Deja Who Page 14

  TWENTY-NINE

  She stood on the brakes hard enough to bang her head on the roof, and when the car had more or less stopped, she wrestled free of the seat belt and escaped its confines. She ran up the sidewalk to Archer’s front door, barely registering the ting-ting-ting of the car as it chimed its warning that she’d left the keys in the ignition and the door open. And almost on top of a fire hydrant.

  She hammered on the front door with her fists and, when that didn’t bring an immediate response, started kicking the bottom of the wooden door. It hurt, but she didn’t care. She imagined the neighbors would be concerned by the noise, and didn’t care. They might call the police; she didn’t. The police only called you after the unthinkable happened. She had a flash from her past, something about

  (“But they cannot! The king is above the law. The king is the law.”)

  things going bad just when it seemed the good times were back, and shook it off.

  “Archer! Open up! Archer, be in there and be unmangled and safe and open up!” Part of her brain realized she was sobbing his name and her fists were going numb and her foot hurt but the rest of her brain didn’t care, was focused on her worst thoughts being false, being untrue, because Archer was fine, he was fine last night and he would be fine now and all she had to do was keep knocking and he would eventually—

  “Jeez, Leah?” The door had opened and he was blinking at her in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

  She fell into his arms, clutching at him and trying to tell him the CPD had played a terrible prank but she would forgive them because he was fine, he was completely fine and on second thought she would Insight the shit out of all of them beginning with Detective Preston, if he so much as jostled a shoplifter during an arrest she would delve into his past lives and tell everyone he used to be Pol Pot.

  “Ohhhh you’re okay you’re okay you’re okay oh thank God you’re okay.” She was telling all that to Archer’s neck, as once she’d thrown her arms around him she simply refused to let go. He had staggered, but submitted.

  “What’s wrong? Ouch, that tickles—what’s—yeek!”

  “Wait.” She stopped talking to his throat and stepped back, looking up at him. His hands went to the small of her back, pressing, and it was absurd, really, how comforting that was. “You’re okay.”

  “Yeah. Well, I went to bed with a chronic case of blue balls, which you’ve just made worse, but yeah, in general, I’m pretty okay.” His blue and green eyes gleamed with good humor. “Where’s your other shoe?”

  “My what?” She looked down. One tan oxford, neatly tied, was on her left foot. Her right foot was bare. “I just—I don’t recall. I must have . . .” Must have darted, streaked, out of her apartment in her rush to get to Archer. “The police.” It was hard to think. Relief, she was just now discovering, was as potent a drug as anything illegal. She was alternately giddily light-headed and crushed under the weight of stress. “They called. They said—they said I had to call them back right away and they left lots of messages and they never leave the bad news on a recording I thought something happened so I left and here I am.”

  “And you thought . . . ah, Leah.” He snaked a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her forward for a quick kiss. “You thought I was hurt? Dead?”

  She didn’t answer, just nodded. Her relief was a palpable force, an enormous thing.

  Oh I am in so much trouble with this boy who I keep forgetting is older than I am. I want to tumble him into bed and divest him of his clothes and find out what he likes, all the things he likes. And then I want to do it again, and again, for fifty years.

  “And you just . . . you quit putting on your shoes and hopped in your car—which you’ve parked in the middle of the street, by the way, but it’s all right, I’m not judging—and came over?”

  “Oh my God. I never even—I didn’t stop to think. I just assumed . . . you’re right, I’m a fool.”

  “Whoa!” He held his hands up and then—much better—put them back around her and gave her a slight squeeze. “I didn’t use that particular F word, so simmer. I’d never use that particular F word in reference to you.” He squeezed her again, which was lovely. She was amazed at how quickly he was calming her down. “And now this is the part where I pretend I’m not wildly flattered by your panic. Because I absolutely, totally am. Instead, I’ll play it cool. Like the way I’m playing it now: coooooool.”

  She giggled in spite of herself and had a quick thought

  (you’ve laughed more in the last week than you have in the last year)

  that was gone before she could grasp it. “But the police did call. And they don’t leave voicemails like that unless it’s personal.”

