After I'm Gone Read online

  “Mine,” Helena said again. Tatiana moved on, unperturbed.

  She probably should call Linda.

  1:00 P.M.

  Sandy felt as if he had been working with Nancy Porter forever. He had never been partnered with a woman before. There had only been two in homicide, and one of them was a head case. But Nancy Porter was the real deal. He had trouble remembering she was a woman, even though she was pretty girly. She was good police. Even had the old-school Baltimore accent, all those vowels.

  Plus, she agreed with him, most of the time. That never hurt.

  “How do you want to play this?” she asked now, very deferential, although it seemed increasingly evident that it would be a county case. Later, if it got written up in the papers—and this case was definitely going to get written up in the papers—his decision to execute the search warrant on Bambi Brewer’s apartment would be called a hunch. True, he hadn’t known what to expect. He just believed that Julie Saxony went to that house on July 3, 1986, and probably died there. He had thought he might find a gun among Bambi’s possessions, maybe even a casing in the old house. But it was the oddity of that one shoebox, in what was otherwise a very uncluttered, serene apartment. An accumulation of papers so meaningless that they had to be meaningful.

  “She’s not an experienced liar, this one,” Sandy said. “Her mom’s not very good, either, but she’s even worse. She’s a nice lady, she’s used to doing and saying things that people want to hear. I think everything she’s told us is the truth. She stopped talking, though, when things got serious. She shut down fast.”

  “Is it possible that she thinks her mom did it?”

  “I think it’s more likely that she realizes her mother suspects her and is trying to save her. Mom probably thought it was slick, but it gives us more leverage. This isn’t a girl—”

  “She’s a woman,” Nancy said, manner mild. “She’s fifty.”

  Why had he said girl? “But she seems young, doesn’t she? Younger and older than she should be.”

  Nancy thought about this. It was another thing he liked about her, how she wasn’t a rat-a-tat, wisecrack person. He had never been good with those types.

  “She takes care of others,” Nancy said. “Even more than an average mom would. I can see why she wanted to be a mother badly enough to do it so old. I’ve got two kids now and I can barely keep up with them and I’m only thirty-five. I had this aunt, whose father died when she was really young, eleven or so, and she had to become her mother’s mainstay. That was my mom’s word—poor Evie, she’s the ‘mainstay.’ If Rachel didn’t do this, she knows who did, or thinks she knows. She’s still in protection mode. She knows something and she’s desperate not to tell us.”

  “Desperate enough to take a murder charge?”

  Nancy smiled. Lenhardt had told Sandy that she particularly loved interrogations, especially with women. It was a specialty of sorts with her. “Let’s go find out.”

  1:00 P.M.

  Bert met Rachel at the Baltimore County police headquarters. He looked as exhausted as she felt. They were left alone in a room that was far more like the rooms she had seen on television than Rachel would have thought possible.

  “Bert, why is Mother claiming she killed Julie? She couldn’t possibly have.”

  “Of course she didn’t do it. But she was clever enough, if you want to call it that, to say she did it on July fourth, not third. She was at the beach until the evening of the third. She couldn’t have been home much before eight or nine.”

  Rachel sighed. “I was there. On the third. Julie Saxony came by and said our father had sent for her. I hit her, Bert. I actually tore an earring out of her ear. I was so mad—first our money, now our father himself. I know it’s not her fault that Daddy got arrested, or even that he ran away. But everything else, all the hardships—that was because of her greed. And for Daddy to send for her—”

  “She was probably lying, just to hurt you. Your father’s women—look, I can’t change the fact that they existed, but none were special. The girls were like Cadillacs to him.”

  “You mean, he drove them for two to three years then traded them in.” She was trying to make a joke, but her mouth crumpled and it was all she could do not to cry.

  “Yes, pretty much. But—it was changing, Rachel. He was changing. Do you want to know why? It was because of you and Linda. As he saw you come into womanhood—I mean, Julie was what, seven years older than Linda? I think, in some ways, running was part of changing for him. He saw a chance to start over, to be a better person.”

