Into the Dark (12 page)

“Coralling the baloney pony. I know, I know. Trust me. Tonight, the only thing I’ll
be exploring with my fingertips will be the supple keyboard of Tannenbaum’s Mac Pro.”

“Okay, now I’m going to throw up.”

“That is, unless Claudia—”

“Have fun with the Mac Pro,” Claudia said.

“Aw, that’s cold, baby.” He looked at Brenna. “Seriously, Claudia and I have tons
in common. Her brother does computer stuff for the FBI.”

“You don’t have a brother, Trent.”

“No, but see . . .”

“I don’t know anything about computers,” Claudia said.

Brenna said, “Seems like you have more in common with Claudia’s brother. Maybe she
should introduce you.”

Trent sighed. “Fine, I give up.”

Brenna leaned over and gave Trent a quick, tight hug. “Please stay out of trouble.”

“Telling the T-Man not to get in trouble is like telling the sun not to shine.”

“No it isn’t.”

Morasco added, “Telling the T-Man not to refer to himself in the third person, on
the other hand . . .”

“Or asking the T-Man not to make up stupid nicknames for himself.”

“All right, all right,” he said. “I promise.”

Once Brenna and Morasco were outside the hospital, he put a hand on her shoulder.
“So, listen. I want to talk to you about something. You wanna go get a drink?”

“It’s barely three o’clock.”

“You spent lunchtime in a rolling car, followed by an MRI. That automatically makes
the rest of the day happy hour.”

She laughed. “Good point,” she said. “But I should get home to Maya, and she wouldn’t
appreciate it if I came in trashed.”

“True.”

“You want to give me a ride home? My car’s in the shop.”

“Yeah, I remember that.”

“And your car’s at a crime scene.”

“Remember that, too,” he said. “Of course, knowing my luck, it got impounded.”

They headed for the curb, and Brenna started to hail a cab to take them to Inwood
Hill Park, but Morasco stopped her. “Okay, first of all, you’re supposed to let the
guy hail the cab.”

“Says who?”

“This guy.”

“Sexist.”

“Secondly . . .”

Brenna’s cell phone chimed. “One second.” She checked the screen—a number she’d never
seen but with Freeman’s same area code. She held up a finger to Morasco, put her back
to him, and answered, very quietly.

“You’re not alone,” Freeman said.

“No,” Brenna said. “But listen, as long as I have you here, have you ever heard of
a Robin Tannenbaum? He also goes by RJ?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “No. Why?”

“He may be with our girl.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, they know each other and they both disappeared at the same time, and he, for
one, seems to be in a whole lot of trouble.”

Another long pause. “Okay,” he said. “But keep in mind, I’m only paying you to look
for her.”

Brenna frowned. Her eye hurt. “People don’t always disappear alone, Ga—”

“Sssh. Don’t use my name.”

“Sorry.”

“No worries,” he said. “Look, I don’t want to talk any more if there are people with
you. Just remember—if anybody asks you about me—anybody at all . . .”

“I don’t know you.”

“Right. Talk later.”

Click.

Brenna stared at the phone for a few seconds. Good God the guy was paranoid. Did he
buy himself a new disposable phone every day?

“Who was that?” Morasco said.

Brenna smiled a little. It was practically as though Freeman had hired him to test
her. “Nobody. Just a client.” She cleared her throat. “So, what were you going to
ask me?”

“You’re going to give up this case, right?”

She turned to him, her smile slipping away. His face was more serious than she’d expected.
“Of course I’m not giving it up.”

“Brenna.”

“I can’t.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why the hell not? One day of it, and you’re in trouble with organized
crime over this Tannenbaum guy—and he’s not even the person you’re looking for.”

“I can’t.”

“You almost got killed today,” Morasco said. “You scared your daughter half to death.
And for what? Some . . . some shadow? Some weird-ass fetish?”

“She’s a person.”

“So are you. You have people who care about you. You owe them something.”

“I owe her, too.”

“Who?”

“Lula Belle.”

“You
don’t
.”

Brenna’s jaw tightened.

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s important.”

“Why?”

“Uh . . . Because I
said
so?”

“I’m not kidding around, Brenna.”

“I can see that.”

