The Big Rewind (16 page)

I
texted Hillary on the way to the subway. The answers I needed were too urgent to call her when I got home or to wait around for her to check Facebook. I didn't have a reply by the time I arrived though, so while I waited, I held Baldrick in my lap and scrolled through KitKat's photos. Sure enough, she was wearing the bracelet on her left wrist in every photo taken over the last six months. I tried to zoom in, but the light was never right to see what was written there.

Hillary called me an hour later and after our usual greetings, I asked, “Do you know of anyone who took an engraved silver bracelet from KitKat's memorial?”

“Not that I remember seeing,” she said. “But that doesn't mean no one did. Why do you ask? Was it something you gave her?”

“Bronco was asking about it,” I said. “He was just wondering who had it, since he wasn't there.”

Her voice got ugly. “Bronco? Her boyfriend, the guy who probably killed her?”

“He didn't do this,” I said. “And I need that bracelet to prove it.”

“Can't help you,” she said. “I remember seeing her wearing it, sure, but she wouldn't tell me who it was from. And even if she had, what makes you think I'd want to get him off?”

“Because your sister's real killer is still out there,” I said. “You said you wanted her killer found, and I'm trying to do that. You have to believe me that it wasn't Bronco or you'll never trust that I've found the real murderer.”

“Jett, that's cute and all, but leave this to the cops. . . .”

It wasn't cute. It wasn't a game or a foolish instinct. I was in this too deep, and I wasn't walking away when I was only a few answers away from figuring out this puzzle. “You asked me to help!” I told her. “And the cops have the wrong guy—now, are you going to help me or not?”

She sighed. “I guess,” she said. “What do you need?”

I told her about GPL and our meeting, the tape, and the bracelet. I told her about Bronco and Bryce and a silence settled between us. I held my breath, waiting for her answer.

“Wow,” she breathed. “You've really done a lot of work.”

“I want her killer found,” I said. “I don't want to see Bronco go down for this.”

“I wish I could help more,” she said. “If I find it, I'll give you a call. And let me know if there's anything else I can do to help.”

I thanked her, hung up, and used all the willpower I had to dial George's cell phone.

“Hi, Jett,” he said in an almost-whisper. “Can't say I was expecting to hear from you again.”

I was on too much of a roll to waste time with apologies. “Did you ever give KitKat a silver bracelet?”

“For her thirtieth birthday,” he said. “I had it etched with the lyrics to Joe Jackson's “Be My Number Two,”
I'll do what I can do to make a dream or two come true
. It was playing on the radio in my car the first time I kissed her.”

“That's very romantic,” I said. My heart was pounding with caffeine and dread. “And she had no idea that you were breaking up with her?”

“You heard the tape,” he said. “That's all there was. Jett, what's going on?”

“The bracelet,” I said. “It wasn't found in her apartment and
she wasn't wearing it when she died, but her friend and her sister both confirmed that she never went without it.”

“So they took the bracelet when they killed her,” he said. “Sounds like a robbery to me.”

“Except that nothing else was taken. Her purse was still on the table. Whoever came in knew what they were looking for. Got any ideas?”

“Not one,” he said. “Maybe whoever took it pawned it.”

“I don't think so,” I said. “I think they took it as a trophy, which tells me the killer knew it was from you. Did you have some other cute coed on the line? Maybe a student who saw KitKat getting special treatment?”

“Never,” he said. “We didn't start seeing each other until after she was out of my class. I'm not stupid.”

I wasn't about to argue that. “Your wife got a jewelry box?”

“I'm standing over it right now,” he said. I heard shuffling, then a drawer opening, and I waited for him to speak again with my breath held like a kid in the throes of a tantrum. “But the bracelet isn't here.”

I told him I'd call him later and hung up. I put on Warren Zevon's
Sentimental Hygiene
for background music and tried to put all the clues I had together, like assorted pieces from three different jigsaw puzzles. A secret boyfriend, a missing bracelet, a mix tape. I had the names, the locations, the pieces in play, I just didn't know what order they went in to make the tiny paper
Clue
checklist that would lead me from her dead body on the kitchen floor to her killer standing convicted in the courtroom.

But for all the evidence I had, I had overshot the solution somehow, missed one crucial word in a statement whispered when I was barely listening. But if the answer was that close, I also knew the key was hidden somewhere closer—and it was just a matter of finding what box I'd stashed it in.

My phone buzzed again and I rushed for it, hoping it was a truce from Sid. It was a message from Natalie asking if I wanted to go out with her later.

I was going crazy in my apartment, checking my phone too often and barely resisting the urge to get into the Boyfriend Box. After what happened with William, I'd sworn off the contents for a while. Not until Sid and I made things right. Not until I solved this case.

But I wasn't going to solve anything with my head cluttered up with my own personal brand of bullshit, and dancing, I'd found, was a good way to shake it all loose.

“The Heartache” played on the turntable. All I could do was text
Yes
.

