“They’re already inside.”
She nodded like the police being somewhere before you needed them was an everyday thing, then went back to work. I closed my eyes and just listened. Inside suite 1407, Erin was still screaming. I compared our reactions. I hadn’t yelled. I hadn’t cried. I hadn’t so much as frowned. Instead, I’d just paid for my Snapple, got on my bike, and headed to the playground, my Super Black Woman cape flapping behind me.
I needed a ride to clear my head. But my bike was miles away, and I was stuck here in this hallway, breathing stale air. If I couldn’t do that, I could at least meditate. I’d read an article once on “mindfulness” while cycling. It’d taken me a while, but I’d gotten good at it, often craved it like a pint of Graeter’s chocolate ice cream. The only problem was, I could never remember the chants they’d recommended. So I’d started using Biggie lyrics.
It’s all good, baby, baby.
Now I repeated the words over and over until I convinced myself it was better to be proactive than depressed. The Super Black Woman in me needed to feel like she was doing something. I went over what I wanted to ask Erin about Alfie, about Desiree’s drug use, and about why she had been in the Bronx. Once I felt prepared, I fired off another text to Zarah, waited all of 0.2 seconds, then did something I hadn’t done for two years: called Desiree’s phone.
That was how I spent the next hour, cross-legged on the floor, relentlessly calling in the hopes someone would answer. I’d give it four rings, hang up, and start again. If someone did have her cell, I wanted to annoy them so much they’d pick up just to demand I stop fucking calling.
But no one ever answered. After the kajillionth attempt, it was me who gave up. I finally let it go to voice mail as I stared at my Jordans and discovered Desiree had actually recorded an outgoing message. Hearing her voice was jarring.
It came with its own musical score, an Usher song from 8701. The album was a classic, and I recognized the beat immediately. We’d both always loved Usher. Desiree had let the instrumental play for a good thirty seconds before she finally spoke. “You don’t have to call. It’s okay, girl. You can just send a text. I’m not checking this anyway.”
I laughed. Sarcasm was as much a part of our genetics as freckles. Hanging up, I tried on the “Think positive” approach like it was a pair of yellow-toe Jordans. The phone hadn’t gone straight to voice mail. That meant it was still on wherever it was—even if whoever it was with wasn’t picking up. Maybe Zarah or someone had Desiree on Find My Friends.
I still hadn’t heard back from Zarah. I was about to call her when my phone rang. Aunt E.
Shitnuts. I hit the ANSWER button. “I’m sorry,” I said instead of hello. “I should’ve called as soon as I left the meeting.”
“No need to apologize. I spoke with Mel. I just wanted to see what time you’d be home so I could have dinner ready. I have everything I need for chicken ’n’ dumplings.”
Desiree’s favorite. I smiled. “Mel wanted me to pack up Desiree’s hotel suite.” I didn’t want to get into my growing concerns. At least not yet. “I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.”
“I’ll have dinner waiting.”
I hadn’t eaten all day and still wasn’t the least bit hungry. Maybe I’d have an appetite by the time I got home. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” She paused. “And Lena? Stay safe.”
“I will.” I meant it too.
I hung up and immediately went to text Zarah again. She was the type who either texted back within seconds or never at all.
You good?
The three dots appeared instantly, followed by two words.
No. You?
It took me longer to respond than it should have as I weighed telling the truth. I landed on not answering the question. Instead, I wrote: Was worried when you didn’t hit me back.
She responded. Sorry!!!! Avoiding messages. Even canceled my event tonight. Been trying to see my doctor all day. Finally reached him!!!
I again couldn’t help but contrast someone else’s reaction to my own.
Me: Don’t want to bug you but really need to chat.
She responded, Stop by anytime.
I thought of Aunt E’s dinner plans. Tonight okay?
Another quick response. I’ll be here.
She sent her addy in Tribeca and one final message. Love you, Lena!!!
We’d spent a lot of time together back when we both saw Desiree on a regular basis, but when I’d stopped speaking to Desiree, I’d inadvertently stopped speaking to Zarah as well. But still, I liked her.
Love you too, Z.
The door to the hotel suite opened. Finally.
Green stood there, surprised to see me still in the hall. I scrambled up or at least tried to. I’d been sitting so long my legs were asleep. Erin stood behind him, still dripping tears. They’d let her put on some clothes but not makeup. It would have been ruined anyway.
“All done?” I sounded hopeful. They had been in there so long they had to have questioned Erin about last night. I wondered what she’d told them.
He gave me what I’m sure he thought was a reassuring smile. “Not yet,” he said, and I deflated. “I just finished speaking with Ms. Ambrose, but Zizza still needs to search the suite.” Green glanced down the hall. “We need to check the safe, and the girl downstairs said she was on her way ten minutes ago.”
“I’m sure Zizza can’t wait,” I said. Then, “I might be able to help.”
He eyed me warily, like he knew I was just desperate to get inside. And I was, but I also really could help. “I know the code.”
Green made me wait a full thirty seconds before he let me in.
This time I was actually able to survey the suite’s living room. The interior decorator had gone with a less-is-more approach, though someone had done their damnedest to ruin the aesthetic. Stuff was everywhere. Clothes. Shoes. Cups. No food, though. No drugs either. As much as I wanted to blame it on Zizza’s searching, I couldn’t. Desiree had always treated her room like a pigsty. A side effect of growing up with a housekeeper. Meanwhile my mom had taught me to scrub a bath like it was a hard drive.
“It’s in the bedroom closet.”
Green was already heading over.
Erin immediately followed, leaving me to take up the rear. She kept glancing back at me, like an unsure eight-year-old encountering Santa Claus. I realized that just like I knew her, she knew me. That she’d probably heard Desiree talk about me. I could only imagine what was said.
Zizza was already going through the closet, holding up a little black dress like he was trying to decide if he needed a bigger size.
“Good news,” Green said. “She knows the code.”
Zizza took a step back and looked at Erin. “Great.”
“He meant me,” I said. “I’m the one who knows Desiree’s code.”
At least I thought I did.
Desiree had told me her phone code about three years ago when she was too drunk to make out anything except the Lemon Drop in front of her. I’d had to read texts to her like I was Siri. She later told me she’d used the same numeric code for everything. Identity thieves be damned. It wasn’t the only way she’d lived dangerously.