Hidden Vices (2 page)

Two

The female voice emanated
from the GPS in a smooth, somewhat patronizing tone. Megan pictured the female voice wanting to say, “Jackass who is too lazy to read a map, get the fuck off at the next stop.” Instead, she heard an intelligent, borderline sexy voice instructing her with the allurement and self-confidence of a woman soliciting phone sex. “You have now entered New Jersey
.”

“What the fuck am I doing?”

Megan stared at the car in front of her with one elbow cocked up against the window, a knuckled fist resting against her temple. “I cannot believe I'm going to New Jersey in the beginning of winter.” The Beach Boys played on the car radio, singing something about beaches and girls and the sun. With flurries blanketing the windshield and the sound of the wipers squeaking against the glass, the last thing she wanted to listen to were fun-in-the-sun classics.

“I'm going to a lake house at the start of winter, in New Jersey?” With raised eyebrows and a small grin mocking her peculiar choice, she asked herself, “What in God's name are you thinking, you wing nut?”

Megan didn't drive much, living in New York City, and she loved how high up she sat in the Range Rover, regardless of the false sense of security it gave her. She'd bought Arnold, her SUV, over the Internet. Megan gave everything she owned a name. It was a quirky thing she'd been doing for as long as she could remember. Everything important had a human name, not like naming a dog Spot. She'd name her dog Will or Dave—if she ever decided to tie herself down with a pet.

The day she got Arnold she'd bought the car insurance online as well, completed a registration form and made an appointment at the DMV, and
cha-cha-cha
: she was the proud owner of an environmentally incorrect vehicle that had balls of steel and four mounted headlights that were so bright it looked like the war of the worlds had started. The seats in the Range Rover had warmers, much to her delight. She pressed a button and her backside was as warm as tight buns during a smack and tickle session. Her previous vehicles didn't come close to such luxuries.

Buck, the used car she'd saved up for and bought for six hundred dollars, was no exception. She'd decided on the name as soon as she left the lot. At every red light, the car would buck forward, nearly colliding with the vehicle in front of her. But Megan had been determined to buy a car. She was about to leave for her freshman year of college and wanted to have the freedom to get around. Pat knew it would be used to go to parties and gave Megan the “do not drink and drive lecture” more than once before she left for school, but he also knew she didn't need it. She was an old broad in a young girl's body.

The first time she drove into the college parking lot for freshman orientation, well, let's just say Dorothy was a few light years away from the yellow brick road, let alone Oz. She parked between a red Porsche and a black BMW that afternoon. Both had colorful bows hanging from the rearview mirror, a vomitus display, in her opinion, by an overindulged brat. She was proud of how scrappy Buck looked; the eleven-year-old Chevy Cavalier with red faux-leather interior would be the most recognizable car in the freshman lot. The rusting rear bumper and white scratches on the doors probably had something to do with it, but Buck was hers, paid in full with her own money. Megan held her head high, and when the rich kids realized the cop's kid there on a partial scholarship had fake identification to buy booze, it got even higher. In more ways than one.

Of all the places Megan researched in planning her hiatus from Manhattan, she could hardly believe her choice. She'd contemplated beachfront packages in Mexico, Hawaii, the Caribbean; apartment rentals in Barcelona, Paris, Rome. Each would have been a wonderful choice, but she didn't feel she deserved such a vacation. Not after everything that had happened.

Then there was that pivotal trip down to the laundry room one night. While waiting for the elevator back up, she read the tenants' message board. Apartment 2F had a bedroom set up for sale. 9F sought a roommate—a non-smoking, non-drinker, responsible, and exceptionally tidy. Translation: please be boring, undersexed, and have the social calendar of a nun working in Calcutta.

Then her phone alerted that her she had an email. She wasn't familiar with the sender, but when she opened the message and saw the photo of the lake and the house and the capital letters: HOME FOR RENT, she figured it was fate of some kind. Or the result of one of her vacation-website registrations. The following days were filled with phone calls flying back and forth, and a check for the deposit was sent via overnight delivery. A few days later, Megan was en route.

Lake Hopatcong in New Jersey was the venue for Megan's self-imposed exile for what she considered an emotional downward spiral. She couldn't shake the feeling the locals knew she was on her way. It was a detective's gut feeling, but she didn't trust hers anymore, so she chose to ignore the pangs in her solar plexus.

