The Mirror and the Mask (24 page)

“You look like a million bucks.”

“You do, too,” said Annie. She'd never seen him in a suit before and could easily imagine him as a doctor. He looked older, somehow. More substantial. It was still early, not quite ten, but already she could tell by the glassy look in his eyes that he'd been at the bourbon. His mother would be buried at St. Jude's Cemetery in Woodbury in a few hours. He seemed preoccupied and probably needed something to dull the pain, which under the circumstances was understandable.

“Sunny should be there this morning,” said Curt. “I can't think about anything else.”

“Maybe she'll turn up at the cemetery.”

He shook his head. “At least the police are taking her disappearance seriously. What if something really bad happened to her? What if she's . . . dead?”

Annie turned to him. “You can't think like that.”

“How am I supposed to think? Nobody's seen or heard from her since Saturday morning. She wouldn't just take off, not without calling me. That leaves two options. She's alive but unable to communicate. Or she's dead.”

Annie didn't know what to say. “You have to stay positive.”

“Why?” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Why'd you go see that woman last night? Lawless, right? Jack told me she's a dyke.”

Annie turned back to the mirror, sprayed herself with perfume. “She's a friend.”

“How'd you meet her?”

“I needed money. I walked into a restaurant she owned and asked her for a job as a bartender.”

“And she gave it to you? Just like that?”

“No, she let me work at some other jobs first. Cleaning up a room that had been flooded. Restocking. Some prep work in the kitchen.”

“And all the while she took the opportunity to get a good look at how gorgeous you are.”

“What's that mean? That I slept with her to get the position of head celery chopper?”

“Did you?”

“You're pissing me off. What I do is my own business. You don't own me, just because you're letting me stay here.” She tried to move past him, but he blocked the door.

“You didn't get home until after three. What were you doing all that time?” He grabbed her hand.

She tried to twist it free. “You're hurting me.”

“Tell me.”

Shoving him away, she said, “We only talked for a few minutes.
I spent the rest of the time driving around. I needed to think.” She went into the bedroom and started folding her clean clothes.

“About what?”

“Look, you keep grilling me like this and I swear, I'm out of here. I don't want to leave you today of all days, but I will. Back the hell off.”

Turning away from the door, he said, “I need some air.”

“If we're going to make it to the funeral on time, we need to leave soon.”

She waited for a response, but instead heard the front door shut.

“Damn it,” she muttered. She sat down on the bed and put her head in her hands. She should have known this would happen. Everything was getting way too complicated. This was where she usually checked out.

“Dooley,” she called. “Come here, boy.” She needed to take him outside before they left. “Dools? Come on. Front and center.” When he didn't show, she went into the living room. His favorite spot was the end of the couch, tucked into a bright red feather pillow. But the couch was empty. “Dooley,” she called again, searching each room. “Dooley,
come
,” she said, standing in the middle of the kitchen, feeling her heart begin to race. Had he somehow managed to get out without anyone noticing?

Grabbing her coat, she charged down the outer hallway to the elevators, calling Dooley's name the entire way. On the ground floor, she hurried out the front door, looking in every direction. “Curt?” she shouted. “Curt, where the hell are you?” She noticed a man leaning against a minivan, smoking a cigarette. She asked if he'd seen a little black dog with a red collar—or a man in a blue suit—leave the building. He said no, that he'd been standing there for a few minutes and no one had come out.

Annie rushed back inside and took the elevator down to the parking level, thinking Curt might have left and taken Dooley with him.
But his BMW was in his parking space. Standing in the damp cold of the underground garage, it occurred to her where they both might be.

She took the elevator up to six, raced to the door that led up to the roof. Sure enough, the door was open. Charging up the stairs, she found Curt sitting on a low, narrow ledge about fifty feet away. He was holding Dooley. The sight of the two of them, perched so precariously, with the far bank of the Mississippi beyond and nothing but air in back of them, made her stomach lurch. Curt's head was turned away, but Dooley saw her and tried to wiggle free.

“Time to go,” she called, trying to keep her tone casual.

Curt gripped Dooley to his chest and turned a cold gaze on her.

“Curt? Come on. I'll drive.” She wondered how much he'd had to drink. If he was even the slightest bit dizzy, he could easily lose his balance, fall backward. With a quick intake of breath, she realized that
that
was the point. All he had to do was shift his weight just a fraction and they'd both be gone.

“Curt?” She crouched down. “Let Dooley go, okay?”

He glanced up at the sky. “It's a beautiful day. People shouldn't be buried on beautiful days.” He paused. “You remember the day my mom died?”

“I'll never forget it.”

“You remember I called you and asked you to come to the house.”

“Yes.”

“How did you know where the house was? I never gave you the address.”

“I—” She rose slowly from her crouching position. He must have been holding the question back, waiting for just the right moment. She hated him for that calculation. All the time she'd spent with him, he'd been saving this juicy little question to spring on her when he needed it. “After the night we met at that bar, I did some research on your family, drove out to your parents' home just to take a look.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity.”

He stroked Dooley's head. “Because I was thinking, maybe you're a lot like my mother. Maybe you were looking for a meal ticket. When you saw how rich my family was, you decided to be nice to me.”

“It was nothing like that.”

“You're less obvious about it than my mom. That was a smart move a few minutes ago, threatening to leave. But you wouldn't do it, would you. That's not how you see this playing out.”

