Murder Is Forever, Volume 1 Read online

  “Kids’ll do that to you,” Smith says.

  Draper, thinking of her partner’s estranged daughter, throws Smith a biting stare.

  “You want us to talk to the neighbors again?” Schaub asks.

  “Can’t hurt, but any relationships Dee Dee and Gypsy had here were new. We need to go further back.”

  “New Orleans?” Draper asks.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Who knew them there? It’s easy enough to keep up a façade for a few months, maybe even a few years. But time tells.”

  “I’ll call NOPD,” Draper says. “Ask them to canvas.”

  “Have them check on her doctors, too. Gypsy’s medical records may have washed away, but the doctors didn’t.”

  Smith lets out a sarcastic yawn: Dee Dee’s murder would have been his case to solve if he hadn’t put a suspected arsonist in the hospital. “This is all great, but how about some hard evidence? We get the autopsy back yet?”

  “We have a preliminary report,” Slater says. “Her attacker caught her by surprise. No defensive wounds. No foreign DNA under her fingernails.”

  “Any prints in the house?”

  “One of Anne-Marie’s cameramen has a DUI on his record. Otherwise, nothing.”

  Schaub sits up straighter, raises her hand like school is in session.

  “Yes?” Slater asks.

  “I know this’ll sound crazy, but what if Pastor Mike has Gypsy? What if he killed Dee Dee?”

  Slater and Draper smile. Smith sniggers.

  “No, really,” Schaub says. “Think about it. Who in Springfield is closer to them? Maybe Gypsy confided to him. Maybe he fell in love with her. Maybe he thought God could make her walk again.”

  “Maybe, maybe, maybe,” Smith says. “The guy made her his church’s charity poster child. He’d have to be some kind of stupid to turn around and butcher her mother.”

  “Or some kind of obsessed,” Schaub counters. “It happens, you know.”

  Draper’s computer makes a loud pinging sound. She leans closer to the screen.

  “Oh my God,” she says. “You aren’t going to believe this.”

  “What is it?” Slater asks.

  “A new Facebook post.”

  They gather around, read over her shoulder. Gypsy’s avatar shows her dressed in a Cinderella outfit and flashing a fiendish grin. The post, sent from Gypsy’s account, reads: “I SLASHED THAT FAT PIG AND RAPED HER SWEET INNOCENT DAUGHTER…HER SCREAM WAS SO LOUD LOL.”

  Chapter 10

  “I want a goddamn address,” Slater says. “Now!”

  Detective Schaub jumps up, shuts her laptop and tucks it under one arm.

  “I’ll get the techies on it,” she says.

  “I want you on it, too. You sit there with them till we know where to send SWAT.”

  “Yes, sir,” Schaub says, running from the room.

  “It can’t be Gypsy who wrote this,” Draper says.

  “We should answer,” Smith says. “Get the bastard talking. Maybe he’ll slip up.”

  Slater thinks it over.

  “No,” he decides. “Assuming it wasn’t Gypsy who sent this—and that’s assuming a lot for my taste—we want him to stay right where he is. Overplay our hand and he’ll bolt.”

  “What do we do in the meantime?” Draper asks.

  “Let’s get Aleah Martin down here. She’s Gypsy’s friend. Maybe her only friend. And she has a nice face. I want her in front of a camera.”

  “Making a plea?” Smith asks.

  Slater nods.

  “What if she won’t do it?” Draper asks.

  “She’ll do it. She’s convinced herself that the whole thing is her fault. Emily, you set it up. Bring her here yourself. Door-to-door service.”

  “Right away,” Draper says.

  “And me?” Smith asks.

  “You’re back on the hotline.”

  “Waste of time. Anybody who knew anything would’ve called by now. All we’re getting is cranks. This morning I had a guy offer to buy the meds Gypsy left behind. Then a woman tells me she saw Gypsy walking around in the background of one of those Club Med commercials. Total garbage. Unless you want to send me to Cancun, in which case…”

  “Sorry, Denny,” Slater says. “Next time, stop beating your suspect once he’s unconscious.”

  “That was a one-time thing,” Smith says. “The guy spit on my car.”

