Down in the Zero (17 page)

"That was my first one," she said, facing away. "My first real one.

"Your first real what?"

"Climax. At least that's what I think it was. I could feel it inside. Hot bolts, like lightning crackling. Then…whooosh!"

"Good."

"Good? That's all you can say?"

"I don't know what to say," I said to her back.

"Did you really want me to help you?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you said you wanted to."

"Get you into Rector's? I didn't say anything about that."

"That isn't all of it," I told her, improvising, steering it away.

"What, then?" she asked, spinning to face me.

"I have to talk to some people. People from around here. The parents…of the kids who died. I figured, some of them would get suspicious. I'm going to tell them Cherry hired me. Because she was concerned about Randy and all. I thought you could back that up, maybe come along with me while I worked."

"You really do…want me to help?"

"That's what I said."

"When do we start?"

"Tomorrow," I said. "And, Fancy…don't tell anybody about this, okay?"

"Who would I tell?"

I
drove back to the apartment, Fancy sitting close to me the way girls did years ago, before seat belts.

"Can I come upstairs?" she asked. "Not tonight, child. I've got to go out again."

"Don't call me 'child.' I
hate
that. I'm not a child."

"It doesn't mean anything, Fancy. It's just an affectionate term."

"I like 'bitch' better."

"Okay."

"In front of people, you understand? It's a property word."

She got out of the Plymouth, opened the door to her black NSX. "Tomorrow, okay?" she murmured, coming into my arms.

I gave her a squeeze, patted her bottom. "I'll call you, bitch," I told her, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead before she could protest.

The black car pulled off. I glanced over at the garage—the Miata was still missing.

I
dropped the coins, dialed home base.

"You speak to the Prof?" I asked Mama when she answered.

"Right here," she replied.

"What you done, son?"

"I'm not sure, Prof. I got something…maybe a big score. Not on the phone, okay?"

"Keep it tight—we fly by night."

"You can get out here?"

"Name the place, I'm in the race."

I told him take the turnpike, grab the first gas station past the Greenwich tolls. Midnight tomorrow.

"I'll be at the spot. On the dot."

"H
ow'd it go last night?" I asked the kid. He was sitting at the kitchen table, tearing into his third bowl of cereal like he needed the fuel.

"I'm…not sure. It was different. Not the party. I mean, that was like it always was. Me, maybe."

"You get to see that girl? Wendy?"

"Yeah. She was there. We…danced. Outside."

"I didn't think you all went in for dancing at those parties."

"We…they don't. The music…you really can't dance to it unless you're wrecked. We went outside, on the patio. I asked her to dance. Not to the music, just to dance."

"You can do that?"

"Dance? Sure. My mother sent me for lessons when I was a little kid. Ballroom dancing, like. I can do all the old stuff."

"Sounds pretty good."

"It was. Really good. We didn't stay there. I took her for a drive. We just drove around. I told her…about racing on Sunday. She said she'd be there. It was…I can't really explain it. She showed me some of her poetry. In this big notebook she's always carrying around. I never knew what was in it."

Something in his face. "What?" I asked.

He looked across at me. "One of the poems…it was about suicide. I got upset. Scared. I asked her, did she ever consider…doing it? She told me she didn't, not really. But she thinks about it. She said a lot of people do. Not 'cause things are bad…just 'cause there doesn't seem any reason. For anything."

"Randy, was she ever at Crystal Cove?"

"No. I asked her. She said it was none of my business at first, got mad at me a little bit. So I didn't say anything. But later, she asked, was I really scared for her? I told her I was. It was true. She…kissed me then. Just before I dropped her off at her car. And she told me she was never there."

"It sounds all right."

"I know. But that poem…it was all about suicide, I know it was. 'Sweet Darkness,' it was called."

"If she's a poet, she lives a lot in her mind, kid. It doesn't mean she's going over."

"I know. But…she's gonna be okay. I'm gonna…stay close."

"Good."

"Today, I mean. We're going to go to The Hills. It's like a park. Have a picnic. You think that's dumb?"

"I think it's righteous."

"You don't need me for anything?"

