Mel nodded. He liked that. Shifting the focus to the big bad drug dealer.
Green flipped back to a clean page. “You know his name?”
“Alfie.”
Green paused ever so slightly before writing it down. “And last?”
I shook my head.
He tried again. “Contact info?”
I didn’t have it. Didn’t want to have it. “It’d be in her phone.” I gazed at the skyscraper across the street. “What if she went up there with him? Her dealer?” I didn’t check to see how they reacted, didn’t want them to even respond. “There’s a two-hour gap where no one knows what she was doing. Who she saw. Just that she was going to see someone, who you’re assuming is me. Her car is gone. You’re assuming it was stolen. There was only coke found on her, but you’re assuming she was using heroin. You saw what she had on last night. There’s no way she would’ve worn a sleeveless dress if she planned to have needle marks on her arm. They would not have gone with the outfit.”
I had his full attention now. He’d even put down his pen on Mel’s fancy-ass black desk. “They were on her thigh.”
I hesitated and hoped he wouldn’t notice. Thigh? “She was afraid of needles.” Even I could hear the desperation in my voice. “Ask her friends.”
“I’d be happy to do that,” Green said. “I want you both to know that we are exploring every avenue. When we spoke to Ms. Turner and Mr. Marks, they both insisted Desiree took no drugs at all. They denied knowing about the coke in her purse.”
Of course. They weren’t going to admit drug use to a cop. I finally looked at him. “Desiree didn’t pick her friends because they were George Washington.”
“Understandable. People can be protective of those they love. Sometimes too protective.”
That’s when I realized he was humoring me. He thought I was in denial about my sister’s extracurricular activities. Like I thought Desiree was some angel who baked brownies. And not the kind with weed in them.
I turned to Mel, desperate. “Mel, we both know that coke was Desiree’s go-to. Coke and alcohol. Even if you take away the needle thing, she was way too vain to mark up her body. Even a thigh.”
He stared at me. The silence felt longer than my last Netflix binge. Then he finally spoke. “He’s right, Melina. Desiree had changed a lot since you last talked to her.”
So I was finding out. Apparently, everyone thought she was different. Depressed. Moody. Doing drugs she’d never done before. In ways she’d never done before. But no one knew why. Why hadn’t anyone told me it had gotten this bad?
Mel addressed Green. “Like I said, I want this wrapped up as quickly as possible.”
They kept talking while I sat there fuming. I guess a daughter dying from a heroin overdose in the hood was at odds with Mel’s new incarnation. One clearly concerned only with his own reputation.
There was no way Desiree would have been able to inject heroin into her own body. I didn’t know who had helped her use—her dealer, a friend, a stranger she’d met at the party, a stranger she’d met in Highbridge. But someone must have, and it’d accidentally killed her. It was clear the police didn’t give a shit. I did, though. Whoever they were, I was going to find them. They couldn’t get away with it.
There were two things I needed to see: her friends and her phone. Either could tell me if she’d met with someone else last night. Since her cell was MIA, along with her car, I’d have to start with her friends. I was banking on them being less protective with me than they had been with Green. I spoke again. “What time will you be at the hotel? I’ll meet you there.” It had come out like a threat. And maybe it was.
“I don’t think—” Green said.
Mel cut him off this time. “That’s a great idea. Melina can pack up Desiree’s stuff, make sure everything is in order.”
I got the implication. My family obligation would be cleaning up after Desiree one last time. I smiled, sat back in my chair even though it was uncomfortable as hell. Mel could think what he wanted about why I’d volunteered. They both could.
Desiree had been in the Bronx for a reason.
She’d needed me.
I was going to find out why.
*
Back on the subway, I wished I’d brought my bike with me. It wasn’t much—a ten-year-old Schwinn—but it calmed me like nothing else could. Definitely more than mass transit. If you’re a New Yorker, there are just certain things you know about the subway. When a pregnant woman gets on, men with seats suddenly become fascinated by their phones. Once underground, cell coverage is spotty at best. And one never, ever, ever gets into an empty subway car during rush hour. Your nose will immediately hate you for it.
Luckily, the coverage gods were with me the whole fifteen-minute ride to the hotel. I spent it crowded next to some manspreader desperate to convince the world—and himself—he was rich. Rolex. Fancy suit. Gold pinkie ring. It all looked good at first glance. But on second glance the problems started.
The Rolex ticked.
The suit had plastic, painted buttons.
The gold plating was wearing off the ring.
Normally I wouldn’t have noticed, wouldn’t have cared. Other than a serious sneaker addiction—the only good thing to come out of my first relationship during my freshman year at Penn—I wasn’t much for material possessions. I only recognized the telltale signs of “Fake it till you make it” because of Desiree. She’d had the ability to tell a person’s entire net worth with just a once-over. There were worse party tricks.
She had always been into things, another of her addictions. Another way to chase the high, being the first to wear this or purchase that. But like coke, it was all temporary. If she were here, no doubt whining about why we were taking the subway instead of an Uber, she would’ve pointed out his missteps one by one—to him and to me—from his overgrown hair down to the uneven seams on his shoes.
I, however, had more important things to do, like check social media. It would not be the first time I’d spent an entire subway ride on Instagram. I had an account. Technically. I’d caved and gotten one I kept on private after starting grad school. My posts were few and far between, and never included my face. I’m sure the few friends I still had had forgotten I even had an account. And whereas I only accepted follow requests from people I knew, I followed with abandon, fully embracing the twenty-first-century version of stalking. Natural-hair influencers. Cooking experts. Gossip gurus. A therapist would have a field day with how my behavior was a holdover from my childhood, the only time I spent with my family through the pages of magazines. But I had never followed Desiree’s account. Never commented. Never liked. That didn’t mean I hadn’t seen every post—even though it’d meant continually having to search out her username. Like I did now.
The RIP comments were still coming fast and furious on her most recent post. But I didn’t care about that one. I’d seen it already. Had analyzed it like a forensics expert. I cared more about the others. Instagram wasn’t known for its honesty. It was filtered in more ways than one.
Though Desiree had technically celebrated the big twenty-five on the Omni hotel’s rooftop, in reality she’d celebrated it on Instagram. Every moment had been properly captured, filtered, posted, or storied. While I’d checked out each post earlier, I’d been focused on Desiree. This time I wanted to see who had been around her, hovering in the background. If I just zoomed in enough, maybe I could use some warped Spidey sense to figure out who had given her the heroin.