One hour later the navigation pronounced another direction. On the spot, Megan named the GPS Sheila. The smart, seductive voice reminded her of a girl in college, Sheila Sanders, better known as Downtown Sheila. Sheila was crazy smart, the kind of kid who could hear or read something once and that's all she needed. She had a true photographic memory, or rather, a pornographic memory; she said she never forgot a cock. Sheila would party like a rock star the night before a midterm and still get all As. She'd snort anything from coke to Splenda to flour off of a loaf of bread—whatever got her off. But what got her off the most was ducking out of class with a guy and giving him head in the janitor's closet.

Megan never judged, but she'd seen enough as a Homicide detective's daughter to know that Downtown Sheila was on her way down—and not in the way she enjoyed.

Megan's trip through memory lane was interrupted by Sheila's intelligent but too-smooth voice: “Exit 30 is point-five miles away. You are two-point-three miles from your destination.”

McGregor Avenue in Mount Arlington was the final destination on the GPS. The town spanned a little over two miles of the forty-five miles of shoreline on Lake Hopatcong, the largest lake in northwest New Jersey. The main thoroughfare in Mount Arlington was Howard Boulevard. It was two miles of winding road, a few homes, an Elks Club, and a restaurant named Pub 199. The main street would fill one Manhattan block with space to spare, and the closer she got to the house, Megan became quite sure there wouldn't be any taxi cabs or traffic jams. A mini-mart, post office, and barbershop were stationed on the left. A small green establishment that resembled a back yard shed more than a watering hole was located directly across the street. Pete's Bar looked as though it had groomed plenty of future AA members. This was the center of town. Not exactly 57th Street, which was fine by Megan, for now.

In deep need of a caffeine jolt after the drive, Megan pulled into the parking lot of the mini-mart. She got out of the Range Rover and looked back toward the bar. Seven vehicles, all pickups, were parked outside. Two men in sweatshirts, jeans, and tan work boots smoked cigarettes near the door. One wore a blue and white do-rag, his long black hair extending over his shoulders. Neither wore coats in the sub-forty-degree weather. Both stood staring at Megan as she entered the store.

An Indian man stood behind the counter, and she offered a smile. In return, he gave her as frigid a response as the townies across the street.

Friendly place.

“I'd like to get a cup of coffee,” she said and pulled out cash from her back pocket.

“Back of store.”

“Oh-kaaay.” Megan walked to the back only to find that the coffee was located next to the newspaper/magazine aisle. She glanced down, immediately catching a glimpse of her last name. As she poured the coffee, she could feel the owner watching her every move, as if he were on surveillance. Anxious to leave the store and the vicinity of any newspaper, she paid and opened the door. The wind swirled inside and caught one of the many fliers taped to the glass. One sheet flew up, detaching from the door: MISSING. A young boy's picture dominated the sheet. The notice was aged, torn at the sides.

Refusing to engage her curiosity, Megan climbed in her Range Rover and drove away.

A young woman who'd been standing two aisles away as Megan got her coffee walked over, picked up the paper with great care, and placed it back on the door, pressing the tape against the glass.

She watched Megan drive away then promptly bought the last newspaper on the stand with Megan's picture on the front page.

Three

Lake Hopatcong was on
her left, and McGregor Avenue was
within sight. Megan slowed, pulled over to the side of the road, rolled down her window, and killed the engine. She relaxed back into the headrest, closing her eyes. With the concentration of a Buddhist monk in prayer, she took a deep breath of the lake air. It was cold and fresh with a hint of pine. Pure silence fell over her, outside as well as within. The voices of guilt, sadness, and anger were muted. And if it lasted for only a moment, it was a start—anything to keep her from the memories of her last case and its fallout.

But the first few lakefront homes on McGregor raised a flag in Megan. They were shacks with junk covering the yards, roofs that looked five minutes away from buckling, and porches that should have sported a kid playing the banjo. Worried, she checked the house number on her printed-out short-term lease again.

“Thank God,” she said, relieved there wasn't a match. Driving around the bend, the street turned from broken-down lakefront homes to mini-mansions. Megan whistled. “Now we're talking.”

Most of the homes on the street were lakefront. A handful of residences were built into the landscape, but the waterfront views demanded all the attention. She neared the end of McGregor, where two older couples were packing up their cars.

“Jesus, what is this, a casting call for the remake of
Cocoon
?” Then Megan cracked a smile as she pulled up alongside them, rolling down the window. “Mr. and Mrs. Mack?” She was unsure which couple were to be her temporary landlords.

“Hello, there.” One man stepped forward. William Mack had a sturdy, muscular build for a man in his sixties. “You must be Miss McGinn,” he said, offering his hand.

And you must have cataracts to call me
miss
anything.

“Why don't you park in front of the garage.” Most of the lakefront homes had street-level garages. “It's the white one with black trim.”

Megan did so and climbed out of Arnold.