Behind the glasses, his eyes went hard. “Is it because of Ludlow?”

“
What?
”

“You heard me.”

She started to remember October 23, 1998, and she shut her eyes tight, she bit it
back. “No,” she whispered.

“You’re remembering Jim, aren’t you?” Morasco said.

“No, I . . .”

“You’re remembering how he reacted when he found out you’d worked for Ludlow again,
even though you’d promised him you wouldn’t. “

“Stop.”

“You’re remembering that night, and you
should
remember that night. You should remember how you made him feel when you put yourself
in that kind of danger, just to go work for that asshole—”

“
I said, stop it!
” Brenna’s eyes were hot from tears. She turned away from him, tried to catch her
breath.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

Brenna closed her eyes and thought of the Lord’s Prayer, recited it in her head start
to finish until the memory was gone. Even then, her eyes were still hot. She felt
a tear slipping down her cheek. She swatted it away and breathed very deeply until
the feeling passed, and then, finally, she opened her eyes. She turned to Morasco.
That much she could do. But still she didn’t trust herself to talk, not yet. God,
Brenna hated herself sometimes. Hated all her limitations.

“That wasn’t fair of me,” Morasco said.

She said nothing.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “It’s just . . .” His voice trailed off.
“This is going to sound stupid.”

She didn’t help him. Didn’t say a word. Just stood there, hands crossed over her chest,
watching.

“Your mind is so crowded,” he said. “I want in. I wish you would let me in.”

“Why? Hell, I don’t even like it in there.”

Nick’s gaze dropped to the sidewalk. “I do,” he said quietly.

She stared at him, at his downcast eyes. Much as she wanted him to meet her gaze,
he wouldn’t and in a way she was glad. She was afraid of what she might see. “You
do?”

“Yes. A lot.”

Brenna felt herself softening. “You’re crazier than I thought.”

Nick took a step closer. Then he looked into her eyes.

Nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all . . .
“I’m not staying on this case because of Ludlow.”

“Then why?”

“This.” Her hand went into her bag and removed the manila envelope full of Robin Tannenbaum’s
things. She slipped out the photo of Clea and herself and gave it to him.

“Is that you and your sister?”

Brenna nodded. “That picture was in Robin Tannenbaum’s computer. It was sent to him.
By Lula Belle.”

His eyes widened.

“Half the stories she tells—they’re specific stories from my childhood.”

“Your childhood,” he whispered, his eyes clouding over, filling again with that strange
emotion.

Is it pity?

Morasco went back to the picture. Brenna pressed on. “She sent him that photo, Nick.
She got him to put at least one of her PO boxes in his name. If I can find Robin Tannenbaum,
I think I might be able to find Lula Belle, and if I can find Lula Belle, I might
be able to . . .” She cleared her throat. It was harder than she’d thought, putting
it into words with him.

“Find your family,” he said.

She looked at him. “Yes.”

Morasco kept staring at the picture, then lifted his gaze to Brenna’s face. “Let’s
get Tannenbaum,” he said.

D
uring the cab ride back to her place, Brenna went through the manila envelope and
pulled out Robin Tannenbaum’s most recent credit card bill. It was a brand-new Visa
with a balance of just five hundred dollars. “He must have done some damage to his
other cards,” she said. But outside of an Old Navy card and Diner’s Club (
who has Diner’s Club anymore?
) she couldn’t find bills for any others. “He hid his old bills?”

Morasco said, “Maybe he didn’t want his mother to see them.”

Brenna thought of Hildy Tannenbaum’s husband, that stack of
Playboy
s. “Or his mother didn’t want anybody else to see them,” she said. “She could have
just paid them off. Made them go away.”

“Too bad she couldn’t have done that with whatever he owed Mr. Pokrovsky.”

“He owed Pokrovsky twenty-five thousand dollars.”

He shook his head. “What a dumbass.”

Brenna skimmed the bill. The last charge was on October 9, 2009—sixty dollars at a
gas station. In Brenna’s mind, Hildy showed her the note:

Mother:

No need to keep dinner warm. May be gone for a little while.

Best, RJT

“That was the day he left,” Brenna said. “Check it out. Filled up his tank. In White
Plains—your area.”

