Restoration Heights Read online

  Reddick had always worked from home.

  “Sarah?” Her door was open, he knocked on the wall and went in. She looked up and smiled. Canny and quick-witted, with auburn freckles and caramel hair, Sarah was one of the first friends he had made in the building, the two of them going out for drinks shortly after Dean moved in down the hall. She was among the few people Reddick knew who had moved to Bushwick before the bars and restaurants, when the cars of the L train shed their last white faces by Morgan Avenue. He enjoyed her stories of the old neighborhood. A copper-skinned black girl, anonymous to the pale youths shuffling past her to the exits, her artistic practice had felt at times like a thrilling secret. Her career had blossomed with the neighborhood; now she showed as often as anyone Reddick knew. Her paintings were large and unruly—de Kooning–esque horses with enormous phalluses, jizzing and fucking in orgies of incandescent color.

  She stood up and hugged him and they chatted for several minutes, catching up on the months since they last hung out. He remembered she had started dating someone—it was, he suspected, one of the reasons they hadn’t seen each other for so long. The demands on her time had already been high; the zealous painting schedule, the part-time job that helped keep it afloat. Adding a romantic partner didn’t leave much room for maintaining already tenuous friendships.

  “So your roommate wasn’t exactly clear about why you wanted to talk to me?”

  “It figures. I think he hates it.” They sat down and he told her a little about what he was doing, and why. “Buckley rubbed me the wrong way, and I was wondering if you knew him at school. I gathered he was connected to the art program somehow?”

  “Everyone called him Buckles. You want tea? I’m having tea. He was at Wharton, but he was always hanging around the MFAs. He was at our parties, would show up at our studios. You know, we got these guys occasionally, business or prelaw, chasing art pussy or trying to make themselves feel hip or intellectual or what have you. Trying to show the world they’re deeper than their suit. Like it was date an art student or get some tattoos, your choice.”

  “Guys who buy David Foster Wallace but don’t read him.”

  “Ha ha, you get it. But Buckles wasn’t one of those. We were just his business. I mean, you’ve worked for that family, right? Art is what they do. The other stuff makes the money, but art makes their name. So for Buckles, visiting our studios was learning the family business.”

  “Did he buy student work?”

  “A little. Not necessarily because he thought the artist would blow up. Not in a way that seemed overly serious. More just practice. Like to get the rhythms of the transaction down. He honestly didn’t seem like that bad of a guy. Nervous and serious and kind of hopeless. He always seemed like he was under a ton of pressure.”

  “So people liked him, then?”

  “He got a lot of that white male pushback, you know? One percenter, bestowing his largess on us hapless bohemians. But a lot of that came from other white dudes, guys trying to hide their own upper-middle-class background behind flannel and beards and critical theory. You went to art school. That’s everything. For my part I didn’t mind Buckles at all. He was thoughtful and sweet. I don’t hold him responsible as a person for the power structures he benefits from. Being an asshole to rich people doesn’t make you a revolutionary, it just makes you an asshole. Anyway, he was better than his friend Franky.”

  “Wait. Frank?”

  She shrugged. “He only ever went by Franky. Franky Dutton. Remember how I said there was a reflexive resentment of Buckles because of his background? Well, it’s funny because there are also guys like Franky who that kind of stuff should attach to but somehow doesn’t. He had all the benefits that Buckles had, plus he was a total asshole, not interested in anyone but himself—but he was hot, and sometimes that’s enough. People forgave him everything, at least the girls did, and the more he did things that needed forgiving the more willing they were to absolve him.”

  He smiled. “Not you, of course?”

  “You know me. I flirted back—we all did. But nothing ever happened between us because I knew his rep.”

  “Because he was just there for the art—for the girls.”

  “The art pussy, Reddick. You prude. Once you’ve allowed power to dictate language you’ve already submitted. Warm up your tea? Anyway, yeah, Franky was one of those guys I mentioned, just chasing the scene, but that’s not the rep I was talking about. There were rumors of stuff that was a little...dark, you know? Like he enjoyed hurting people.”

  “And y’all still tolerated this guy?”

  “Being sexy goes a long way when you’re twenty-three. And they were only rumors. Most of the other girls behaved like I did anyway—just flirting. He was so good-looking that his interest was flattering. I’m not saying it wasn’t a little fucked-up but that’s how these things go. A few girls fucked him but they never mentioned him crossing any boundaries they didn’t want crossed. You know this guy is still basically doing the same thing, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s some big shot developer now. Here, in Bushwick. He’s done a few buildings, sells them off to management companies when he’s done. You haven’t seen his signs? FDP. Franky Dutton Properties. He never had to bother with creativity.”

  “He’s here in New York?” Reddick’s pulse skipped.

  “Living the same life. Going to parties in Bushwick, preying on the creative class. I saw him out recently—it was barely a year ago, probably. With some top-heavy blonde girl. I think she was European or something. At least she seemed closer to his age than what he usually goes for—maybe the competition is getting to him. Bushwick is packed with guys like him now—good-looking white boys clinging to the scene just to prove how different they are from their fathers. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “He doesn’t stand out the way he used to, is all I mean. But he’s still around.”

