“Please, call me Lydia,” she said. “It was no trouble. Our email is down and I had to be in the area.”
Detective Stenopolis gave her a look that told Lydia he didn’t believe her. And she couldn’t really be offended by that because it was, of course, a bald-faced lie.
“Well, thanks. I appreciate your help,” he said, turning from her.
“Detective,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “I was hoping we could talk a second.”
He turned back to her and she saw something funny in his face. She could swear that underneath those severe, dark features, there was a smile hiding. She sized him up: six-foot-six maybe, 250 pounds at least. He wore a pair of khaki pants, a denim shirt under a leather jacket-calfskin by the feel of it. His shoes were dark brown Timberland hiking boots; they were the approximate size of Volkswagens. Most guys his size wouldn’t know how to dress, but he’d put himself together respectably enough.
“What do you want to talk about, Ms. Strong?” he said, sounding strained.
“Just wondering how much longer your supervisor is going to let you keep this case active,” she said softly, narrowing her eyes. “It has been two weeks. And it sounds to me like you have very little.”
Bull’s-eye, she thought when she saw his expression shift to surprise for a millisecond and then back to stern. But he didn’t say anything else, just stood there looking at her. She lifted her shoulders a little and held his eyes.
“I have the luxury of time and resources. And Lily is someone I care about,” she said. “I
“I can’t stop you,” he said. She saw it again, that smile in his eyes. Was he playing her?
“No, you can’t,” she said. “But you can
He laughed a little. “Due respect? I know
She smiled. He
Though she didn’t see it on his face, she sensed that she’d hit him hard.
He held up the CD. “Thanks again for this,” he said, moving through the door, ducking just slightly to avoid hitting his head. Through the small glass window in the wood, he turned and looked at her with an expression she couldn’t read, and then disappeared.
She walked out of the precinct wondering how long it would be before he called her. She hoped it was soon; she’d decided that she liked Detective Stenopolis. But she didn’t really need him, she thought, as she slid into her black Mercedes SLK Kompressor and pulled up Fifth Street.
Jeffrey was already working on banking and credit card records, as well as cell phone activity, thanks to the agency’s many contacts cultivated over the years. And she was already getting in touch with the people who knew Lily best. They were well on their way to peeling back the layers of her life, with or without Matt Stenopolis to help them.
Hardly anyone ever used directory assistance anymore. But Lydia had learned over the years that many more people than one might expect had listed telephone numbers. Especially young single people; they didn’t want to pay for unlisted service and they wanted to be easily found in case Miss or Mr. Right should come looking for them. Lydia remembered Lily’s best friend’s name only because she thought it was funny that they had both been named after flowers. Jasmine Karr was a first-year resident at NYU Medical Center. Lydia had left a message for Jasmine at her apartment as she headed toward the precinct and was surprised when Jasmine called back less than fifteen minutes later.
“She respects and admires you so much, Ms. Strong,” said Jasmine, her voice sounding far too young to belong to someone nearly thirty. “I’m so thankful that you’re taking an interest in this. I know she will be, too.”
“I was hoping you and I could get together. Talk a little bit about Lily and how things were with her before she disappeared.”
“Sure. Of course,” Jasmine said. “But I told the police everything I know.”
“I’m sure you did. But it would help me, if you don’t mind. I was also wondering if you have access to her apartment.”
“Actually, I do,” she said. “Her mother asked if I’d take care of her plants until she gets back. So I’ve been doing that and keeping things clean. I just want things to be nice when she comes home.”
They both knew that her statement was hopeful instead of certain. “I’m still at the hospital. I just called in for my messages. But my shift ends here at noon,” she said. “I could meet you at Lily’s around one if that works. Do you know the address?”
Lydia made her way through crosstown traffic, thinking she should have taken the subway or walked instead of driving. But she’d been feeling lazy. And the subways held some very bad memories that hadn’t faded much in the past year. Eventually, she parked in a lot on Jane Street and walked down Eighth toward Bank. The sidewalks were bustling with the usual mix of businesspeople breaking for lunch, mommies or nannies pushing prams, punks, homeless people, and peanut vendors. The day was cool, the air filled with city music and the smell of honey roasted nuts.
In the marble and oak pre-war lobby a young woman in a navy blue fleece pullover on top of green scrubs and a worn pair of Nikes was sitting on a plush leather chair, looking zoned out and exhausted.
“Jasmine?” asked Lydia.
“Yes, Ms. Strong. I recognize you from television.”
They shook hands and Jasmine told the doorman in his green uniform with gold piping on the sleeves that they wouldn’t be long. He looked up from a magazine and nodded as though he couldn’t care less.
“This is a nice building,” said Lydia, doing the calculations in her head. Depending on the size of the apartment she couldn’t imagine Lily paying any less than $1500 a month, even for a studio in a building like this one in such an astronomically high-rent district. She knew what a young newspaper reporter made. It wasn’t enough to live here.
“Yeah,” said Jasmine. “I’m still living with my parents up in Queens. I used to spend the night here with her a lot.”
“You haven’t been staying here recently?”
“Since she’s been missing? No. I-I just can’t.” She shook her head and Lydia saw tears gather in her eyes. “I can’t be here without her. It doesn’t seem right.”
Lydia nodded her understanding as the elevator reached the sixth floor and they stepped out into the hallway. There was tasteful burgundy carpeting and cream walls lined with sconce lighting.
“Did she have trouble affording this place?” asked Lydia as they walked into a spacious, sunlit one-bedroom apartment.
Jasmine shrugged. “I think her parents helped her out a little. Her mom was worried about her living in the city after college; they wanted her to be someplace safe. She was living in a railroad apartment on Avenue B after she moved out of the NYU dorms-until her parents came to visit. A month later she moved in here.”
Lydia sat on the futon while Jasmine sank onto an enormous blue velvet pillow lying on the varnished hardwood floor. A counter separated the living space from a state-of-the-art kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances not unlike Lydia’s own. From where she sat, Lydia could see into a bedroom. There was a large king bed and a dresser that looked like the kind of stuff you buy at Ikea when you’re young and have no money. It comes in a box: a pile of wood, a bag of bolts and a set of indecipherable instructions.
“Detective Stenopolis said that Mickey and Lily weren’t getting along before he died,” said Lydia.
Jasmine pulled her legs into a full lotus position and nodded. “No, they weren’t. And it was weird because she worshipped him. But after he quit his job and moved up to Riverdale, things started to change. He became hard to reach, started being really short and distant with her. I don’t think she was mad as much as she was hurt. She thought it was the new girlfriend. Lily didn’t like her very much.”
“Maybe she was jealous?”
“Maybe a little-because she and Mickey had such a bond. He’d never really had a serious, serious girlfriend before. But she’s not really like that. Lily likes nice people, kind people, people with passion. She has good taste.
