needed re-upping. Well, his name wasn't actually
Vinnie. It was kind of a global pseudonym that all the runners used, they'd all call themselves Vinnie. There were probably a dozen different Vinnies working at any given time, covering different parts of the city. So one day I'm outside on the stoop waiting, and another guy kind of ambles up and just stands around. I can tell from the way he's walking, kind of looking at the street, side to side, he was definitely a user. So I said hi. He said hi back. Vinnie rolls up half an hour later, this greaser wearing a hat turned sideways, couldn't have been a day over fifteen, and fills us both up. And since it's always more fun to see those bright lights with company, we went back to his place.'
Rose's eyes flickered to the walls, then back to the table. There was sorrow and pain in her eyes that hadn't been there a minute ago. She was trying to stay cool, but I could tell she'd cared about Stephen.
'It was kind of funny, because Stephen and Vinnie had this little, I don't know, chat. Friendly, like two buds. I figured Stephen had used this guy before. You know how sometimes you order pizza so often, the delivery guy kind of becomes your pal? At first it's all tips and friendly hi's but then you're talking about the weather. One pizza guy actually asked me out once.
That's when I knew I needed to learn how to cook.'
'How long did you know Stephen?' I asked.
Rose sniffed, tapped out her cigarette until it stopped smoking. Then she placed it in the ashtray amidst a graveyard of used butts. She stared at them for a moment, like a woman who'd been trying for years to quit and realized just how addicted she was.
'Just about seven years.'
'Were you two close?'
'Depends on when you mean,' she said. Her voice had become a little more abrasive. She had feelings for
Stephen, but there had been some bad times, too. I imagined that when two junkies got together it wasn't exactly Ozzie and Harriet. If a relationship between two such people could be thought of as 'tumultuous,' it was probably the best one could hope for. I'd had enough relationships that were able to find trouble on their own without the uncertainty caused by stimulants and hallucinogenic substances.
'Did you date?' I asked, hoping she wouldn't get offended at my prying.
'Again,' she said bitterly, 'depends on when you're talking about.'
'Were you seeing each other when Stephen got killed?'
'Hell, no,' she said irritably. 'See, thing is, after a while you get tired of the life. It's one thing to be irre sponsible and screwing around in your twenties. I mean, everyone does it. Most folks don't settle down by twenty- five and spend time worrying about a mortgage and a 401k. I didn't, and neither did Stephen. But then you hit thirty, and you're still renting a studio smaller than a shoe box, and guys like Vinnie stay the same age because whoever the dude is who supplies them just keeps hiring high-school kids. Funny. I must have had half a dozen dealers all named Vinnie, all under the age of twenty-one. You know how stupid you feel when you're thirty and some kid is selling to you, and you know he's still in high school and probably makes more money than you?'
'So you were looking to go clean,' I said.
'Have been for a year now,' Rose said. She stood up, picked up the ashtray and brought it into the kitchen where she tapped out the contents into a trash bin. She came back, put the tray back into a drawer like it had never been taken out. 'Trying, at least. The hooks are a lot easier to dig in than they are to pull out.'
'What about Stephen?'
Rose sighed, leaned back in her chair. A wistfulness crossed her face. 'I thought he was trying to quit. He seemed like he was. See, I never really thought Stephen had that serious a problem. Just recreational crap. I mean, everyone smokes a bit. Shoots up a bit. It's all about keeping it under control. I did that, and then I quit. Stephen never quit. And in case you haven't noticed, addicts never stay even keel. They either get better or they get worse.'
'And Stephen got worse.'
'Like cancer,' she said.
I looked again at the skin under Rose's shirt. I could see the bruises weren't track lines, but destroyed veins.
Dark blues and black, yellow skin surrounding them.
Perhaps even an infection gone untreated. Whether drug addiction started off as a disease I didn't know, but sure as hell once those hooks dug in, the virus swam around in your system until it ate you from the inside.
'What do you do for a living, Rose? I mean, all those drugs couldn't be cheap.'
'Graphic designer,' she said proudly. 'I make eighty grand a year.'
She noticed how impressed I was.
'And your employer, they…'
'Never knew a thing. Been working for a television studio doing Web site design for six years. They figure the geeks are wired differently than everyone else, and that we were all born in the same freaky nursery. So you come in with your hair messed up smelling like stale cigarettes and beer, they figure you were up late
'hacking.' Most people can't differentiate between a designer and a programmer. As long as you know html, you're golden. As if they even knew what the letters stand for.'
'Stephen,' I said. 'What did he do?'
The moment I said it I felt a sadness. The more I learned about Stephen Gaines the closer I got to him.
The more I despised having never known this man at all.
'I know he tried to write for a while. He wanted to do culture reporting, trend pieces…' Rose's voice trailed off.
'Did he get any published?'
'No,' she said. 'I'm not sure he ever really tried. He just talked about it.'
'So how did he make a living?'
'You know,' she said, furrowing her brow, 'I'm not really sure. But at some point he stopped talking about writing altogether. The drugs got a hold of him worse than ever. It was all he could do to get up in the morning, and he looked like death when he did. I barely saw him after that.'
'When was the last time you saw him?' I asked.
'A week ago,' Rose said. She sighed again, but this time a sob cracked the noise. Her eyes began to water.
As hard as this was for me, I didn't know Stephen at all. This woman had lost a loved one. A lover.
'He said he was going to get clean,' she said, the cracks in her voice becoming more evident. 'He promised me. He said he was going to get help. Rehab.
We spoke on the phone. He swore on his mother. Then he stopped returning my calls.'
Rehab, I thought. My father said Helen Gaines was looking for money to help Stephen get help. That part sounded like it was true. But unfortunately all it did in the eyes of a prosecutor was likely bolster my father's motive in Stephen's murder.
'Did you know Helen at all?' I asked.
Rose nodded. 'They lived together. She was dirt poor, and Stephen seemed to make enough money to pay rent and keep food on the table. I met her maybe half a dozen times. Kind of quiet, like she was scared of life. Made good coffee, but never drank it with you, if you get my meaning.'
'I got it,' I said. 'You wouldn't by any chance happen to have her contact information, would you?'
'I don't have a phone number or e-mail or anything like that. But when Stephen used to write, he'd always go to this cabin in the Adirondacks up by Blue
Mountain Lake. I think Helen's parents left it to her or something. He went up there to work, and Helen usually went with him. She was quiet enough, and it's not like she had anyone else. Not exactly the kind of woman who liked to be alone.'
The Adirondacks were about a four-and-a-half-hour drive northwest of the city. I'd never been up there, but knew it was a popular spot for camping, hiking and just getting away from the world for a while.
Something a mother might do if her only son was murdered.
'Rose,' I said, 'would you mind giving me that address?'