  “Do you still hear the same rumors? About him hurting people?”

  “Nothing like that anymore. Maybe he’s cleaned up, or maybe he’s gotten more discreet. Now he just seems more sleazy than creepy—always trying to flash his money around, never mind that half the girls he goes out with are probably suckling on some kind of trust fund. From what I hear he likes to take his dates to his properties—he always makes sure one or two stay furnished, to show off.”

  Reddick pulled out his phone and opened the photo of Hannah. “You ever see him with this girl?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, no. She’s cute but probably not his type. Too all-American. Who gave you this photo, though?”

  “I found it online,” he lied.

  “I thought maybe Aliana gave it to you. You know her, right?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Short hair. Kind of butch. Really into CrossFit. Anyway, that’s her gallery, in the photo. Heinrich. She’s been the preparator there for a couple years.”

  He stood up. “Sarah, you’ve been incredibly helpful.”

  “You’re not around that often anymore. Why don’t you come by and we can talk shop sometime. You’re still painting, right?”

  He thought of the last productive day in his studio—that had been, what, two weeks ago? Three? “When I have time.”

  “Between what, basketball and looking for missing girls?”

  “Playing ball helps me think.”

  “And painting doesn’t?”

  He started to answer but paused, tried to recall the clarity, the polished emptiness that used to follow a long day of painting and drawing.

  “You need to work,” she continued. “You have to put in the time if you want to get anything out of this.”

  “I need to talk to Aliana. Could you set something up for me? Tell her that I’m coming?”

  “It’s almost five. She’ll be gone by the time you get there
.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  “I have to work tomorrow morning,” she said. “At the bakery.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean—couldn’t you just text her?”

  She answered with a coy smile. “I could. But I haven’t seen her in ages. Let’s do this: I’ll make plans with her tomorrow afternoon, right after she gets off work. You can come with me, we’ll head up a little early and you two can chat before she and I go out.”

  He was hesitant to have Sarah around while he asked questions, worried that he might reveal some nuance of his search that repelled her. Trisha’s accusation—stalker—nagged at him.

  It was worth the risk. “Fine. But you know I don’t mind going up there on my own. I know you’re busy.”

  “A little less than I was a couple weeks ago, actually. But it’s no problem.” He cocked his head at her questioningly but she waved it off. “We can get into it later. I’ll text you with the details after I hear from Aliana.”

  “Sarah, you’ve already been a huge help. I really appreciate this.”

  She stood up, kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  If he wasn’t going to see Aliana until late the next day he would need something to work on until then. He went home, to sort through the information Sarah had given him. He made notes on the ride.

  A story was coming into focus. Selfish, philandering Franky seduces his friend’s fiancée, gets some kick from the cruelty of it. They are at the party together, and she ends up dead. Maybe it was an accident—rough sex taken too far—or maybe all the dark rumors had ripened into something worse.

  It wasn’t enough to take to Clint, but it gave direction to his search. He could place Franky at the party if the kids could ID him, but that alone didn’t mean much. He needed more about Franky’s background—were there warnings, flashes of temper that went beyond Sarah’s rumors? And it was critical that he talk to Ju’waun or Tyler—they would know if she left with Franky that night, could prove he was the last person to see her.

  That arm, holding the door. That was Franky. It had to be.

  When he got off the train he saw that he had missed a text from Trisha.

  Tyler says no.

  He stopped on the sidewalk to respond, sliding out of the path of the foot traffic spilling from the subway entrance. The sun was down, the temperature plunging recklessly. He fired three texts in succession, first to ask why, then to plead with her to convince Tyler to change his mind. A passing man slipped on the ice, caught himself and winced. Reddick waited for a response for ten or fifteen minutes, until his shivering was an audible constant, like a purr. His phone was silent.

  He decided to go see her in the morning to make his case in person.

  He went home, warmed up and looked at his notes. The pages were disjointed and cramped, sloppy with parenthetical asides and conjecture. He needed something larger, some way to lay the case out and play with the connections. He needed to see it all at once.

  He went into his bedroom, to the wall he had set aside as a work area. There was a small table beside it, with drawers and boxes of materials. He removed the unfinished painting that had been hanging there, untouched, for weeks. He placed it on the floor facing one of the other walls, pried out the nails it had hung from, unpinned the sketches and source photographs and stacked them in a box. Once the wall was clear he unrolled a large piece of white cover stock and pinned it in the center. He wrote Hannah’s name, circled it. Next to her he wrote Buckley Seward and Franky Dutton, then Ju’waun and Tyler to the side, all circled, with pencil lines tracing their tentative connections. In the space around them he copied notes from his Moleskine. The party in 3C, the alley, the door—observations and tender conjecture, anything that might spark an insight. He put music on, the sexless indie rock he took so much shit for in high school, the whitest of white boy tunes that confounded his teammates. His foot tapped the rhythm. It was a relief to see it all laid out, at once—there was an alluring clarity to visual arrangements. A map of what was there to reveal what was missing.