“Curt, just let Dooley go. Give me five minutes and we'll be gone.”

“You're good. You're really very good.”

“And you're an asshole.” Her fists clenched inside her coat pockets. “I thought you were a nice guy, that you might be worth the trouble, but you're just like every other jerk I've ever known. You want to own me. And if you can't, then you want to punish me. Go ahead. End your useless, fucking life. It'll hurt like hell if you take Dooley with you, but I refuse to beg.”

His face was impassive.

She didn't see the tears until he turned his head and sunlight glinted off them. Dropping his arms, he set Dooley on the ground.

She bent down and gathered up the little dog.

“Do you love me?” he asked.

“You said honesty was overrated.”

“I want the truth.”

She hugged Dooley, sinking her face into his fur. “Not now, that's for sure.”

He started to get up but teetered backward.

Annie held her breath.

And then he fell forward onto the cold tar roof.

Dooley struggled to go to him, but Annie wasn't about to let him out of her arms until they were off the roof.

Curt rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky. Slowly, he got to his feet. Tears flowed in rivulets down his cheeks. “I
am
an asshole,”
he said, weaving toward her. “I don't deserve someone like you.” He draped his arms over her shoulders with Dooley between them, his body heaving in deep, guttural sobs.

“You need professional help,” said Annie, repulsed by the smell of booze, by his bottomless need.

“I know.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped away the tears. “If you stay, just a few more days, if you go to the funeral with me, I promise I'll find a therapist.”

“That's blackmail.”

“It's all I've got to make you stay.” He dropped his arms to his sides. “Please stay.”

He seemed so fragile. She hated the manipulation, but at the same time, she knew what desperation felt like. It could make a person do ugly things. “You have to keep your promise.”

“I will. You'll stay?”

“For a while.”

 

 

 

I
n one week, Kristjan's life had completely fallen apart. He'd been staying at a cheap motel since Saturday night, much the worse for wear. Living out of a suitcase had never been his idea of a good time. But the worst part of it was, he was desperate to see his kids. He even missed Barbara, if that was possible at such a late stage in their broken relationship. He couldn't work; he barely had the energy to leave the room when he was hungry. He was at the lowest point in his life and didn't see any way out. He needed to make it through one more event—Susan's funeral. After that, he wasn't sure what would happen.

Standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, using a cheap razor and shaving foam because Barbara had forgotten to pack his Norelco, he thought about the phone conversation he'd had yesterday with his lawyer.

Dave Chen was a real estate attorney and a good friend. Kristjan explained what had happened. Dave listened, asked a lot of questions, but in the end said he wasn't qualified to help with either the
criminal or the marital matters. He advised Kristjan to find lawyers who could—fast. Kristjan lied to him about the sites Barbara had found on his laptop. He said he'd read about them in a magazine and couldn't believe something like that existed. He said he had to see it for himself. Even though Kristjan figured he was getting better at lying, he had the sense that Dave didn't believe him.

While they were talking, Dave mentioned that a lot of people had come through his office lately who were having both financial and marital problems. With the recession, the two seemed to go together. He said that money insulated people. It kept them happy and occupied with playthings, vacations, entertainments. Take away the money and allow people to get a good look at the guts of their relationship—and at each other—and many ran screaming for the door. Top that off with multiple mortgage obligations, houses that had sunk in value, and hefty credit card balances, and some marriages simply fell off a cliff of their own debt. Kristjan didn't tell Dave about his own financial problems. After the picture Dave had painted, what was the point? The image was straight out of Kristjan and Barbara's own living room.

Once he was done with the call, Kristjan got to thinking. If it was possible to take Susan's death off the table—he hoped it would be ruled an accident or that Jack would be arrested—and if he could get Barbara to believe she wasn't the target of a murder plot—another big if—what then? The first thing on the block when they considered a divorce was the house. But selling the house, with two mortgages attached to it, and the fact that it wasn't worth anywhere near what they'd paid for it, would mean only more crushing financial woes. Barbara's job loss meant that Kristjan and the kids had no medical insurance, at least until they could work something out with Northland Realty. And without their combined incomes, they'd never be able to cover the bills, which would only sink them deeper. What if they did sell the house and get divorced, where would they live?
Some cheap little apartment? What kind of life would that be for the kids?

Kristjan wiped his face with a towel, assessing the damage he'd done with the razor. Three nicks. He slapped tiny pieces of toilet paper over the cuts and walked out of the bathroom. At least Barbara had thought to pack his black suit. It was a little wrinkled, but he could live with it. He dug through the suitcase until he came up with a tie that didn't seem too flashy for the occasion. And then he sat down on the bed, completely enervated. He wasn't the kind of guy to cry in public, but he had a feeling he'd be crying today. “I miss you, Susan,” he whispered, his gaze drifting out the window. “I'm so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?” “I'm sorry”—the most useless words in the English language.

As he unbuttoned and flipped up his collar, his cell phone rang. It was lying on the nightstand right next to him. “Hello,” he said. His voice was devoid of emotion. He hoped it wasn't one of his clients.

“Mr. Robbe? This is Sergeant Sterling.”

“Oh, hi.” He ran a hand over his mouth, sat up a little straighter.

“I need you to come down to the police station this afternoon. Say, three o'clock?”