Hooked Up: Book 3 (40 page)

A FEW HOURS LATER Pearl and Louis were back home from the doctor—what he was ailing from was just a very bad cold. I felt a huge sense of gratitude. I realized that this was to be a constant feature in our lives as parents: nerves on the edge with worry. And I needed to develop a more
laissez-faire
attitude about my kids or I’d drive myself, and everyone around me, nuts.

But just as Louis had finally settled and was completely calm, and I was finally enjoying a beer, my cell rang. It was Elodie. At last. It was well after midnight.

She asked me to meet her. She told me that she was in a brownstone, on the Upper East Side, and gave me the address; but then we got cut off. I knew the building well because I’d thought about buying it once, when it had been up for sale. Obviously someone outbid me. Outbid
me!
Whoever it was had stupid money. Prokovich himself? Surely not. Elodie said she wanted to stay clear of him, and he’d hardly be inviting me over to his house. I imagined it must belong to the parents of one of her friend’s, and that they were away for the weekend.

I exited the delivery door of my apartment building, just in case any paparazzi were waiting to take a snap at me out front. Fuck, I hated being newsworthy. As I waited for my driver a block away I wondered what I was going to do about my niece. It dawned on me that, although I had always envisioned her as so innocent, she was a wild card. But still a damaged bird. Those bloody damaged birds—Pearl included—that had me running around after them, trying to fix their wings, when they were probably perfectly capable of looking after themselves.

I thought of Pearl and our unfinished business at lunch. I had her on top of me in my mind’s eye, or my cock in her luscious mouth—her big blue, childlike eyes looking up at me. Like a child with a tasty lollipop. Damn. Images of her sucking me off kept flitting through my one-track mind—it was on replay. I knew now what it must be like to be overweight and on a diet, constantly craving treats you can’t have. I wanted Pearl at all times, but lately, something always intervened. Namely: kids.

And now, Elodie.

My cell buzzed. It was Elodie again. “Where are you?” I said urgently. “I mean I know where you are—I’m on my way—but whose place is it?”

“In someone’s house.”

“Obviously, but whose?”

“I’m in trouble. Bad. Really bad.”

“Stay where you are, I’m on my way, I won’t be long,” I promised.

“There’s blood everywhere,” she whispered.

“Blood? Jesus, what happened? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. It’s him. He’s hurt.”

“Okay, stay calm. Who’s ‘him’?” I knew who
him
was but I wanted to hear it from her lips.

Silence.

“Elodie, who is him?”

“He’s lying in a pool of blood.”

“Is anyone trying to hurt you? Can he hurt you? Is anyone else there?” I whispered hoarsely into the line.

“I think he’s dead.” She sounded unfazed. Very matter-of-fact.

“How much blood?”

“He’s in the bathtub.”

“Did you bind the wound? Get a shirt, or something, and tie it tight about the wound. He might just be injured; did you check his pulse? Elodie, are you listening to me?”

“It’s too late for that now.”

“Jesus,” I said, my heart pounding with blood-soaked images in my head. What had she done? Attacked him with her killer heels? Although with Elodie being so tiny, I couldn’t imagine her getting very far. “Who knows you’re there?”

“Nobody. I’ve locked the front door. There’s no doorman here or anyone. Nobody. I didn’t do anything wrong, but please, don’t tell Mom.”

“Of that you have my word. Elodie, stay where you are. Do not open the door to anyone, is that clear? I’ll be there ASAP. Do not let anyone in that house.”

“I won’t.”

If I’d been an upright citizen I would have gotten Elodie to call 911, or call them myself. But who knew what mess she’d gotten into? I couldn’t risk it. Better Prokovich dead from bleeding than Elodie in some American women’s penitentiary with big butch dykes fighting over whose bunk she’d be sleeping in at night.

I called Suresh, my driver, cancelled him, and hailed a cab instead. There was only one person I could trust with this. He was not dissimilar to the actor, Joe Pesci. Just as nuts as him—or at least the roles he plays. Small. Aggressive. Touchy. Chip on his shoulder type of guy. My man was a “cleaner,” trained in forensics. He could make traces of blood, fingerprints, clothes fibers, et cetera . . . vanish. Make the body
itself
vanish, if need be, and if he wasn’t available, he had someone who was. I called. He answered on the second ring. He was obviously used to emergencies. Strike that. His work, his trade
was
emergencies, and emergencies only. Death. Blood. Emergencies of every kind. Sophie had used him once. I needed him on standby, just in case Elodie had incriminated herself. I told him to wait for my call when I knew more.