“Hello! I'm Elizabeth Mack.” Mrs. Mack was tall, thin, and probably in her sixties, but she could pass for early fifties with her porcelain skin. She wore a gold Burberry coat, black pants, and laced black boots, and she walked with as much grace as Audrey Hepburn in a ball gown as she approached Megan. “I'm so glad we were able to connect before we start our trip.”

Megan smiled.

“Meet Mr. and Mrs. Morse. We drive down to Florida together every year at this time,” she said, hugging her jacket closer.

Megan peered at the couple behind the Macks. Mr. Morse had more hair coming out of his ears than over his head. And the little he did have was dyed shoe-polish black, clashing terribly with his bushy white eyebrows.

“Pleasure. I have to say, we're not used to having a celebrity here, especially in winter.”

Celebrity?

“Jesus, Al!” Mrs. Morse hushed her husband by elbowing him in his side.

Mrs. Mack placed her hand on Megan's shoulder and gestured toward their home. “Let's get you familiar with the house.” She gave Mr. Morse a cold, fixed stare that moved him to silence. Based on Mr. Morse's reaction, Elizabeth Mack didn't dole out reprimanding scowls often. He stood at the top of the driveway and looked down at the ground, moving broken gravel around with the tip of his boot like a Catholic schoolboy caught performing a lewd prank.

Mr. Mack pointed at the garage and offered, “You'll probably want to park in the upper level. There's a set of stairs that come out at the bottom. That driveway is impossible to get up even in the smallest amount of snow.”

“Even with a Range Rover?” Megan asked.

“You can try, but you better hope you have plenty of salt and don't lose power in the house to light your way; otherwise you're damn out of luck.”

“Do you lose power a lot during the winter?” Megan asked, trying not to sound too concerned in a
I'm a city girl who calls the super for anything and everything under the sun
kind of way.

“Don't know. We're never here.” He laughed again, but the humor fell short for Megan.

“Uh-huh,” Megan said warily.

He held the side door open. “Welcome to Chez Mack, or as we some times call it, The Macks' Yacht Club.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Christ.

Megan wasn't sure if she said the sentiment aloud or not.

“What do you think?” William and Elizabeth glanced at one another with a smile.

“Ah …” Megan was trying with all of her heart not to utter any profanities. With her Irish heritage and a Greek sailor's mouth, it was a challenge. “It's …” She raised her hands in the air, wondering if she'd lost all verbal capability.

“Pretty fucking awesome, wouldn't you say?” Mr. Mack blurted out.

“Yeah.” She nodded. “Pretty fucking awesome.” On first look out at the lake, Megan felt like she'd just won the lottery.

The panoramic view was equivalent to a private screening of an IMAX movie titled
Lake in Winter
. The Macks explained they were on the center of the lake, aptly named the Great Cove. Lake Hopatcong was mostly frozen over with the exception of the area surrounding their boathouse. It's not that Megan was expecting a pond; she was just surprised at the vastness of the lake: nine miles long. Facing the Macks' home on the other side of Great Cove were homes and boathouses scattered throughout the landscape surrounded by leafless trees and an air of silence as if they'd entered hibernation. Wind blew over the lake, pushing wintery dust into the air. As Megan soaked in the silent vista, the water surrounding the boathouse began to move.

“Oh, don't mind that. We have a bubbler system on timer in the water. It's to keep the dock from freezing during the winter,” Mr. Mack said casually.

Megan nodded. “This must be gorgeous in autumn.”

Mrs. Mack walked over to remove a picture frame from the fireplace mantel. “Here, this was just a few months ago.”

New England in autumn on a New Jersey lake
, Megan thought.

Brazilian cherry hardwood floors, warm green walls, and white wainscoting reflecting all the earth elements that winter didn't allow to be seen comprised Chez Mack's interior. Megan had, wrongly, shown a bit of ageism toward the Macks prior to arriving. She'd envisioned a house overflowing with tchotchkes and pillows with
Life Is Where the Lake Is
embroidered on the front. Faux flower baskets and countless candles that would make Yankee want to become Canadian. But while the kitchen was retro, it had a double oven mounted in the wall. From 1953, General Electric, Mrs. Mack mentioned during the tour, which was then followed by a “God Bless America” comment from Mr. Mack in the next room, winking as he brought the last of their luggage into the main room.

“You like it though, don't you?” Mrs. Mack asked.

She was flabbergasted that anyone wouldn't. “Like it? It's incredible.”

“We've owned this house since nineteen-fifty-three, used it as a summer home for years, then decided to live here full time when all the kids moved out. But the winters are getting to William, with his back and all, and well, wasn't it Bette Davis who said aging isn't for sissies?” Mrs. Mack hesitated. “I'm sorry about what Al said before. He's, he's … ”

“He's a blow hole,” Mr. Mack added.