  “I think I hear the phone ringing,” Slater says.

  * * *

  “Sorry to pull you out of school,” Draper says.

  “It’s all right,” Aleah tells her. “Math’s the worst. I wasn’t even listening.”

  They’re driving back to the station. Aleah is disheveled, her hair in a sloppy ponytail, the backpack on her lap unzipped with books and papers spilling out the top. She smells strongly of cigarettes. Draper resists the urge to lecture.

  “I used to daydream in class, too,” she says.

  “I was thinking about Gypsy,” Aleah confides. “She’s pretty much all I think about now.”

  Draper sees this as an invitation, a chance to solicit information without conducting a formal interview. Keep it relaxed, she tells herself. Just two girls chatting in a car.

  “What’s Gypsy like?” she asks. “I mean, she seemed really sweet on TV, but what’s she like in person?”

  “She was…is real sweet,” Aleah says. “She’s a happy person. When we’re together, it’s mostly me complaining. I realize how stupid that sounds—how bad it makes me look.”

  “You’re friends. Friends talk. They listen. There are no rules about who gets to complain more.”

  “I guess,” Aleah says.

  She turns her head, stares out the passenger-side window. Draper wonders if she’s crying, or maybe trying not to. She phrases her next question carefully: “Was Gypsy different around you than she was, say, around her mother?”

  “What do you mean?” Aleah asks. “Different how?”

  But Draper can’t say exactly what she means. She’s hoping to debunk Slater’s theory that Gypsy might have been involved in Dee Dee’s murder. Again, she isn’t sure why, but something in her needs Gypsy to be innocent.

  “I don’t know,” Draper says. “Was she more relaxed? Did she talk about things with you that she wouldn’t talk about with her mother?”

  “Like boys?”

  “For example…”

  “I guess. She always got kind of quiet around Dee Dee. But everyone gets quiet around their mother.”

  “Especially if they’re keeping secrets. Did Gypsy share any secrets with you?”

  “Just the one. I told the other detective.”

  “Her Secret Sam?”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I didn’t believe it. I pretended to, but Gypsy knew. I keep thinking that if I’d taken her seriously…if I’d actually listened…”

  Draper wants to say something to put Aleah’s mind at ease, but Aleah seems to be heading somewhere important on her own—as if she’s thinking out loud and has forgotten where she is or who she’s talking to. Draper decides not to interrupt.

  “Not just about her Secret Sam, but about everything,” Aleah continues. “You said yourself: friends listen. But I didn’t. Not really. Dee Dee was right.”

  “About what?”

  Aleah squirms a little in her seat.

  “I didn’t really care about Gypsy,” she says. “I just wanted everyone to see me as this saint looking after the local cripple. The Mother Teresa of Springfield.”

  “Wait, Dee Dee said that to you? In those words?”

  “More or less. She said eventually I’d get bored of Gypsy and break her heart. She wanted me to stay away.”

  Draper remembers a sound bite from the Anne-Marie interview: It’s like she finishes my thoughts for me. Was there a hint of sarcasm in Gypsy’s voice that Draper is only picking up on now, in retrospect? As in: She finishes my thoughts for me, but not the way I would finish them. Maybe Slater was right: maybe the m
other-daughter relationship was more troubled than Draper wanted to believe.

  “For what it’s worth,” she says, “you sure sound to me like someone who cares. Detective Slater thinks so, too. That’s why he wants you to talk to the public.”

  Aleah’s tone turns anxious: “I always dreamed of being on TV, but not like this. What will I say?”

  “Whatever’s in your heart, corny as that sounds. Just pretend the camera isn’t there. Pretend you’re talking straight to Gypsy.”

  They’re almost at the station now. Aleah reaches into her backpack, pulls out a hairbrush and a small makeup kit.

  “Do you mind?” she asks. “I overslept this morning and had to run for the bus. I must look like I just rolled out of bed.”

  “Go for it,” Draper says. “But I think you look very pretty.”

  * * *

  The department’s video tech sits Aleah on a stool in front of a solid blue backdrop.

