and we need to be careful.”
“You mean because she’s bloated and rotting with her face smashed in?”
“We should be sure we know who she is. We shouldn’t assume it’s the woman who lived in this house.” I’m not going to mention that the dead woman on the floor could pass for Carrie Grethen’s twin.
I think of my recent sighting of Carrie when she shot me in Florida, comparing that face with the photograph on Chanel’s driver’s license. The two women look eerily similar, and if I dared to suggest this I’ll sound obsessed and irrational. Marino would want to know why the thought has occurred to me now, and I can’t tell him I’m watching Carrie on my phone. Marino can’t know that. No one can. I’m not sure what the legal implications might be but I’m worried the video is a trap.
“What makes you suspect she isn’t the lady who lived here?” It’s Harold who asks as he squats by his scene case, packing it up.
My answer is a question. “Do we have any reason to think she might have been a scuba diver?”
“I’ve not seen any dive gear anywhere,” Marino says as Lucy appears in the video, unaware and casual. “But I noticed some underwater photographs in one of the rooms down the hall. I’ll look around some more after we get her into the van.”
I watch Lucy walking around her private space that Carrie has invaded and violated.
“I need a sample of Chanel Gilbert’s DNA, maybe from a toothbrush, a hairbrush,” I remind Marino but it’s hard to focus as I watch the image of my niece. “And let’s find out who her dentist is and get her charts. We’re not releasing her identity to anyone including her mother until we’re sure.”
“Seems like there’s a little problem with that,” Marino says but I’m no longer looking at him. “Someone alerted her mother, remember? And she’s on a plane headed here from L.A., remember? So if you’ve got any reason to think this isn’t her daughter … Well that will be a real shit show when Mama shows up.”
“Have you found out who might have notified her?” I ask.
“No.”
“Because it wasn’t us,” I repeat what I’ve said before. “I explicitly instructed Bryce not to release anything until I say so.”
“Someone sure as hell did,” Marino says.
“The housekeeper might have after she found the body,” Rusty suggests and it makes sense. “Maybe she notified the mother. That would be expected don’t you think?”
“Yeah maybe,” Marino answers. “Because let me guess. Mama probably paid for everything including the housekeeper. But we need to find out who got hold of her and told her the bad news.”
“What we need to know first and for a fact is who this dead woman is.” I glance up at Marino’s bloodshot eyes, then I look back down at my phone, at Lucy, in workout clothes, her rose gold hair as short as a boy’s.
She could pass for sixteen but was three years older than that when this was filmed, and watching her gives me an indescribable feeling. I feel enraged and sick. I keep reminding myself to feel nothing at all, and I barely glance at Rusty and Harold as they wheel the stretcher out the front door. I’m packing my scene case, tidying up as I watch the video playing on my phone and listen to it through my wireless earpiece.
Multitasking. I shouldn’t be.
Marino has begun walking around the house checking windows and doors, making sure everything is secure before we close up and head out. I’m not done. But I’m not staying. I’ll be back after I’m sure Lucy is safe—after I make damn sure she’s not the one who sent this recording to me.
I know my niece. I can tell when she trusts that whatever she’s saying and doing is private and unmonitored.
She believes her conversation with Carrie is between the two of them. It isn’t. I can’t imagine how Lucy would feel if she knew that in a sense I was inside that room with them. I may as well have been there then because I am now, and I feel disloyal. I feel I’m betraying my own flesh and blood.
“How was the gym?” Carrie’s eyes move around the room, finding cameras Lucy can’t see. “Crowded?”
“You should have done weights while you could.”
“Like I told you, I had things to take care of including a surprise.”
Carrie is in the same running clothes but there’s no sign of the machine gun. There’s no time stamp on the recording, only a run time of almost twenty minutes now, and I watch her open the small refrigerator.
“I brought you a present.” She grabs two St. Pauli Girls, pops off the caps and hands one of the green bottles to Lucy.
She stares at it but doesn’t take a sip. “I don’t want it.”
“We can have a drink together can’t we?” Carrie brushes her fingers through her peroxided buzz-cut hair.
“You shouldn’t have brought it here. And I didn’t ask you to.”
“You didn’t need to ask. I’m very thoughtful.” Carrie picks up the Swiss Army knife from the top of the refrigerator, resting the thick red handle in the palm of her hand, flipping open a blade with her thumbnail, and stainless steel flashes.
“You shouldn’t have done it without asking.” Lucy strips down to her sports bra and bikini briefs, and she’s sweating and flushed from exertion. “I get caught with alcohol in my room and I’m fucked.” She drops her clothing into a bamboo hamper I bought for her, grabs a towel and begins drying off.
“You’d better hope they don’t find out you have a gun in here,” Carrie says somberly and for the effect as she studies the knife blade shining thinly, sharply. “A very illegal one.”
“It’s not illegal.”
“Maybe it’s about to be.”
“What have you done? You’ve done something.”
“Well it would be a crime if it’s missing. But what the hell is legal anyway? Arbitrary rules invented by flawed mortals. Benton’s more or less your uncle. Maybe it’s not stealing if you took it from your uncle.”
Lucy walks over to the closet, opens the door, looks inside. “Where is it? What the hell did you do with it?”
“Have you learned nothing in the time we’ve been together? You can’t stop anything I want to do and I don’t need your permission.” Carrie looks directly into a camera and smiles.
I watch Lucy sit on a corner of the desk inside her dorm room, her tan muscular legs dangling. She’s getting visibly upset.
Light seeping around the edges of the closed blinds is different, and just seconds ago Lucy had her running shoes and socks on. Now they’re off. She’s barefoot.