  “They call you a lot?”

  “For Insighter business, yes.” She nodded and realized they were still standing on Archer’s front step. “This was an entirely different voicemail. Personal, you know? I just assumed—but why would they even call me about you? They don’t know how—” Important you are to me. That was the rest of the sentence, the sentence it was much too early to say. The sentence she might never say. “They don’t know we’re, ah, dating.”

  “We’re, ah, dating?” He grinned at her, which was a great relief. Yes, let Archer think this was all very cute and very funny, when it was neither. That was fine. It would make things easier, later.

  “Yes.”

  “The cops left you a personal voicemail?”

  “Three, actually. At least.”

  “Okay, let’s listen to them.”

  She stood on the step, perfectly silent, as she realized, and then uttered a sentence she had never before said: “I dropped my phone and ran out of my apartment in my haste to get to you.”

  “Oh my God.” Archer actually staggered, right there on the stoop. “That is so hot. Oh my God.”

  “And I think it broke. I can’t be sure. But I heard something break but was in such a rush I didn’t go back to see.”

  “Oh. My. God.” He groaned and clutched at her. “You always have your phone, fucking always. You’re one of those. I can’t believe . . . Jesus, that’s hot.”

  “Shut up,” she grumped, feeling horribly exposed, like the entire street could see she cared for this idiot. “Just . . . shut up.”

  “Ohhhh, you’re so cute.” He clutched her to him and gave her a hearty smack on the lips. She wriggled, but not very hard. “And so hot.” Smack! “And so cute.” Smack! “I said that already.” Smack! “But it’s true.” Smack! “I can’t believe you rushed out of the house.” Smack! “And dropped your phone.” Smack! “And left a shoe behind.” Smack! “In your rush to get here.” Smack! “And show me your cuteness.” Smack! “And parked too close to a fire hydrant.” Smack!

  “Get off.” She gave him a light shove (not—she was careful!—on a stab wound) and he backed off, his wide mouth twisting in a good-natured grumble. “I suppose I could call Detective Preston from here, if you’ll . . . oh.”

  Archer, too, had gone quiet. Had obviously realized the only person the police would be calling Leah about.

  “Oh.” She stood there a moment, thinking. “It’s . . . it’s her. It’s my mother. Isn’t it?”

  “Well, unless you’ve got a dad I don’t know about . . .”

  “She went to a sperm bank,” Leah replied absently. She tapped her bare foot as she thought. “The whole thing was for publicity. My birth. My childhood. It was to boost her career. I have no idea who my father is.”

  “Okay.” Archer’s fingers, rubbing at the knots in her neck she didn’t realize were there. “Okay, so let’s call—”

  “No.” Now that she could think again, she took him in at a glance and was relieved he was fully dressed. He was wearing knee-length navy shorts, a crisp, clean T-shirt with the slogan “Home is where the Wi-Fi connects automatically,” and the de rigueur loafers without socks. “Come on.”
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  He held up a finger, ducked back inside for his wallet, then shut and locked the front door and followed her amiably enough. “I assume you have a plan? Which involves fixing your awful middle-of-the-street parking?”

  “It’s McMansion.” No need to even open her door; she’d obligingly left it open for herself. They both climbed in and buckled. “We’re going to her McMansion. It’s where the police are.”

  “Oh. You sure?”

  “No.”

  But they went anyway.

  THIRTY

  Detective Preston was talking like this was just another day on the job. Which for him, it was.

  “The way it looked . . . our crime scene guys say it looks like your mom was trying to stop him, or her, from leaving.”

  Leah watched his face as he talked at her and knew that in 1941 his name was Aaron DeSalvo and he loved his big brother more than anything. His big brother protected him from their father; his big brother would goad his father into beating him instead of Aaron. His father knocked out all of Mama’s teeth and his father broke Mama’s fingers and was capable of much worse and his wonderful brother would pull that rage toward himself, his brother took beatings meant for Aaron and Aaron was so, so grateful.