S
id and I hadn't spoken, texted, or messaged in the four days since he hung up on me, so when Natalie invited me to join her and Josie at Axis in Greenwich Village for Homework, I went as some sort of private fuck-you. I could dance sexy and sweat out overpriced drinks under hot lights, too. I could make men want me as much as Sid wanted Cinderella. Maybe I'd even take someone home with me.

Homework was billed as a dark-eighties party for former Goth kids who kept their love of the Cure hidden except on Saturday night. It, like all good things, had been under siege by twenty-year-old skanks with fake IDs trying to be
totes retro,
but for the last few weeks, DJ MissTaken had combated the invasion by playing Wolfsheim's “Once in a Lifetime” any time some bimbo in a black tube top requested “Karma Chameleon,” “Holiday,” or “Vacation.” One night, she played it eight times in a row, and the rest of us danced the whole time until they left and she switched it over to her signature song, Siouxsie and the Banshees, “Peek-a-Boo.”

I didn't feel much like dancing. Normally I took great comfort in being out on the crammed dance floor with seventy-five other hipsters singing the Smiths' “Ask” at the top of our lungs,
savoring the scent of broken glass and sweat and unbridled joy, but tonight I found myself thinking about KitKat. She used to love this party, and it didn't seem right that we were all dancing without her, as though she had never existed.

“Check out that guy,” Natalie said, pointing at the bartender in the seventies purple paisley. “Sorry, I didn't realize we were in Studio 54.”

“I think he's kind of cute,” Josie said.

He had that second-rate hotness required of nightclub bartenders and acoustic guitar players in Washington Square Park—blond tips, leather pants, a wide, insincere smile. “He's all right,” I said in agreement, just so I could have something to say.

Natalie examined him a second time. “You should fuck him,” she concluded. “Either one of you. You could fight for him. Or take turns.”

Not my type. Not my type because he wasn't Sid, and Sid was the only thing I wanted in the whole fucking world, if only because he couldn't be mine. MissTaken queued up Depeche Mode's “Just Can't Get Enough” and I drained what was left of my drink as though it was an antidote to poison. “He's all yours, Josie,” I said. “His shirt's too ugly for me.”

“
Life
is an ugly shirt,” Natalie said dramatically, taking a long pull from her Red Stripe.

A
ROUND ONE A.M.,
Saturday night sadness set in—the realization that the night is almost over and I haven't had as much fun as I should have. I missed Sid with a longing I didn't know was possible. Natalie had gone outside for a smoke and Josie was flirting with Ugly Shirt. MissTaken began spinning New Order's “Bizarre Love Triangle,” and two skanks in matching Victoria's Secret nighties were writhing against each other and looking around to see how many people were watching their little show. I couldn't help imagining Sid on some red velvet couch with Cinderella grinding her ass all over his hands, the secret smile he
saved only for her. I wanted to throw my drink against the wall, put my head in my hands, and scream until he heard me.

I caught myself staring at a tall, skinny blond guy with combed-back shark-fin ridges and rimless cheaters. I imagined the tenor and pitch of his voice, the way he'd hold his drink with three fingers, the sad glance he'd give me across the dance floor. I imagined the brick cutting into my back as he pressed me against the alley wall of the bar, mouth wet and sweet with lime and vodka. I'd grope him through his jeans, he'd push up my skirt. We'd get a cab back to my place and suck face on the couch, fumble half-clothed on the floor, fuck for fifteen minutes on the bed. He'd slip out while I was sleeping, leaving no number behind.

Our eyes met and he gave me that bittersweet fuck-me smile I'd seen on a hundred other cads. His bow tie should have been my first clue. The Manic Panic pinup in the Forever 21 bustier next to him should have been my second. I rolled my eyes and glanced up at Natalie as she came back to our booth.

“I'm heading out,” I said.

She pulled out her phone. “Already? It's early. We were going for diner gyros, now that Gray's Papaya has fucking closed. I mean, what's the point of even going out anymore if you can't get a decent late-night hot dog and some goddamn papaya juice?”

“I'm exhausted,” I lied, sliding out past her. “I'll catch up with you guys later.”

Josie waved from the bar; Natalie was suddenly too busy texting someone cooler to say a real good-bye. Outside I ducked my head and didn't look at anything but the sidewalk in front of me. There are only a few good hours in any Saturday night, when everyone's just drunk enough to share smokes and dance together and snap selfies with their new BFFs. But when that window closes all that's left is a bunch of drunk assholes, screaming girls, broken glass, and splatters of vomit. I hated all of it.

My phone rang with a number I didn't recognize. I answered it anyway and Sid's voice came from somewhere far away. “Jett . . . ,” he said, his voice labored. “I need you to come get me.”

S
id was sharing the emergency room with a stab-wound victim and a drunk teenager getting her stomach pumped. His collar was bloody and his shirt was open to reveal a half-rack of bandages tied around his ribs. His face was purple, his left eye swollen shut, his fat lips the envy of every New Jersey housewife. He was shaking when I put my arms around him, but every time I tried to speak, the girl behind the curtain heaved so violently it sounded like she was being turned inside out.

“Shit, Sid, what happened?” I finally managed to get out.