  “Remember, this isn’t live,” he says. “There’s no pressure. We can reshoot as many times as you want.”

  But Aleah is in the zone from the moment he presses Record.

  “Gypsy,” she says, “if you’re watching, I miss you every minute and I’d give anything to know that you’re okay. And to whoever’s with Gypsy, please, I’m begging you, bring her home. She needs her medicine. She needs her friends. Imagine being that sick and then the only person who’s ever taken care of you is brutally murdered, and you’re…Gypsy, you must be so afraid. You must be wondering who will look after you now. I will. I promise. Please, just come home. Whoever you are, please just bring Gypsy home so that I can take care of her.”

  When she’s done, Draper gives her a long hug.

  “That was perfect,” she says.

  Aleah pulls away.

  “You’re going to find her, right? I mean, you think there’s a chance that she’s…”

  “Alive?” Draper finishes. “Yes, I do. We all do. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t put you on camera.”

  It’s then that Aleah starts crying. Her sobs are deep and violent, as though she’s been holding in more than she can manage for a very long time.

  Chapter 11

  Dee Dee carries two plastic cups into Gypsy’s room, one full of water, the other brimming with her daughter’s nightly cocktail of pills. Gypsy is already in bed, the covers pulled up to her armpits. She wears her frilly white hat with the tassels hanging down like outsize earrings.

  “You’re too damn old to be sleeping in that thing,” Dee Dee complains.

  “It keeps me warm.”

  “It’s plenty warm in here.”

  “Not like that. It keeps my brain warm. It keeps me from having nightmares.”

  “It’s your meds that do that,” Dee Dee says. “Now sit up.”

  Gypsy obeys. Dee Dee sets the cups on the night table, stands with her arms folded. Gypsy reaches for the pills, then stops.

  “Mama?” she asks.

  “Yes, Gypsy?”

  “How long’s it gonna be this way?”

  “What way is that?”

  “You know what way. When am I ever gonna be better?”

  Dee Dee’s tone softens.

  “You already are better,” she says. “You just can’t see it yet.”

  “I mean all the way better. Like other people.”

  Dee Dee sits on the edge of the bed, rests her hand on the blanket over Gypsy’s stomach.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “Don’t you know this is what makes you so special? You got it harder than most folks, that’s true. But that’s where your strength comes from. That’s why you appreciate life so much more than other people.”

  Gypsy strikes the headboard hard with her elbows.

  “But I hate my life,” she says. “And I don’t wanna be special. I don’t want any of this shit.”

  Dee Dee stands back up, glares down.

  “I got news for you, little girl. The world don’t care what you want. No one chooses their life. You think I want any of this? You think if I’d known how things would be, I’d have brought you into this world? But you were born, and I ain’t never turned my back on you. Not for a heartbeat. So how about you show some goddamn gratitude? And another thing: swear like that again in front of me and I’ll take a belt to your scrawny ass. I’m your mother. Don’t you ever forget that. Now swallow those pills and give me a moment’s peace.”

  Gypsy’s eyes are burning, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she places the pills one at a time under her tongue until her mouth is nearly full, then drains the cup of water. Satisfied, Dee Dee turns and walks out of the room, shutting the light on her way.

  Alone, Gypsy rolls onto her side, spits the pills into the palm of her hand. She wraps them up in a Kleenex, tucks the Kleenex under her mattress.

  She listens to make sure her mother isn’t lurking outside, then pulls back the covers, sits up, reaches over, and switches on her computer. She slides from her bed to her wheelchair, makes her way over to the dresser, opens the bottom drawer. The glow from the monitor gives her just enough light to see by. Smiling to herself, she digs out a calico dress, a hooped skirt, and a blue satin bonnet.

  Little Bo Peep: her favorite costume. It bothers her that she doesn’t have the cane, but then she’ll be sitting anyway—at least most of the time. She takes off her hat, ties the bonnet in place, slips the dress and skirt on over her pajamas. When she’s done, she wheels herself back to the computer.

  She giggles quietly as she switches over to a private window, then types in the Christian Couples URL. Nicholas’s avatar shows that he isn’t online. Gypsy sends him a quick message:

  Need help finding my sheep!