  “Mother said he was a coward.”

  “Well, he wasn’t brave. But he didn’t think he would survive prison. He had some blood pressure stuff, cholesterol. A family history of diabetes. He wasn’t built to serve time, Rachel. He knew that about himself. Your dad, whatever his faults—he never had any bullshit about who he was. Your mom is a thousand times braver than he is. That’s why she’s willing to go to prison for you.”

  “But I didn’t do anything. I mean, okay, yes, I assaulted her. But you know what I did then? I apologized. Yes, I apologized to my father’s girlfriend for what I had done. Helped her clean up, offered to take her to an ER. And you know what she said? ‘That’s okay, I’m headed to Saks. I’ll buy something nicer. And I’ll be on the Pacific coast of Mexico before the day is through.’ ”

  “She said that?”

  “Yes. Uncle Bert—for years, for fifteen years, I assumed that she was with Daddy and it broke my heart. Then her body was found and I was, like, ‘Oh, so she was lying.’ I decided she must have ripped someone else off. I mean, if she stole from us, then she might have stolen from any number of people. I figured she burned someone and finally got what was coming to her. I didn’t see how it could be connected to Daddy. But the detective said, ‘Why not?’ and now I wonder: Why not? Did he set a trap for her? Did she have something on him? Maybe he found out what she did and arranged for her to be killed. He would have been angry, right, if he knew that she had stolen our money?”

  “Yes—he would have been very angry about the money. But Rachel, baby, no one has heard from your father, ever. I can guarantee you that. Not me, not your mother. He’s gone. He was gone from our lives the day he left.”

  Rachel allowed herself a smile at the way that Bert, after all these years, would not admit to having any knowledge of her father’s planned flight. God, Bert was loyal.

  “Rachel, there is one thing I have to ask you. You told your mother and your mother told the police that Julie Saxony gave you money. Is that true?”

  “I don’t want to tell you, Bert. I know you’re my lawyer and you’ll be bound by the usual rules, but you’re also a family friend. You’ll have trouble being just my lawyer. As my uncle, my mother’s friend, you’ll want to tell her. She must never know, Bert, how I got that money.”

  “You can’t lie to the police.”

  “Okay, so I’ll just tell them I made an arrangement that has nothing to do with this. That’s true.”

  “I can keep secrets,” he said. “You’d be surprised at what I can compartmentalize.”

  Rachel had an image of her younger sister, sitting on a gleaming white toilet, a glass of champagne in her hand, a napkin full of cookies spread on what little lap she had.

  “Michelle’s problem. With the IRS agent. Did she tell you who her lover was?”

  “Just that he was married.”

  Rachel smiled. “Ah, but, see, you’ve already told more than you should. You should have said, ‘What problem with the IRS?’ You should have feigned shock. Married lover? Michelle had a married lover? And you’ve probably told Mother everything, long ago. I can’t afford to tell you this, Bert. I can’t. Because if my mother knew how I got that money, the decision I made—she would blame herself. And she shouldn’t, she mustn’t. It was absolutely the right thing to do and I’ve never regretted
it.”

  “Rachel, we’re talking about murder.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t kill anyone. So I hit her. So what? You think they would go to trial with so little evidence?”

  “Yes, they might go to trial. Especially if you don’t tell them where you got the money to pay your mother’s mortgage. It will be expensive, a trial. And what if they petitioned to lock you up without bond? You’ll miss work, too, and I know your household can’t afford that. You don’t have to tell them everything, but I need you to tell me everything. It’s the only way I can represent you effectively. Today, they are going to run back and forth between us and your mother, comparing notes, looking for every discrepancy. What if they decide it was a conspiracy, or that your mother is an accessory? She did find the earring, apparently, and she did pawn it. She assumed you had done something to Julie. And when Julie’s body was found—that’s why it hit her so hard. Not because of the publicity, but because she had worried, all those years, that you had done something awful, and here was the proof.”