"Just take the phone with you."

He tapped his side pocket again. I finally realized where I'd seen that gesture before. The black kid with the 8–Ball jacket.

I
considered my lawyer suit, finally rejected it in favor of Michelle's outfit. If Fancy was going to come along with me, I wanted to look like I might be in her circle.

She opened the door to her cottage before I knocked, holding a giant fluffy white towel in front of her, water beading on her shoulders.

"Am I early?" I asked, stepping inside.

"No, you're right on time. I was waiting…so you could tell me what to wear.

"Just put on…"

"No, come on
—tell
me." She walked toward a back room, still wrapped in the towel. I followed close behind. The cottage had an extension in the back, a greenhouse, built right in. The summer sun slanted through the sharply sloped glass. Fancy kept walking, all the way to a bedroom. The walls were a soft pink, the bed was covered in a quilt of the same shade. She opened a closet. "Tell me," she said again, a pleading undertone to her voice.

I pawed through the racks, picked out a rose silk outfit. It had a simple collarless bolero jacket, with a straight skirt underneath.

"This," I told her, holding it out to her. She stood there, holding the hanger. I found a plain–front white silk blouse with a loose turtleneck collar, held it against the rose silk. "This too," I said.

"Burke…"

"Get dressed, bitch. I want to get going."

She turned away, dropped the towel. I walked out of the room, heading for the greenhouse.

It was peaceful in there. The walls were lined with shelves, all kinds of plants. One shelf was a neat row of bonsai. Orchids were bunched in a corner, standing under a gentle mist from some kind of machine. I was fingering a big green plant loaded with small, hard buds, not quite ready to burst.

"What's your favorite?" Fancy's voice behind me.

"Favorite what?"

"Plant. What kind of plants do you like?"

"Blossoms," I told her. "Any kind of blossoms."

"Yeah …" she mused. Then she stepped between me and the plants. "How do I look?" she demanded.

"You look great, Fancy."

"You want some coffee?"

"No thanks."

"A drink?"

"No."

"Well, are we ready to go?"

"Just about. Let me look over my notes for a minute."

I walked back to the front room, sat down. She sat across from me, knees close together, hands in her lap.

"How's Randy doing?" she finally asked.

I looked up. "Seems like he's doing real good. Had himself a date last night. I think he took her dancing."

"Oh, he's a
good
dancer. I made him dance with me once, at a party Cherry gave.

"Yeah, he's got it all over me there."
I wonder why I never met a woman who couldn't dance. Maybe it's genetic.

"What do you mean? You can't dance?"

"Not me. The only dance I ever learned when I was a kid was the Y dance."

"What's the Y dance? I never heard of it."

"Stand up—I'll show you."

She came over to me, stepping naturally against my chest, both hands going around my neck. I put my left hand around the back of her shoulder, dropped the other to her butt, pressed her hard against me. "Why dance?" I asked her.

Fancy giggled, rubbing against me.

"Hey, don't you think you should put on a bra if we're going out?"

"You didn't tell me to."

"What?"

"You didn't tell me to…just the dress and the blouse."

"Jesus Christ. All right, go put on some underwear."

"Come on, show me. I've got lots of stuff."

She did. "Aren't these uncomfortable?" I asked her, holding up a pair of black leather panties.

"No, they're good. They make you sweat when you work. Then I make the client put them in his mouth…like a gag," she said, gray eyes mocking.

I found a modest underwear set, pristine white. "This," I said. "Can I wear a garter belt…please?" she asked, taking off the bolero jacket.

"Sure."

W
e took the Lexus. When Fancy said we were getting close, I turned slightly in my seat, making sure I had her attention.

"Listen to me, girl. You want orders, you got them. Here's one: I'm not calling you 'bitch' in front of people I'm trying to work, understand? What you're gonna do, you're gonna act like yourself—a smart, pushy rich girl. You're gonna use your head. I'm gonna be polite to you. You watch what I do, take your cues. Got it?"

"Yes sir."

"Don't be cute, Fancy."

"I won't."