Megan laughed at the blunt observation.

“William, please.” Mrs. Mack's attempt to correct her husband not only fell on deaf ears, but she broke into laughter herself.

“We've put together a list of numbers and contacts for you, just in case of emergencies, or you lose power,” he mentioned.

Megan was still stymied that the thought of losing power had any humor attached to it. “Great.”

Mrs. Mack stopped short. “I just realized, I never asked you how you heard about the house being for rent.”

“I received an email regarding a winter rental.”

The Macks looked at one another, eyebrows raised. “I didn't realize our realtor was sending emails.” She shrugged. “Well, I'm glad she did.”

“Elizabeth, darling, it's time to hit the road with Mr. and Mrs. Blow Hole.”

Elizabeth shushed him, then reminded Megan, “If you need anything, our number is on the bottom.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Mrs. Mack looked at Megan with sympathetic eyes. “I hope you find what you're looking for here.” She was getting misty-eyed. “I know that … Well, I hope your time here helps.”

Megan offered a faint smile and nodded. She walked the Macks out to their car, waving goodbye as they drove off. For the first time in months, Megan was truly alone. She stood a moment, staring into the woods. The Macks' emails had explained it was a green-acred protected section, and nothing was allowed to be built in the area. For a moment she felt she was being watched. She shook her head. “Get a grip, McGinn. You're finally away from crowds and you start imagining people everywhere.” She turned toward the lake, deciding she'd sit by the lake before the big unpacking of her one large suitcase. Semi-frozen or not, it wasn't Manhattan and it was where she'd call home for now.

The Macks had left two Adirondack chairs down on the dock. Megan poured a large glass of the red wine the Macks had left on the counter for her and grabbed a blanket, both offering their own kind of solace in the cold afternoon. She used one chair to sit in and the other to prop her feet up on. Sitting lakeside, even if it was more tundra than lake, could not help but bring Megan's memory back to the last time she'd been at a lake. The Murphys owned a camp in upstate New York, north of Albany. Megan was ten years old when her father explained that she and her brother would be spending most of the summer with the Murphys. He said he was going to be working a long case and her mother was planning on spending time with relatives in Philadelphia.

Her father was always such a bad liar when it came to Megan. The future detective learned early how to make someone crack under pressure, and to her dismay she had a lot of practice in her youth. Post-lie, preteen Megan had regarded Pat with silence and an icy stare. “Now tell me the truth,” she demanded.

Pat knew when Megan was on to him. He explained further, still editing his response to a certain extent: Rose was “exhausted.”

“She sleeps all the time.” Megan's response was far from an exaggeration. Rose did, periodically, take to her bed for days on end. Megan, precocious as she was for her age, was still too young to understand manic depression. She only knew her mother to be either very happy or very sad.

“It's a different kind of exhaustion, sweetie,” her father had responded, choking back half the sentence.

Days later Megan and Brendan joined the Murphys up at their camp on Lake Galway. Swimming, fishing, and canoeing filled the days. At night, board games and campfires were the norm, as was Megan sneaking as close to the adult conversation as possible without being detected. While the adults drank their highballs and Manhattans, she'd hear their comments.

“Pat is holding strong. Do the doctors think she'll make a full recovery?”

“It runs in her family. They're hoping she'll be back to herself in no time.”

The phrase “it runs in her family” was never far from Megan's mind. But in her heart she knew there were more of her father's attributes ingrained in her than her mother's. As she grew up, she made certain that was the case.

Megan had only taken three sips of wine before she pulled the blanket up to her chin and felt her eyelids become heavier with each blink.

Rose stood in front of Megan, her lips moving. But there was nothing but silence, as if the volume had been turned down on her vocal chords. She wore a hospital gown. Her hair was matted and there were black and blue marks around her neck. Her ruby red lips and bloodshot eyes seemed to glow against her drab skin. She stood barefoot on the dock, her frail arms by her sides. Still mouthing words that went undetected, Rose held her frail arms out to Megan. With a flick of a switch, her words amplified, like a freight train running through Megan's mind.

“Why, baby girl?
Why
?”

Megan flew forward in the wooden chair, her heart slamming against her chest. She dropped the wineglass, shattering it.

“Momma!” Megan forgot where she was, frantically looking around. “Where …? What …?”

She closed her eyes, swallowing what saliva remained in her dry mouth. Somehow she'd managed a sweat over her brow in the chilled air. “Jesus Christ.”

So much for the first hour of respite
, she thought to herself.