  “Look, Uncle Bert, I’m not scared. I didn’t kill anyone. And the money I gave my mom all those years ago—it was legal. Perfectly legitimate. I even paid income tax and gift tax on it, made sure everything was on the up and up. That’s why I said a different amount.”

  “Really, that’s interesting because—” Bert stopped himself.

  “Because it didn’t come up? When that IRS agent decided to go through Michelle’s filings, then Mother’s? He had the fact that Mother paid it off, but as the recipient, she wasn’t obligated to report anything and he probably didn’t think to pull my file, or Linda’s. Because he was just some stupid guy, in a snit over being rejected by Michelle. His own bosses saw that much, right?”

  “Your sister got lucky. The agent’s misuse of his position was more of a problem than some married ku fartzer who, unlike you, didn’t follow the letter of the law and report a car, a watch, and a fur coat as gifts.”

  “Ku fartzer.” Rachel laughed. “You never speak Yiddish, Uncle Bert, unless you really dislike someone.”

  The detectives knocked, entered without being asked. It was their room, after all.

  “Are we ready to talk?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said.

  They did their stage business with their tape recorder, got out their pads.

  “Late in the morning of July 3, 1986, Julie Saxony came to my mother’s home, where I was staying alone. She told me she had been summoned by my father and that she was going to him. I got angry, I hit her, I knocked a pierced earring from her lobe—the right, I think.” She mimed the fight for herself, the leap from the back, the ineffectual punch, the grab—yes, it had been the right. “I was shocked at myself. I had never drawn blood on another person in my life. The sight of the blood—I went to get a towel. I even offered to try to wash her dress, or pay for the dry cleaning, but—” She stopped. “Am I allowed to ask you questions?”

  “You’re allowed to ask,” the male detective said.

  “What was she wearing? When she was found? I mean, the clothes were there, right? Even after fifteen years, there would be some trace of the fabric?”

  The detectives didn’t answer.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you then. If Julie Saxony was not found in a two-piece pink linen dress, a sheath with a matching bolero-style jacket, then she changed clothes after I saw her. She said my father would buy her a new dress. She probably bought something herself. She wouldn’t want to go see him looking less than her best. That’s the last thing she said to me. ‘I’m headed to Saks. I’ll find something nicer.’ I’m right, aren’t I? She wasn’t wearing a pink outfit when she was found.”

  The detectives looked unimpressed. Then Bert said: “They would rot, Rachel. After all that time. Her clothes would rot.”

  “But we’ll try to match your description against the statements taken at the time,” said the male detective. “I think she was wearing a pink outfit, according to her chef.”

  “What about the purse? I remember—she was all matchy-matchy. Really, a little tacky, like someone’s idea of what a lady should look like. I know you found the purse because it was reported, her ID was in it. It was more of a makeup bag, the old-fashioned kind, for traveling. Pink, to match the dress. If she bought a new outfit, she might have bought a new purse, too.”

  The detective flipped a Polaroid at her. “It was the same purse.”

  “Well—maybe she just bought a dress, but found one to match the shoes and purse. Maybe—”

  “Maybe,” the female detective said, “maybe, we should stop playing the home version of What Not to Wear and go over this once again. Because the only thing you’ve managed to get right, for sure, is your description of this purse. That’s dead-on perfect. So, congratulations, we’re convinced: You saw Julie Saxony the day she was killed. What are you not telling us, Ms. Brewer?”

  “I’ve told you everything I know. Julie Saxony came to my mother’s house. We had a fight. I never saw her again.”

  “And a week later”—the male detective consulted his notes—“your mother paid off her mortgage. With money Julie Saxony provided you, before or after you tore out her earring.”

  “Okay, that was a lie. The money wasn’t from Julie. It was mine, but I prefer not to talk about it.”

  “You taking the Fifth?” Detective Sanchez smiled as if that were hilarious.

  “No, not exactly. Exercising my rights to privacy, I guess.”