The house was made up to look like a Cape Cod fisherman's cottage, but it was big enough to hold a convention. Set in the middle of what looked like an orchard, it was all weathered shingles and atmosphere, one wall nearly covered with ivy.

"These are the parents of Scott Lancaster," I told her. "You recognize the name?"

"No. But that house is real money."

"Okay. Remember what I told you."

"I'll be good," she whispered, wiggling a little bit in her seat, teasing, her skirt too far up on her thighs. I felt like slapping her, but I wanted her calm.

A woman in her forties answered the door, dressed in a dark blue pants suit, rich chestnut hair tied in a matching blue ribbon.

"Yes?" Her voice was tentative, not challenging.

"My name is Burke, ma'am. And this is—"

"Francesca Bishop," Fancy finished for me. "My father was Marlon Bishop…of Bishop Enterprises…?"

"Oh, yes. What can I—?"

"I'm a private investigator, Mrs. Lancaster," I told her gently, trying to make my voice as rich as the house. "I've been retained by the Bishops and some other families—they're very concerned about the…recent incidents involving some young people in the area."

"You mean the…?"

"Yes ma'am. Would it be possible to speak to you for a few minutes?"

"I guess so. If you…oh, come in. I'll get my husband."

She led us over to a navy blue velvet love seat with an elaborate carved back. It looked a couple of hundred years old. Fancy settled herself decorously, smoothing her skirt over her knees. I opened the attaché case, took out a notebook and pen. "I'll be right back," the woman said, leaving us alone.

I heard a murmur of voices from somewhere to our right. Then a man's voice, a vibrant baritone that any salesman would have killed for. "I've talked enough, goddamn it, MaryAnne! You can tell those people…ah, never mind."

He strode into the room like a ship captain ready to put down a mutiny. "Look, whoever you are, I've—"

He took us both in with one glance, stopped short like he'd hit a wall.

I saw the opening, pumped oil into the breach. "We're sorry to intrude, sir. Especially at this time. If you could just spare a few minutes…"

"Oh for Christ's sake, all right," he snapped, standing in front of us, hands locked behind his back. "Sit down," he said to his wife. "Would you like some coffee?" to us.

"No thank you," I said.

"If it's not too much trouble," Fancy replied.

"MaryAnne," is all he said.

She jumped to her feet. "Would you like decaf or regular?"

"Oh, regular. Black if you don't mind."

"Not at all," she said, moving away.

"What can I tell you?" the man asked, taking the seat his wife had vacated.

"Did Scott give you any indication…before it happened?" I asked. "Was he depressed? In any kind of trouble?"

"The boy was
always
in trouble," his father said. "One damn thing after the other. He had two drunk driving convictions before he was eighteen. Suspended from high school. Kicked out of college. An alcoholic, that's what he was. Those parties they had…you know what Jello–shots are?"

"Yes," I said.

"That was his favorite. But he'd drink anything, from cooking sherry to fucking Sterno. Some kind of chemical imbalance in his brain, that's what the doctors said."

His wife walked back into the room, carrying a silver tray with a white china cup and saucer. She bent from the waist like a trained maid, serving Fancy, who said "Thank you" as if they had a long relationship.

"Do you mean the doctors at Crystal Cove?" I asked him.

"That's right. About time we got some straight answers, too."

His wife looked up from the tufted chair she was sitting on. "But Dr. Barrymore said—"

Lancaster shot her a look and she moused right out, looking down.

"Barrymore is a goddamned quack," he said to me. "Talked like a fucking queer."

"How long was Scott at Crystal Cove?"

"First time was thirty days. For the evaluation. Then he went back. Three months, the last time. Three months in, he didn't even make it three months out."

"Is it possible that…"

"What? That it could have been an accident? Like it was my fault because I keep some sporting arms in the house?" His eyes were hard, challenging, focusing only on me as if Fancy wasn't in the room. No question that his wife wasn't.

"No, I didn't mean that. I was just wondering…kids get ideas, you know? See something on television, like that. The papers just said it was a pistol…was it a revolver or semi–auto?"

"A revolver. Colt Python, .357 mag. What difference would that make?"