  She waits. No response. She reaches back to the bed, takes up a stuffed lamb with a black face and gray cotton fleece, and tucks it under her arm. Nicholas will like this touch, she thinks.

  It’s getting dark! she writes. I’m scared!

  As she types, she realizes that her heart is beating hard and her forehead is perspiring.

  I really am scared, she thinks.

  Of what? Not of Nicholas. He’s been so kind. He sends her emoji flowers and chocolates. He says he will take her to Australia. More than anyplace in the world, she wants to visit the Outback. She saw pictures in a National Geographic at the doctor’s office.

  No, she’s afraid that he won’t show up. That she will sit there alone staring at the camera light on her computer until the sun comes up. She’s afraid of having no one to talk to but her mother and doctor and all the people who want to fix her. She’s afraid that Nicholas will want to fix her, too.

  She types:

  Helloooo?? Are you there???

  But before she can hit Send, a green dot appears under Nicholas’s picture, and then the picture is gone, and it’s Nicholas himself smiling at her. He’s wearing an eye patch and a pirate’s hat, and there’s a plastic cockatoo perched on his shoulder.

  Chapter 12

  On a Tuesday afternoon, they have the park to themselves. Aleah wheels Gypsy along the asphalt path that circles the lake. Gypsy is wearing a sunhat and long sleeves despite the eighty-degree temperature. She points to a row of ducks on the water.

  “I wish I could swim with them,” she says.

  “Maybe I could take you out sometime. They rent paddle boats here on the weekends.”

  “I was hoping someone else would take me,” Gypsy says. She laughs, covering her mouth with both hands, a habit meant to hide her crumbling teeth.

  “Who’d you have in mind?” Aleah asks, playing along. She imagines Gypsy will name some popular heartthrob—Justin Timberlake, or maybe Ryan Gosling.

  “Can you keep a secret?” Gypsy asks.

  “You know I can.”

  “I’ve got a Secret Sam.”

  “A what?”

  “A boyfriend, silly. No one is supposed to know. That’s why he’s a secret.”

  Aleah wants to be patient, but she is not in the mood for another of Gypsy’s daydre
ams. Her own boyfriend broke up with her less than a week ago, and she just learned that her SAT scores won’t help her chances of going to college—especially out of state. No way can she stay stuck in Springfield another year!

  “A boyfriend?” she asks. “How? I mean, no offense, but you never leave the house unless you’re with me or your mother.”

  “He visits me at home.”

  Aleah rolls her eyes.

  “Is this some kind of riddle, Gypsy? ’Cause I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night, so you might have to help me out.”

  Gypsy giggles, her hands once again flying up to cover her mouth.

  “A riddle,” she says. “I like that. Let’s make it a riddle. I’ll give you a hint: sometimes you visit me the same way.”

  Just tell me already, Aleah thinks. She’s about to change the subject completely when it dawns on her: Gypsy must have a crush on one of her Facebook friends. Something about this makes Aleah sad; her own problems seem suddenly trivial.

  “You’re chatting with someone online?” she says.

  “He wouldn’t be a Secret Sam if all we did was chat.”

  Now Aleah is concerned. She doesn’t know how, exactly, but she’s sure that poor Gypsy is about to get her heart broken.

  “What do you mean? What more can you do on Facebook?”

  “Who said anything about Facebook?”

  Aleah wheels Gypsy over to a bench and parks the chair so that they can sit facing one another.

  “What’s going on, Gypsy?”

  “Gosh,” Gypsy says, batting her eyes. “Why the long face? Is someone jealous?”

  Gypsy is in playful mode, which means it will be hard to get any real information out of her. Aleah gathers herself, tries to be the friend she imagines Gypsy wants.

  “I’m not jealous,” she says. “I’m happy for you. But the suspense is killing me.”

  Gypsy looks over each shoulder, adjusts the tubes in her nose.

  “Not fair,” she complains. “I can’t see the water from here.”

  Aleah stands, wheels Gypsy to the end of the bench and positions her chair so that they can sit side by side, both facing the lake.