  Two pairs of eyebrows shot up at that, almost comically in unison.

  “Maybe she did have your father’s money,” said the woman, Nancy Porter. “Maybe she shows up and she has your father’s money and she tells you that she’s going to him with his money. Now that’s a reason to hit someone, pull out an earring. You were trying to stop her.”

  “I was very emotional.” Rachel paused. “I mean, more than you might realize. I was just . . . emotional.”

  “Sure.” Detective Sanchez jumping in. “Because here’s this woman and she’s got your family’s money and she’s come to rub it in your mom’s face. Your mom. I mean, I don’t know how you grew up, but where I grew up, someone said shit about your mom—tu madre—kaboom!” He banged his fist into his palm.

  The woman detective nodded. “I know. Same with the Polacks, my people. I mean, it’s universal, as far as I know. People can say anything to me they want. But my mom? My mom or my kids. I bet you feel the same way. I mean, you were the one trying to take care of your mom. You put yourself on the line for her, right, going to see Julie Saxony the week before? Bad enough to have this woman say No, I’m keeping your daddy’s cash—”

  “To be fair,” Rachel said, “she said she never had it.”

  “And you care about fairness, don’t you, Rachel?” Sanchez now. Rachel felt as if she were in some dizzying dance, an Apache, being tossed back and forth between two partners. “It matters to you. You’re a very principled person. Here was this woman who, even if she didn’t have your father’s money, she slept with him. A married man, with three daughters.”

  “He didn’t have three daughters when it started.”

  “See, there you go again, being fair. People think empathy is a good thing and it is. But, sometimes, when you’re feeling what everyone is feeling—being fair—you lose yourself a little. There you were, in your mom’s house—why were you in your mom’s house?”

  “I had left my husband and lost my job. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “So that’s why you were emotional. I mean, no wonder.”

  Rachel paused. “Sure,” she said. “That’s why I was emotional.”

  “You say ‘sure’ like you’re being polite. Like that’s not it, but you just want to make this conversation go away.”

  “No, you’re reading too much into it. Yes, I was emotional. Marc—I had been in love with him since I was sixteen.” Rach
el had never admitted this to anyone. But here, in this room designed to elicit confessions, it made sense to say the things she had never said to anyone. She had been in love with Marc from the moment she had first seen him. She had not thought herself worthy. Then one day, five years later, he deigned to notice her, to ask her out, even though he was superior in every way. Handsome, the better student, the better poet, from the better family. Marc’s only flaw was that he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. Then, faster than seemed possible, she was twenty-four and she had given up the love of her life, and all the dreams that went with it. From a distance of twenty-five years plus, on the other side of what she now knew was her right life, her correct life, she could see the folly of it. But at twenty-four, she was raw and crazy and shortsighted and she jumped on the back of her father’s girlfriend and tore an earring from her ear.

  Later, in the bathroom, there had been spotting. On her T-shirt, but in her underwear, too, and that had perplexed her. How could there be blood in her underwear? And then she remembered—oh, yeah, they said there could be spotting. They also had recommended against vigorous exercise. Did jumping on your father’s girlfriend count as vigorous exercise?

  “I left my husband because he was unfaithful to me. He wanted me to stay. But his mother was delighted. She had hated me, hated being associated with my family. When I learned of my mother’s financial problems, I went to his mother and said I would leave him, if she would tear up the prenup and give me three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Most of the money went to my mother, the rest to taxes. I needed some, to tide me over until I found a job. And for other things.”

  “Other things.”

  Rachel looked at Bert: “You can’t tell.” But she didn’t wait for him to agree. She took a deep breath and said out loud the thing that no one knew about her. Not her mother, not her sisters, not Joshua. “I was thirteen weeks pregnant. My mother-in-law didn’t know. But my husband did. I had an abortion, and I told him. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to make things final between us, over forever and ever, with no hope of reconciliation. And I did. I had an abortion on July first, then went to my mother’s house to recuperate.”