“I can ask around,” Morasco said. “You got a picture of him?”

Brenna handed him one of the photos Hildy had provided.

“Handsome devil.”

“He’s grown a beard since then.”

“To cover up the pock marks?”

“Actually, Trent thinks he did it to look like Spielberg.”

Morasco snorted. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. He had a picture of Steven Spielberg taped next to his mirror. Let
me find it.” Brenna thumbed through the papers. She didn’t see it. “Trent probably
took it—he wanted to do some Photoshopping.” She did find another photo of Spielberg—but
this was different, an older, black and white one he’d clipped from a magazine, probably
mixed in with everything Hildy had removed from Robin’s desk. “Hmm. Looks like he
had a collection.”

“Go figure. Some guys want to look like Fabio. He chooses a sixty-year-old director
. . .”

“Who the hell wants to look like Fabio?” Brenna stared at the bottom of the clipped
photo—handwritten words, so tiny she could barely read them:

DEUT 31:6

“He wrote a Bible verse on this picture,” she said.

“A Bible-thumping, Spielberg-worshipping porno editor?”

“He’s also a big Louise Hay fan,” Brenna said.

“Multifaceted.”

“You’re a good driver, by the way.”

“You’ve driven with me before.”

“I know. But I never really appreciated it. Trent drives like he’s being chased by
a husband with a gun.”

They were on the West Side Highway, passing the Chelsea Piers. “I’m still trying to
figure out,” Morasco said, “what Lula Belle saw in Tannenbaum. I mean . . . you’re
going to send one person that photo—and this is a long-lost family photo, no matter
who Lula Belle turns out to be.”

Brenna nodded.
No matter who
.

“You’re going to trust that same person enough to let him get you a secret PO box
where you receive secret money for your secret job—and let him put it in his name.
You’re really going to choose the forty-five-year-old porno editor from Queens who
lives with his mom and is stupid enough to borrow money from a guy who’s connected
to Bo and Diddley?”

Brenna turned to him. “Maybe she and Robin go way back,” she said. “And maybe he isn’t
stupid—just hopelessly devoted.” She thought about Robin, packing up his winter clothes,
taking his beloved film equipment, growing his beard to look like Spielberg . . .
To look like someone else
. “Maybe he borrowed from Pokrovsky because he needed the money in a hurry—to finance
their new life.”

“Weird,” he said quietly. “But I guess it’s possible.”

“There’s only one way to find out for sure.”

He looked at her.

“You’re going to hate this, but I want to go back and see RJ’s mother. Get her to
introduce me to Mr. Pokrovsky.”

“Us.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m going with you. Not up for discussion.”

Brenna looked at him. “Since when did you get so friggin’ tough?” she said. “Oh yeah,
I forgot. You’re a cop.”

“Actually, I prefer to be referred to as The Fuzz. I’m trying to bring that back.”

Brenna grinned.

They’d reached Brenna’s apartment a while ago. By now, Morasco had circled the block
three times, with no luck finding a space, so he pulled in front and double parked.
It was a little after 5
P.M.
and already dark out—Christmas decorations twinkling on the streetlight in front
of Brenna’s house. This time of year, Twelfth Street looked like something out of
a nineteenth-century storybook. Brenna rarely had thoughts like this, but she longed
for snow, for horse-drawn carriages and hearth light through bay windows. “I’ll see
you tomorrow morning,” she said to Morasco.

“Okay.” He gave her a smile. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too.”

As she got out of the car, a cold wind bit her face, made her black eye throb. She
found herself thinking back again to O’Donnell’s parking lot. O’Donnell’s was in City
Island. Brenna and Morasco had gone there after having dinner with Brenna’s mother,
who had served her usual—chicken piccata with a heaping side of guilt. Evelyn Spector,
who remembered things not as they were but exactly as she wanted them to be, with
herself as the heroine—degraded, misunderstood. By the time they’d stumbled into the
parking lot, Brenna had finished four beers in record time, yet still she couldn’t
get it out of her system, that frustration . . .

“And you know how my mother said the last time I visited her, Maya was still teething?”
Brenna is drunk now, officially. Not tipsy. Drunk. At her height, she should be able
to hold her liquor better than this. It’s a little embarrassing.