  And when his big brother killed neighborhood pets Aaron covered for him. And when his big brother started stealing and beating people Aaron covered for him, and when his big brother started stealing cars Aaron covered for him, and when his brother started strangling old ladies Aaron covered for him, and when his brother started strangling young ladies Aaron covered for him, and when his brother was charged with rape Aaron defended him, and when his brother confessed Aaron defended him, and when his brother went to prison Aaron defended him, and when he was killed in prison by a person or persons unknown Aaron gave up, he gave up and eventually he died a lonely, dismal death and no one cared, or noticed.

  And his beloved big brother was Albert DeSalvo, his beloved big brother was the Boston Strangler.

  So here he was, life number two, Detective Preston, who has convinced himself he is an avenger, here he was atoning for a past life by investigating murders in this life and it wasn’t just a job, not to Detective Preston, and Leah knew these things about him and didn’t care.

  Leah watched Detective Preston’s lips move and seriously considered hitting him, bludgeoning him, with his past life, hitting him over and over again until he would shut up shut up shut up about her, about her mother, about the dark moon of Leah’s childhood.

  But she didn’t do that to him. And she wasn’t quite sure why. Archer, maybe? But maybe not. Whatever the reason, Detective Preston, né Aaron DeSalvo, was still talking.

  Oh, God, let him soon stop talking.

  “This is total speculation, but she maybe thought you were the next stop,” the Boston Strangler’s brother continued, “so she threw herself at him or her. The killer must have panicked or maybe she made more noise than he planned . . . he had to leave before he finished her. He probably thought it wouldn’t take long, he’d bludgeoned her pretty thorough—ah—” Preston cut himself off, remembering this was a civilian next of kin. He was, of course, used to dealing with Insighters in the course of his work. He had just forgotten, for a moment. Insighters experienced loss, sure. It was hard to think of them as victims, though. “She must have found her cell phone and . . .” He shrugged.

  Leah heard a roaring in her ears

  (how odd, the ocean? how odd, what is that?)

  as the implication sank in. “She tried to warn me,” she managed in a voice that cracked and shook, a voice that made Archer’s eyes go wide with alarm, a voice that made him seize her arm. “While she was dying. She tried to warn me. And I wouldn’t take the call.”

  And then the world went away for a while.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Stop that,” she said, batting away the hand tormenting her. “Stop that right now.” She was not quite sure what had happened, but whatever had happened, she simply refused to stand for it. Whatever it was.

  She opened her eyes and saw that for some reason Archer had taken her to the piano room, the last place she had seen Nellie alive. Her mother had been murdered, of course, in the photo room. The room where Nellie had hired Archer to follow Leah. The room Leah hated more than any other room in any other building in the world. Fitting, yes. And horrible. Yes.

  “I don’t think you should . . . ah, hell,” he sighed as she pushed his hand away and sat up. She had been resting on the low bench opposite the piano no one could play. She wondered who would dust it now. And she wondered why she was thinking about such a silly thing, when she had no idea how she had gotten to the piano room. “You were kind of out of it for a minute.”

  “I did not swoon,” she said sharply.

  “I’m pretty positive I didn’t say swoon,” he replied, his expression mild. His eyes, though. His eyes. They were anything but mild. For a cold moment she wondered if he was angry with her, then realized he was angry . . . but not at her.

  “I didn’t faint, either.”

  “Didn’t say faint, either.”

  “Because I have never done such a thing in my life unless I was acting and I have no plans to start. Certainly not today of all days.”

  “You bet. I’m right there with you.”

  “And frankly, she had a lot of nerve getting murdered last night.” Leah shut her mouth so hard her teeth clacked together. Archer would be vanishing from her life soon enough without seeing the truly nasty side of her personality; no need to bludgeon him

  (like how the killer bludgeoned your mother and you stabbed him moments after your first meeting, how much of your nasty side did you think you’d successfully hidden from the poor man?)

  with more of her awfulness.