He eased off the bed and wobbled in my arms. “I'll tell you later,” he said, his voice hoarse and slurred. “I just want to go home.”

S
ID SLEPT FROM
the moment I got him in the cab until I got him up three flights of stairs into my apartment. He needed a better nursemaid than Terry, who would sell all his Vicodin before dawn broke—all that he didn't snort, anyway.

I hit the living room light switch with my elbow and kicked the door shut with my heel. Baldrick wove in between my feet, tripping me into the dining room. Sid was so out of it he didn't notice that I nearly dropped him on his face.

I set him down on my bed and he slumped forward, let his eyes flutter open, mumbled an apology, and was out again. I peeled off his vest, unbuttoned his mess of a shirt, and wondered if he always dressed this well for a lap dance. I took off his belt and shoes and stretched him out on the bed.

He opened his eyes and forced his swollen lips into a smile. “So much . . . ,” he mumbled, “. . . for my Cinderella.”

“She do this?” I demanded.

He lolled his head from side to side. “No,” he drawled. “The bouncer. The big bad wolf.” He was still grinning, sloppy with irony and painkillers, his teeth stained bloody. And with one last sad little laugh, he was out for the night.

I ran a sinkful of cold water with a squirt of Philip's laundry soap and left Sid's shirt to soak before I stashed Philip's half-dried underwear in the towel cabinet. I went back to the bedroom and fished through Sid's pockets. His wallet and his phone were both gone, but he still had his keys and a fresh bottle of Vicodin. My head throbbed, my feet hurt. I got a glass of water, dumped a pill down my throat, then pulled the covers up over both of us and waited for the room to start spinning.

I
woke up to the sound of Sid retching in the bathroom. My head and my stomach were both swimming; my impulse Vicodin hadn't sat well with the drinks in my bloodstream. I waited until I heard him flush the toilet before I convinced myself to stand up, making my way slowly to the bathroom like it was a hundred miles away.

He was slumped against the tub, holding his head in his hands. There was blood on the tips of his fingers and his face looked like stew meat. He'd wound up a fistful of toilet paper and was holding it to a freshly opened cut. There were tears in his eyes. He sucked in a deep breath like it hurt and looked at me without words.

“I'll run you a bath,” I murmured, cranking on the faucet. “Trust me, it'll help.”

I got him a towel and a Smiths T-shirt that I'd been meaning to make into a dress for two years since I'd found it at the Salvation Army. His other shirt, still soaking in pink water, would need a few more washes before those bloodstains would come out. I dug a trial-sized bottle of mouthwash out of the junk drawer. After I closed the door and heard the water turn off, I toyed briefly with
the idea of getting in the tub with him, just to hold him close, just so he didn't feel alone.

Around eleven he dragged himself into the living room and flopped on the couch. I got him a cup of coffee and made him some toast before he could ask. “Stretch out,” I said. “I'll put on
Law and Order
. Jerry Orbach can cure any ailment.”

“Just get me another couple of those Vicodins and forget the goddamn toast,” he groaned.

The toast popped up in the kitchen and I buttered it for him anyway. I brought him a glass of water and held the pills hostage. “Eat first,” I said. “You'll puke blood if you put these in empty.”

He stretched out one arm and took a piece of toast in a shaking hand. Crumbs spilled all over his chin, his shirt, the couch. “Thanks for coming to get me,” he said.

“What the hell happened to you?” I asked again.

“I don't really want to talk about it,” he said with his mouth full.

“Was it Cinderella?” I asked, remembering what he'd said last night.

“Shit, Jett, I don't want to talk about it.”

For the faintest moment I considered withholding meds until he confessed. But I found myself doling out the pills to him without asking any more questions. Some detective I was. Maybe he'd talk when his brain was swimming in opiates.

“You want to watch TV?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “But I'll probably just sleep. I think I felt better while I was getting my ass kicked.”

I got a pillow off my bed while he finished the second piece of toast. He drank a little more coffee and we started watching a marathon of
Burn Notice
. Michael Westen had barely uttered his first
When you're a spy . . .
before Sid was asleep sitting up, snoring through his swollen nose. I didn't bother tucking him in when I got up off the couch.

Whoever had jumped him had taken his phone. I hoped
Cinderella—or whoever had it by now—would be dumb enough to answer it. On the third ring, a woman with a voice like a concrete dance floor picked up. So much for his southern belle.

“Sid just wants his wallet back,” I said.

“Who is this?” she demanded.

“A friend. We just want the wallet. Where can I meet you?”

“Are you a cop?”

“Why, you want me to get them involved? I just want the wallet—license, credit cards, gym membership, they've all been canceled. They're useless to you.” That was a lie. Sid hadn't been in any shape to tell the cops what happened, let alone sort through the red tape of cancellation negotiations.

“And no cops?”

“They can't prove you spent the cash, right?”

She mulled that over for a hard minute. “South Third and Berry, little brunch place called Dolly's. Put your purse on the table so I know who you are.”

I was about to suggest she just text this number right before she walked in, but she hung up. I wrote Sid a note, took his keys, and hoped I wasn't about to meet his same bloody fate.