She said it slow and guilty.
Michael had said nothing at first. He was cautious because this was how it happened on the street: distract from the front and attack from the rear. But no one was paying any attention.
No one gave a flying shit.
She had a plastic water bottle and grimy skin, clothes that were crusty and smelled bad. She was a young girl at the end of a short, sorry rope; so, Michael let her talk. She was a runaway, she told him, from some town in Pennsylvania whose name meant nothing to him. She’d been in the city for over a week, but wasn’t really sure how many days. She’d stepped off a midnight bus, started walking and still had no idea where in the city she was, no notion of Harlem or Queens or Manhattan.
Michael was dumbfounded by her ignorance. But she was alone and cold and hungry, so he gave her some fruit, and then a little more when she shivered and stole small glances at the can. He remembered how she ate it: small pink tongue darting out, pale juice on her chin and a clean spot where she’d rubbed it off. Afterward, she’d sniffed once and told Michael she was pretty without all the dirt, that if she could get cleaned up somewhere, then maybe she could get a job modeling clothes or shoes or hats. That’s why she’d come to New York, because all the men back home said she was pretty as a picture.
Michael never told her different, not even as she pulled grubby fingers through matted hair. He gave her the last of his fruit and said she could stay with him for a while if she wanted. But, she said no. She wanted a place to get clean so she could get on with being a model. “You have to start young,” she explained, and Michael watched a blue fly buzz the sweet spot that fruit juice had made on her face. He doubted she was older than he, and doubted, too, her claim that she’d never been with a boy. Michael knew jaded when he saw it-just like he knew bitter and afraid-and imagined that whatever man told her she was a pink, pink rose had done so for his own reasons. But that was life, and this was the street; so, he said they could be friends, and pointed her toward midtown because he thought it would be safest, what with tourists and cops and all the wealth of the world. But she never got that far. She died four blocks away-knifed and left to bleed out in a cardboard box. It was the talk of the street for a day, and then it was nothing at all. But Michael remembered her name: Jessica, who preferred “Jess,” a pink rose in the gray, cold city.
For the first time in his life, Michael felt a twinge of honest jealousy. It would have been nice to have friends, or anything else
“How did he kill her?”
Michael drove out all thoughts of regret or what might have been. He parked on a hilltop and watched black water, cops in dark suits.
A third boat was on the water.
He saw divers.
“They were on the lake,” Abigail said. “They did that a lot: boating, fishing, swimming. Sometimes, Julian would take a book and read to her while they floated. He thought that’s what you were supposed to do with a pretty girl in a boat. But he didn’t read poetry or a young love’s prose, he read science fiction novels, adventure books, comics. He never really understood the point of reading to a pretty girl on still water. I think he saw it in a movie, once, and thought it’s what men should do.” Abigail paused. Downhill, water shone between green banks that rose like knees softly spread. “No one saw it happen. They went out on Saturday morning. That afternoon, Julian was found walking down the side of the road, wet to the skin, blood on his hands.”
“And the girl?”
“They found Christina’s body the next day. Drowned in the lake. She had contusions on her face, bruising around one wrist. The police believed that Julian’s damaged hands matched the damage done to her face, but there was never any credible motive, no reason in the world he would hurt that girl.”
“I don’t believe he would.”
“Harm a girl?”
“Harm a friend.”
“The police felt differently. From the first, they believed Julian killed her. They thought he made a pass and she rejected him. They say he most likely killed her in a blind rage.”
“Did Julian deny it?”
“He was as lost as a newborn child, with no memory of what happened, no idea where he’d been or how he ended up on that roadside. All I know is he wept at the sight of her body being pulled from the water. He cherished that girl.”
She trailed off, and Michael said, “But?”
“But questions were posed, and the implications led to no other possibilities. The bruising and Julian’s blackout, the skin under her nails; their history together. Julian was the last person to see her alive.”
“Says who?”
“The police, for one.”
“Was he charged?”
“Charged, but never tried.”
“Favors and threats?”
“Let’s just say an alternative disposition was made.”
“What kind?”
“Twenty million dollars to the dead girl’s family. Another five to establish a charity in the victim’s name.”
“You bought off her parents.”
“We did what we had to do to protect Julian.”
“And the senator.”
“We did what we had to do. Period.”
She was angry, defensive, and Michael didn’t blame her. “What about the schizophrenia diagnosis?”
“That came before the charges were dismissed; part of the investigation. A police psychiatrist first, then a court-ordered evaluation. The judge agreed to seal the records.”
“But Julian was treated?”
“Medication. Therapy. Eventually, he quit. He said the medicine made him weak. He didn’t like people to think he was weak. A leftover from Iron Mountain, I always supposed; a tear in some deep place.” For a moment, they were silent; then a cloud blotted the sun and Abigail said, “Look, I’ve been patient.”
“So have I. There are still a lot of things unsaid.”
“Please, Michael. I need to know.”
“You want to talk about the warrant.”
It was not a question. They watched a diver roll backward off a metal skiff. Sun flashed on his faceplate, then he was gone. “I need to hear the truth,” she said.
“You trust me?”
“Yes.”
Michael started the engine. “Let’s get out of here.” He turned the Land Rover and started down the sloping track. He waited until the cops disappeared from view, and then told Abigail Vane what she needed to hear. “They’ll find a body in your lake.”
“Oh, no.”
Michael downshifted as the track steepened. Abigail may have been prepared, but Michael couldn’t tell it from looking at her. She was pale and shaken.
“How do you know there’s a body in my lake?”
“I put it there.” She covered her mouth, and Michael said, “Can you handle this?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
She held still as Michael told her what he’d found in the boathouse, and why he was there in the first place. He told her what Julian had said to him, then gave her the name of the dead man, and explained that