The New York traffic was full of sirens, as usual, pulsing and frenetic. People crossing the road, buying flowers from corner shops, couples arguing on the sidewalk, people walking their dogs. Saturday night New York—a city that never sleeps.

I jumped into a cab and tried to make the driver understand where I was going. He’d been in New York for only two days and hardly spoke English. From Pakistan. Normally, I would have given him an interview on the spot, asked him a million questions about his country’s state of affairs from his bird’s eye view, his religion, and what was really going on out there—things we didn’t hear about on the news. But I didn’t want him remembering me, remembering my face and my destination. Just in case. Who knew what awaited me, and what shit I was going to have to clean up, courtesy of Elodie. What I did know was that trouble was on the horizon—I just hadn’t added blood and guts into the equation.

I got the driver to drop me off a block away and I dashed into an all-night shop to buy a hoodie. There were none for sale so I grabbed a plastic rain poncho and a baseball cap. I put them on, once I was out of the store. With me being on the news for the last twenty-four hours, I couldn’t be too careful. I imagined Mr. Square-Jaw probably had a state-of-the-art surveillance system surrounding his property.

As I climbed the steps to the brownstone I kept my head down. What a fuck-up. I suppose I wasn’t really thinking straight: I just wanted to get Elodie out of there. She came to the door. Heels off. No makeup and wearing a floaty silk dress. She looked like an angel. Except, she had bright green washing-up gloves on. Had she been watching too much CSI? She opened the door gingerly and I stepped into a very monochrome, but chic, bachelor pad hallway. The lights were off, save a faint glow coming from upstairs.

“Who’s seen you here?” I whispered with urgency.

“Nobody.” She looked me, and my mad attire, up and down. “His cameras are switched off, don’t worry.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he always disables them when he’s, you know—”

“No, I don’t know, Elodie. What the fuck’s going on?”

She looked down, ashamed.

“Where is he?”

“Follow me. He’s up here.”

She led me upstairs, to a bedroom. It was huge. Dark red walls, sleek, antique Asian furniture. The blinds were all drawn, but a small light in one corner cast a beam across the room. My eyes scanned the bedroom. Prokovich was not lying in a bath at all, nor was there any blood. He was on his bed, spread out. Naked, except for two bound silk scarves noosed around his neck, hooked up to bedposts either side. There were burgundy-colored blotches on his neck; he’d been strangulated by the scarves. He had globs of dried cum around his hand and genitals. Masturbating, obviously. I turned my eyes away from his private parts, but bent down to take his pulse, just to double-check. He wasn’t breathing. Dead. I looked up and stared at my niece.

“I told you there was blood because I thought it was the only thing that would make you come here,” she told me sheepishly. “It sounded more urgent.”

“Of course I would have come, silly—you didn’t have to make that up.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“And the bath?” I asked, wondering what insane part of her imagination conjured up that particular image of him, lying bleeding in a bath.

“I thought you’d be relieved. No mess.”

I had to remind myself that Elodie was still a teenager. I tried to stay levelheaded, not lose my cool. I drew in a lungful of air. “Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?” I sounded like one of those nursery-rhyme readers on the radio that I listened to when I was a child.
Let’s begin at the beginning.

Elodie bit her lip and said nothing.

“I need to make a decision, goddamn it, Elodie. There’s a dead man here and I have to know what the fuck’s going on! Did you do this?”

“He did it to himself.”

“He rigged all this up,
himself?”

She flushed and looked down at the floor. “I helped him. He wanted it tighter.”

“So you planned all this?”

She raised her eyes and looked me in the eye, defiantly. “It was the only way I knew to get him out of my life for good.”

“So you played along, pretending you were up for it?” She nodded. I knew what had happened. Apparently, cutting the oxygen supply off to the brain during orgasm causes heightened pleasure, a sort of hallucinatory ecstasy. I had read somewhere that between five hundred and a thousand deaths occur each year in the US, alone, from autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong.
So this was the shit Prokovich was into and had Elodie running from him?

Her mouth twisted in disgust. “I hated his sick games. But I was also hooked in. Is that wrong? All I wanted was to get away from him. But he kept luring me back. I thought if he was dead, he’d leave me alone, once and for all. Stop stalking me. Leave me in peace.”

“So you
did
do this? Was this your idea?”

Tears were falling silently down her milk white cheeks. She nodded.

Clever girl
, I wanted to say,
A+ for imagination
. “And he was up for it?” I asked.

“He thought it was the best idea he’d ever heard.”

“Where did you learn to tie that sailor’s knot?”

