“They must’ve wanted her to go back at the end of the week,” Trevor said.

“Where were these girls’ parents? I can’t believe they just let their teenage daughters go off with a thug like Esposito,” Melanie said, shaking her head.

Trevor shrugged cynically. “All Brianna had to do was say Whitney’s name, and her mom would be, like, How fast can I pay for your plane ticket? Buffy was pumped her daughter was hanging with a Seward. The Meyerses were Jewish, like me, and Holbrooke is WASP Central. Brianna didn’t fit in. Whitney taking her up changed everything for her socially.”

“What about Whitney’s parents? Were they totally out to lunch? I mean, these girls were only sixteen years old.”

“Yeah, Whitney’s parents were out to lunch. Out to something anyway. I was at her house a bunch, and I never once saw her parents. Her dad was always gone. Her mom stayed in her bedroom with the door locked, mainlining like OxyContin and vodka or some shit. If Whitney wanted to talk to her, she’d call her on the intercom, and most of the time her mom wouldn’t even answer.”

That certainly added up with the picture the tabloids painted of Charlotte Seward. Melanie briefly considered the implications of Whitney’s mother’s drug problem. Was it possible Charlotte had, knowingly or not, supplied the heroin that killed the girls? Perhaps she had a private stash and they swiped some? That would explain a thing or two-like why James Seward delayed calling the police.

“Dan, can you please make a note that we should interview Charlotte Seward right away?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, Trevor, did Esposito ever give any money to Brianna? Not Whitney. I’m talking about Brianna.”

A vein began to throb in Trevor’s temple. “I really wouldn’t know,” he said.

He avoided her eyes, and a light sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. Suspects held out on Melanie on a daily basis, but few were this obvious about it.

“I don’t believe you, Trevor,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Well, that’s rude,” he sputtered, flushing bright red. “Fine, then. Believe whatever you want. How should I know if Expo gave Brianna cash? I wouldn’t know that. Jeez.”

Melanie looked at him steadily. Trevor became even more uncomfortable and shifted in his seat.

Bridget Mulqueen had been shredding the label off a bottle of Poland Spring water, seemingly miles away mentally, but now she looked up. “Hey, Melanie, toss me that phone.”

“What?”

“Trevor’s phone. Chuck it over here.”

Melanie hesitated but then did as requested. Bridget began scrolling through the text messages.

“What are you doing, Bridget?” she asked nervously. All Melanie needed was Bridget erasing her evidence by mistake.

“I looked through these before. Hold on a second. Here it is. What’s this, Trev?”

Bridget held up the phone so Trevor could read the display. Without so much as a glance at it, Trevor thrust his chin out and said, “I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“Let me read it to you, then, jog your memory. ‘That lechuga is in locker 4703 near the Delta counter but only get it if something really happens to me then blow it all on something nice in my memory wuv u Bree,’” Bridget read.

Lechuga-“lettuce” in Spanish-was common parlance for cash among drug dealers, rap artists, and the teenagers who loved to imitate them. Melanie, Dan, and Trevor all stared at Bridget in astonishment.

“How much money is in the locker, Trevor?” Melanie demanded.

“Brianna wanted me to have it,” he whined.

“You’re in a lot of trouble already. Don’t make it worse for yourself. How much is in there?” Melanie said.

“Ten thousand,” he replied in a small voice, averting his eyes. Debriefing this kid was like taking candy from a baby, after the hardened characters Melanie was used to.

“Cash?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did Jay Esposito pay Brianna Meyers ten thousand dollars cash, Trevor?”

“Well, I can’t be a hundred percent sure, because she never came right out and said. But I have a pretty good idea Bree and Whitney were muling heroin for him.”

17

BUD HAD KEPT his phone off all day, because he knew Jay would be going ballistic trying to call him, and he just didn’t feel like listening to his bullshit. But when he turned the damn thing on and there were seven voice mails, every one of ’em a hang-up, he decided he’d better call back. Jay Esposito had been the same since their schoolyard days. If he smelled a rat, he’d move right in for the kill. Shoot first, ask questions later.

Despite the inconvenience, Bud knew he should call from a pay phone. He’d been thinking a lot about phone records these days, what would show up and what wouldn’t if someone were checking into things. At the end of the day, he wanted to get away clean. That was his main concern. So he’d been taking precautions for a while now. Not only to deflect attention away from himself but also to focus it on Jay. Like, he’d purposely called Jay last night from the phone on Whitney’s desk while Brianna lay dying. Jay said he wanted a report. Well, he got a fucking report, and it was like a big red arrow pointing the cops right to him, the prick. Bud had scores to settle with Jay going back to when they were five years old. Some big, some small, but the most recent one was a whopper. And he planned to get his revenge.

He knew of a phone in the back of a Korean grocery about ten blocks from his apartment, so he walked uptown for a ways, his scarf pulled up over his face, actually enjoying the sleet that the wind drove into his eyes. Soon enough he’d be in a warm, sunny place, all of this behind him.

He bought three packs of Dunhills from the skinny old Korean man behind the counter.

“Got a telephone?” he asked, as if he’d never been in the place before.

“Yuh. Back. Near beer.”

He headed toward the back of the small store. Bins of pungent-smelling root vegetables lined the shelves on either side of the narrow aisle, their strange odors assaulting him as he trod the uneven floor-boards. He got to the phone, checked to make sure he was alone, then dropped the quarter into the slot.

“Yeah?” Esposito answered. He had a whiny voice, high-pitched for a guy his substantial size.

“It’s me.”

“What the fuck, Bud! You said everything was all right! Then I wake up to Whitney in a fuckin’ body bag on the front page of the Post.”

Bud had already decided how he would handle this. The lies flowed like honey from his mouth.

“Everything was all right when I called you, but things went south. Shit happens sometimes in this line of work. You know that.”

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, pal! Those girls were prime merchandise. Seven trips I used Whitney, and every time she sailed through security like nobody’s business. You want somebody looks like a rich girl on vacation, hire a rich girl and send her on vacation. Where am I gonna get another one of those, huh? Answer me that!”

“Take it easy, Jay-”

“Don’t tell me to fuckin’ take it easy! You realize what you’ve fuckin’ done here, Bud? Young girl, fancy family. Not a lot of those willin’ to smuggle heroin in their bellies. And not only is she hard to replace, but with her dead now, the cops are gonna be fuckin’ all over us. Fuck.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Every other word out of his mouth, the lowlife. Learn another fuckin’ word, you fuckin’ prick. Bud could barely stand to be associated with him. He had to take a deep breath to calm himself before speaking.

“Look, you wanna blame someone, blame the Colombians, Jay,” Bud said, keeping his voice neutral with great effort. “They use cheap latex. You knew that since Mirta.”

Mirta Jimenez had dropped dead a while back in the bathroom at Marín Airport before she even got on the plane to New York. Jay was always careful to sit several rows behind the mules when he rode shotgun, so he wasn’t questioned in her death. He just got on the plane and flew to New York like nothing had happened, then took the opportunity to upgrade the quality of his employees by hiring Whitney Seward.