Give me your number, I’ll ask him and let you know if he wants to talk. Fair?”

  It was the best he was going to get from her. “Fair.”

  * * *

  Back in his apartment he texted Harold, told him to ask around about Tyler and Ju’waun. Neighborhood guys. He wasn’t expecting much—all he had were a pair of first names, and he was skeptical that Harold’s claims had been anything more than boasts. But Harold responded immediately, said that he would hit up his sources after he got off work.

  Reddick needed more background on Buckley, on what he was like when his family wasn’t around. He thought of Sarah, who was at Penn while Buckley was getting his MBA, and sent Dean a message to check if she was in the building. She was. Reddick bundled up and left for Bushwick.

  He found Dean in his narrow studio, splayed on the couch, drinking coffee and thumbing through a magazine. A pair of tall windows doused the room with pale light. Arranged on a large ce
ntral table was the willowy armature of a nascent sculpture, framed by scattered pieces of balsa. The walls were papered over with sketches and lined with crowded shelves.

  “I dropped in on Sarah and told her you were coming. I didn’t say much about why.” He laid the magazine on his lap, adjusted his glasses. “Look. I thought about it all morning. Beth is right. You need to give this up.”

  “I’ve only just started.”

  “Which means you haven’t wasted much time. Whatever you think you’re going to get from doing this, you’re wrong. There’s nothing there.”

  “I’m not doing it for me.”

  “Really? Because no one else seems to care.”

  He picked his magazine back up and Reddick left. Solvents and varnishes, pigments and adhesives—their fumes as sweet as honeysuckle, as toxic as venom—permeated the vaulted hallways. A circular saw whined somewhere above him. The building was a five-floor beast, one of several massive industrial spaces in Bushwick that had been renovated on the cheap, guts carved into row upon row of high-rent artists’ spaces. They were positioned throughout the neighborhood like bunkers, repositories for the ambitions, the rivalries and dramas of the swarming MFAs who labored inside. Craft beer and cold-brew coffee had sprouted on the sidewalks between them, an ecosystem of young businesses that thrived off the flimsy cachet of the new population, the alcohol and caffeine fuel for the young artists’ most daring hopes. Just catch one dealer’s eye, one time. Never mind that even the existence of these buildings argued against the possibility of success, that no matter how you arranged the numbers there simply wasn’t enough money to build careers for the glut of people working inside. Dreams are numb to long odds. And selfish, because each artist must believe that she is the great exception even as that prospect dooms her friends to anonymity. They reveled in the support, the camaraderie, but squirmed with private envies.