“Remember when we went sailing once with Laura?”

“But that was years ago.”

Elodie closed her lids as if visualizing a memory. “I never forgot that knot she taught me.”

“And then what happened, after you helped him tie himself up?”

“I put some music on. Turned down the lights, lit a scented candle, got him in the mood. Got him going, you know, till he was really into it. Played along; did a striptease. Then I left just as . . . you know. I went downstairs and poured myself a glass of wine. I did some washing-up to distract myself. When I came back . . . I didn’t expect that it would have actually worked. I thought he’d stop, that he’d . . . ”

I inspected the tight sailor’s knot and the whole crazy set-up, but making sure I didn’t touch anything. It was obvious that the guy had had an accomplice, or someone who’d helped get him into that position. The last thing I wanted was Elodie implicated in this dirty scandal and one of his Russian aides swooping down on her in revenge. Or, worse, some psycho ex girlfriend, or current girlfriend—the guy fucked around—plotting retribution.

“Did any neighbors hear anything? Did he make a noise?”

“They’re all away for the weekend, in the Hamptons.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he told me. He said he loved staying in New York when everyone else was out of town because it was quieter.”

I dialed Joe Pesci’s doppelganger. He’d need to make it look as if the Russian had done all this alone; an accidental, autoerotic “suicide.” He’d need to wipe the whole place down for prints, hairs, anything incriminating. I spoke quietly into my cell, giving him instructions and the address, telling him I’d leave the front door off the latch, not that it would have been a problem; the guy could pick any lock. I pressed end.

“Pin your hair back, Elodie. Get a hat or a scarf out of his closet and hide your hair. Actually, use this,” I said, fishing a silk handkerchief out of my jacket. “Don’t put anymore washing-up glove fingerprints anywhere. You’ll need a hat to hide your face. We’re going to walk out of here with our heads down and hope to hell that nobody saw you come in. What time did you arrive?”

“A few hours ago.”

“So when did he . . . pass out, exactly?”

“I killed him, didn’t I?” she said, her lips twitching with remorse.

“No, Elodie, you did not.” I held her by the shoulders. “Get this into your head: You. Are. Not. Responsible. For this son of a bitch’s downfall. He had it fucking coming to him. Is that clear?”

“But I helped, it was my—”

“No buts. All you did was speed up the inevitable. Help him do to himself what Karma had planned for him all along. This bastard was responsible for millions of innocent citizens’ deaths all over the world. You did the world a favor by helping him reach Hell a little faster.”

“Please don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell Maman.”

“Come on, let’s get out of here.” I peeled the rubber gloves off her delicate hands, rolled them into a ball and put them inside my jacket pocket. I held her hands. “Elodie, you and I are peas in a pod. We both have a darkness that lives inside us. And that’s okay. I’ve been responsible for a few deaths myself. I’m
here
for you. Always and forever. I understand you. What you did
had
to be done. This is
our
secret, no one else’s. I swear, I won’t tell a soul. Not even Pearl—who’ll be delighted, by the way, when she reads in the papers that this bastard has snuffed it.” I drew my niece to me, my arms tight around her tiny frame, and let her sob against my chest.

E
LODIE LEFT THE country two days later. Our choice of destination was South America. She’d been clamoring to go backpacking for ages and this was her chance. Art school could wait. We needed for her to lie low for a good six months.

The news was full of Prokovich. Just as I suspected, one of his girlfriends discovered his body the following day. Luckily, nobody mentioned Elodie. Not seriously, anyway. One reporter did call, asking why they were chatting together at the
Stone Trooper
premiere, and I said she’d met him once with her mother. I was worried I’d be a suspect in people’s eyes after our skirmish on the red carpet, but my man had done such a thorough job in Prokovich’s brownstone that forensics had unequivocal “suicide” as the cause of death. Sophie had a contact at the NYPD who filled her in. We were free and clear. Elodie was safe. Still, I didn’t want her in New York, just in case she let something slip. I encouraged her go backpacking like a hippy. She’d be far, far away from a world of red carpets, bondage, and billionaires. She could go surfing along the coast of Peru and Ecuador, eat
ceviche,
and study
The Lonely Planet.
Maybe find herself a nice, simple, surfer boyfriend, who cared about waves and an ice cold beer at the end of the day, not some fucked up control freak, world-playing megalomaniac who’d once strangled animals to death and had no respect for human life. Elodie needed a salt-of-the-earth type. Armed with a Smartphone, she’d be fine. And I realized now that she didn’t need looking after. Not one bit.