Smoke

Lydia’s ears. It was strong and vital, reminding her so much of her mother’s voice. It had the same pitch and cadence; their laughter was identical.

“I’m okay, Grandma.”

“Of course you are,” she said. “You’ve been through worse.”

That was definitely true. Much, much worse.

“Will we see you this weekend?” her grandmother asked. Since their wedding, Lydia and Jeffrey had made it a point to see her grandparents every couple of weeks. She’d been guilty of not appreciating them enough in the past, of getting so wrapped up in her work that months would go by. These days she tried to take better care of the relationships in her life. Now that they were in the city on the Upper West Side, it was easier. For a lot of reasons.

“On Sunday, around three?”

“Good. I have something for you,” she said.

“What?”

Lydia heard her grandmother take a breath, and then pause. “I’d rather just show it to you when you get here. Can I say one thing? About your father?”

“Sure.”

“You know, most of us do our best in this world. Even if that turns out to be pretty crappy. There’s no use to holding onto anger like your grandfather does. It’ll give you indigestion. Or worse.”

Lydia thought her grandmother might be watching too much Dr. Phil.

“I hear you, Grandma,” she said. “Thanks.”

In the shower, she let the hot pulsing streams of water beat thoughts of her father away. A lifetime ago she hadn’t allowed herself hot showers in the morning, only cold. Morning, she used to reason, was the time to get moving, not the time for lingering in a hot shower. Hot showers were for bedtime. Her perspective on lots of things had changed over the last few years. She was gentler with herself these days, and hence she found she was gentler with others. Well, some people anyway.

She washed her hair with a sage-mint aromatherapy shampoo and lathered her body with a shower gel containing the same two ingredients. The scent was heavenly, reminding her of New Mexico and easing some of the tension in her shoulders that had settled there while she hunched over her computer.

As she rinsed, she thought about Lily. She wondered how Detective Stenopolis had gone about his investigation into finding out what had happened to her. She’d gotten the sense that he was pragmatic, competent, dogged. That he’d probably started up in Riverdale, talking to the people who saw her last. He’d probably checked her banking and credit card records. She knew he’d checked Lily’s cell phone records. Worked his way to her friends and family from there. That’s the way Jeffrey would have done it; following the hard chain of facts that would hopefully lead him to a conclusion as to what had happened, if not to the girl herself.

Lydia’s style was a little different. She knew that sometimes the truth only left a footprint in the sand, a scent on the wind, a whisper in your ear. You had to be present, use all your senses to find it, not just your eyes. Sometimes the path you see can lead you away from the truth. If it were my investigation, my story to write, where would I start? Lydia wondered. With Lily’s apartment and her closest friends. That was the place to begin looking for the true heart of a woman. And only in knowing that, can you know where she might have gone or to whom she was vulnerable.

She heard the phone ringing as she toweled off. Wrapping herself in a plush terry robe, she dove over the bed to catch the phone before the voicemail did.

“I’m looking for Ms. Lydia Strong?” said an officious sounding female voice when Lydia answered. Older. Stern.

“This is.”

“My name is Patricia O’Connell. I am the lawyer representing the estate of Arthur James Tavernier.”

It took a second for the name to register; when it did, her stomach bottomed out. Her father. “His estate?”

“Yes. Your father has left a number of things for you and I am charged with making sure you receive them.”

Part of her wanted to tell this lawyer that she had no interest in anything belonging to her father. But curiosity got the better of her. What kind of an estate could he have had? From what she knew of him he had no education, he couldn’t hold down a job. At least these were the things her mother had told her. And what would you leave to a daughter you’d only met once?

“What kind of things?”

“Those items are sealed and for your eyes only, Ms. Strong.”

Lydia was silent; she wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“Unfortunately,” said the lawyer, “your father died with considerable debt but it will be satisfied with the sale of his home. There’s no money.”

Lydia didn’t waste her time being offended at the stupidity and insensitivity of that statement. “Can you send me the items?”

“We’d appreciate it if you could pick them up at our offices. We’re located at three-thirty-three West Fifty- Seventh Street. Will that be a problem?”

The offices of Mark, Striker and Strong were just a few blocks from that address. It wouldn’t be much trouble to go by or to send a messenger.

“It’s just that Mr. Tavernier’s estate, because of the amount of his debt, does not cover our fee,” O’Connell went on, Lydia guessed by way of explanation for the tackiness of her request.

“So you’re trying to save on postage?”

Sarcasm was obviously lost on O’Connell. “That’s right.”

“Okay,” said Lydia. “I’ll come by as soon as possible.”

“When can we expect you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Soon.”

She hung up the phone then, thinking that it was going to be an extremely weird day.

Angel Rodriquez had a fresh, open face, with cafe au lait skin and a shy smile. He was handsome in a boyish way; Detective Stenopolis could see that his body was well defined, muscular beneath his white button-down shirt and navy blue tie. Matt found that he always noticed men like Angel with a kind of envy. The guy was easy with himself, knew he was attractive. There probably wasn’t a woman in the world that didn’t respond to him when he turned on the charm. His partner included. The stern expression she usually wore on her face softened just slightly at the sight of him. He’d never had that effect on women. In fact, he imagined that they literally shrank away from him, repulsed by his size.

But Angel seemed a little nervous to Matt. A tiny bit edgy. The charm he’d displayed when he thought they were bank customers wavered just a tad when he’d learned they were cops asking about Lily Samuels.

The same had been true of Thelma Baker. She was an older woman with rich chocolate skin and a close- cropped head of hair. She had a remarkable face with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Gold hoop earrings and a deep shade of plum on her lips accented her striking features. She’d smiled warmly as they approached. But when Jesamyn introduced them and flashed her shield, Ms. Baker became flustered. She didn’t look like the kind of woman to fluster easily. She had the bearing of a school principal or a Supreme Court justice, stern, unflappable.

“Corporate didn’t say you’d be coming,” she said.

“They didn’t know,” answered Jesamyn politely.

“Well, let me just give them a call,” she said, reaching for the phone.

“Ms. Baker,” said Matt gently, “that won’t be necessary. We just have a few questions about Lily Samuels. We’re not going to take up too much of your time. Or ask about bank policy. I just want to know how she seemed to you.”

“How she seemed?” she asked, with a cock of her head, taking her hand back from the receiver.

“Yes,” said Jesamyn. “Her manner. Did she seem nervous, anxious, happy, excited?”

Thelma Baker looked back and forth between their faces. “You know,” she said finally. “She didn’t seem any of those things. She seemed flat. Empty.”

The way she said it made Matt think that she’d given it some thought, that Lily had made an impression on