  “She sure did. You thought you were free—”

  “Yes.”

  “—you loved that you were free—”

  “Yes!” She nodded so hard her neck hurt. He understood. It was incredible; unbelievable.

  “—and she had to go and fuck all that up.”

  She stared at him, at the blue and the green of his eyes, eyes narrowed in concentration but not—was it true?—judgment. “Yes. It’s awful, I know.”

  “It’s also true. Sounds like on top of everything else, your mom’s timing was terrible. All the time, not just last night.”

  A hysterical giggle burst out of her before she could lock it back, and she slapped her hands over her mouth. But then, to her amazement, Archer slipped warm fingers around her wrists and gently brought them down from her face.

  “You can laugh,” he told her, as if he were the Insighter and she the fretful client, afraid and angry and not knowing why why why she was feeling so strange. “You can cry. You’re entitled. Who cares? The cops have seen worse. I’ve seen worse. Remind me to tell you about my dad sometime.”

  When would you have seen worse, you gorgeous idiot?

  “No.” She cleared her throat and said it again. “No. Later. I’ll do that later. Right now I want to speak to Aaron.”

  “Who?”

  “Detective Preston.”

  “Feeling better?” As if appearing because she called his (other) name, the man was suddenly in the piano room with them. He was dressed in civilian attire, brown pants and matching jacket, cream-colored shirt, brown tie, brown shoes. His hair was so light a blond it was almost white; his eyes were pale blue; his skin was also pale, with very faint color at his cheeks and nowhere else. He almost seemed to glow in his dark, dull clothes. “You seem to be feeling better. We can certainly have this conversation somewhere—”

  “Tell me,” she said. “Everything. I want it all. I insist.” Leah had no idea how much Insighter privilege Preston was going to allow her, but intended to push for every bit of it. Cops, as a rule, tended to accommodate those in her profession. More, perhaps, than most other fie
lds, cops needed them. “Please,” she added, because that seemed called for. And it wouldn’t kill her to be polite. Being polite when she felt anything but wasn’t exactly—ha, ha!—like getting murdered.

  He looked at her for a long moment, doubtless assessing if she was as ready for the information as she seemed. He must have seen something that convinced him—or perhaps he simply didn’t care if his words would make her crack and break—because he gave her exactly what she said she wanted.

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Your mother let the killer in, so we’re thinking it was someone she knew.”

  “That is incorrect thinking,” she said at once. Archer heard her Insighter tone and raised his eyebrows, but mercifully said nothing. “My mother was a fame whore, an attention whore, and, for a few years in the early eighties, an actual whore. All anyone needs to do—needed to do—to get into this house is to recognize her. Or pretend to recognize her. Something as meaningless as ‘weren’t you the lady from It’s All Relative back in the nineties?’ would get anyone, anyone at all, the grand tour. And sometimes dinner. And sometimes dessert. And sometimes breakfast.”

  “Oh.” Preston gave her a long look. Leah stared back. “All right. Well. The killer wasn’t here very long before the attack started. He—”

  “—bashed her brains in with my Emmy.” She turned to Archer, whose eyes were wide and horrified. “Outstanding Guest Actress in a Comedy,” she clarified. “I was ten. And my mother hated that I won. Of course.” She turned back to Detective Preston. “And you’re thinking it’s difficult to believe a killer-by-chance just happened along last night and just happened to grope around and just happened to grab my Emmy and then happened to beat my mother to death with it.”

  “Okay, maybe that’s—”

  “Except she prominently displays it. Displayed, I mean.” God, why was it so hard to remember that Nellie was now strictly past tense? How long had she wanted that to be the case? Now that it was the case, you’d think she would catch up. Sure, loved ones often spoke of the murder victim in the present tense, but Leah had never been a loved one. She had never even been a liked one. “It’s the first thing you see when you walk into that room. She hated that I won, but later, when I had quit the business (again) it was the best way to prove she had been relevant. So she kept it where a guest couldn’t help seeing it. So, in fact, it could be just chance.”