  When he was nearly done he heard his phone ring. He thought it might be Trisha, and raced to answer. It was Harold.

  “Hey listen, my brother. What do you think you are doing?” Harold’s voice was faintly slurred, thickened by alcohol.

  “What do you mean?”

  “So I saw my boy tonight and I asked him for you, about what you wanted. He works for—man, I definitely can’t say this name to you but he works for someone who would know, alright. So I asked him and he was not happy.”

  “What did he say?”

  “How do you know Tyler and Ju’waun?”

  “I don’t. I told you that. That’s why I wanted you to ask about them. But listen, I have more information now.”

  “I don’t want nothing to do with your information. And you don’t either. You hear me?”

  “No, I have a suspect now. This developer who was at the party with her. And I think Tyler or Ju’waun may have seen her with him, could place them together—maybe he left with her. They could really help.”

  There was a pause. “This suspect. He white?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Man, you are out of your fucking mind. Some rich white girl goes missing from a party in Bed-Stuy, and the last people she was with was a white person and two brothers, and you think anyone is going to believe them when they pin it on the white person? You know how this world works.”

  “If they help me, we can find evidence. I know this cop.”

  “Who you think will believe you.”

  “The cop’s black, if that makes a difference.”

  “Sometimes it does. A lot of times it don’t. It’s just the way the system is set up.”

  “I understand that. But I’m trying to find the truth.”

  “The truth’s got nothing to do with it. Look, I’m not even supposed to be talking to you about this shit right now. I told you my boy was mad. He was real real mad.”

  “I don’t understand. Mad about what?”

  “I’m at Ti-Ti’s. I see my man come in, and I move over next to him. We start talking shit a little bit, you know, and I say I have this friend, he has a problem and he wants to know about these two dudes. I say he knows their first names, Tyler and Ju’waun. He immediately gives me this look and I know I should back down, but I can’t. I already started and I’m thinking it would look strange if I stopped all of a sudden. So I say that you know some people who saw them with this blonde and he stops me right there. I don’t get no further than that. He calls me a drunk piece of shit, like he’s actually pissed off at me just for asking. I’ve known this dude a long time and he ain’t never been pissed at me like that. He says what happened with that girl is none of my damn business, and none of your damn business, and who are you to her, and all of that.”

  “What did you say about me?”

  “That you were a friend of a friend of this lady, and you were concerned. I mean, that’s all I really know. I told him what I know.”

  “Harold, look, I’m sorry I got you in trouble with your friend.”

  “I tried to do right by you, man. But you are sticking your head in shit where it does not belong. My man was scared of something, because why else would he act like that?”

  “What was he scared of?”

  “Maybe I have some idea or maybe I don’t, but it doesn’t matter one way or the other. You got to stay the fuck away. You hear me? Stay the fuck out of this shit.”

  Reddick glanced at the new case map on his wall. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Then that’s your ass. But don’t ask me to do shit no more. I wanted to help you because you’re a nice guy and all that. But I’m done. You hear me? Done.”

  He hung up and Reddick stared at his phone. Then he got up and wrote Harold’s name on the wall, ne
xt to Tyler and Ju’waun.

  Seven

  He had to speak with them. Maybe he could bypass Trisha. He spent the rest of the night online, in a fruitless search for information. Ju’waun Brooklyn, Ju’waun Tyler, Tyler and Ju’waun Bed-Stuy, across social media, hoping for tags, comments, sifting through pages of hits for some indication of this neighborhood, that party, anything. It wasn’t specific enough—there were too many pages to sort through. He wasted hours and moved on to Franky. On a whim he checked the sex offender registry for his name—maybe his bad behavior had caught up with him. Nothing. He went to Franky Dutton Properties, a slick page with details about the company, photographs of their Williamsburg headquarters and lists of projects. It handled development and sales, specialized in working over existing structures rather than ground-up construction. Residential and commercial but nothing large-scale. All in Brooklyn, mostly Bushwick and Williamsburg but a few down here. In a section spotlighting upcoming projects he recognized a townhouse that was barely a block away, across the street from Restoration Heights.

  He went to bed, preparing for another early morning at Trisha’s grocery store, but could barely sleep. He lay in the dark and rehearsed his approach, role-playing scenarios where she agreed to cooperate, where Tyler tagged Franky as the guy and broke the case open. Go hard or soft, demand or plead. Tap her morals or her self-interest, appeal to solidarity for a victimized sister. Late in the night, two or three, he heard Dean come home, the throaty squeal of the pipes when he turned the shower on. Reddick woke up before his alarm and was dressed and leaving just as the store opened.

  She wasn’t there.

  “She’s not in until noon,” said the barista.

  He ordered a coffee and went home. Dean was asleep. He had four hours to kill. He stared at his wall, at the notations on his map. There were huge swaths of white crossed by soft pencil lines. It seemed fragile, less than a sketch. It could be wiped away or built upon, buried under new facts or abandoned. There was nothing he could add to it now, no move he could make that wouldn’t cloud its purpose.