I came out to find Erin checking her phone. Even though she’d just knocked, she jumped when she saw me, like I was some manager who’d caught her slacking at work. She quickly shoved the phone into her back pocket and hurriedly finished putting a pair of Desiree’s shoes in a suitcase.
Seeing her cell reminded me of Desiree’s. “Did you and Desiree have Find My Friends set up?”
“Wish we did. The police said her phone was missing.” She paused for a second. “What was that noise in the bathroom?”
She probably already knew about the pregnancy test, but still, I played it cool. “Something fell. What did you mean before when you said she didn’t have a new dealer? Had she been using a lot lately?”
Erin grabbed the pile of clothes off the bed. “No, despite my best efforts.”
“When did she stop?”
“Honestly, I don’t remember. It was like one day we went to get margaritas and instead she got water.”
“Two weeks ago? Two months ago?”
“We were in Cabo, whenever that was.”
Three weeks ago. The secret social media stalking finally had been good for something.
“All I remember is that she didn’t want to talk about it,” Erin said. “Made a joke it was some ‘mid-year’s resolution.’”
I nodded like I was thinking it over when I was really thinking about how if Ms. Like a Sister hadn’t known Desiree was with child, Desiree hadn’t wanted anyone to know. The least I could do was keep her secret—while figuring out prospective fathers. Factor in the four weeks on the test and the Cabo trip, and I was looking at a point of conception seven weeks back. I just needed to figure out who she was having sex with at that time.
“Was it because of a guy?” She looked at me strange so I kept on. “You said she and Naut were off again. Thought maybe she’d already found a replacement, as part of her mid-year’s resolution.”
She shook her head. “They broke up a couple of months ago, but it was one of those long-drawn-out things, and she wasn’t seeing anyone new yet.”
Shitnuts. Figures it wouldn’t be that easy. Desiree was not above an occasional one-night hookup.
“I was surprised she invited Naut last night,” Erin said. “Surprised he came.”
I wasn’t sure how he factored into all this—ex-boyfriend, friend with benefits, baby daddy—but he was the one who’d told the police Desiree needed to see someone: me. That made him worth talking to as soon as I could. “You have his number?”
I motioned to the phone stuffed in her back pocket making her butt look as lumpy as an at-home Brazilian butt lift.
“I don’t. I tried to stay out of their relationship. She dragged me up to his place in Harlem once. They were arguing so much I finally said I needed to run to the drugstore and instead went to see a movie across the street. I can get his number, though.”
“That’s okay.” As soon as she’d mentioned the theater I knew exactly where he lived. “Let’s keep in touch, though.”
In case I had more questions. She rattled off a number with an area code I didn’t recognize. I immediately keyed it into my contacts, then texted her. “Get it?”
She nodded. “My butt just buzzed.”
“Great. I should get going.” I wanted to talk to Naut ASAP.
“No prob. I can finish.”
The place was still a mess. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You don’t want to check out?”
“There’s no rush.” Mel was paying for it, and I wanted to be able to come back if need be. “I’ll just put a privacy sign on the door.”
We went back into the living room of the suite. She grabbed her bag but hesitated, as if remembering Desiree was gone. “You’ll let me know about the funeral?”
“Of course.”
“Great. Let me know how I can help. I’d be happy to come up and see your grandmother’s town house. Desiree talked about it so much.”
I flashed on Erin in my neighborhood. Staring slack-jawed at the corner boys and the titis, avoiding the “New York rain” dispensed from overworked window air conditioners, covering her ears as the bass boomed from each passing car.
“I’d love to have you stop by,” I said.
*
I called Green as soon as I left. He was the last person I wanted to speak with but the best person to ask if Desiree was pregnant when she died. When he didn’t pick up, I left a quick message, asking him to call back.
Then I called Aunt E to tell her I’d be late and to eat without me. She was upset—I could hear it in her voice—but she wasn’t the type to complain. Still, for a second, I thought about going home. But then I reasoned I’d be there for breakfast tomorrow. Maybe by then I’d have an appetite.
By the time I hung up, I was a block from the subway. I caught the A, making the best use of the twenty-minute-ish ride to 125th figuring out a plan of action. I didn’t know Naut’s apartment number, but I was sure the buzzer had a directory. He was probably listed under his real name: Neil Marks.
If he wanted to know who I was, I’d say I had a package. If he wasn’t home, I’d wait until he was. If he asked how I’d known where he lived, I’d blame Erin. I’d blamed her for far worse since her photo first popped up on Desiree’s Instagram. If he didn’t ask, I’d act like I thought they were still together and gently ask about what had happened last night.
Satisfied I’d covered every possible scenario, I spent the rest of the trip searching out info on Desiree and Naut’s relationship. I started simple: Desiree’s name.
Google is like a mom who tries so hard to be helpful she just ends up being annoying and intrusive. Perhaps its worst offense is trying to predict the exact thing your nosy ass is trying to find. Pre–finally giving in to full stalker mode and setting up a Google Alert, I’d searched “Desiree Pierce” enough to know the top phrases related to her name. “Reality show.” “Net worth.” “Instagram.” “Father.” “Dating.” But a new suggestion had already been added: “Desiree Pierce dead.”
I’d been so focused on how Desiree had died, I’d managed to not think about how she was actually gone. Looking at those three words made my wrist itch. Was this what it was going to be from now on? I was prepared to avoid Usher songs and Lemon Drops and all the other ten billion things I knew would make me instantly think of her. It also looked like I’d have to add Google to that list. I’d have to find another search engine.
Desiree and DJ Naut had gotten together after I was long gone. Their relationship had started with a few Sightings mentions of her at his gigs. A tagged photo credit confirmed they were a thing.
A Google search showed a ho-hum white guy with straight brown hair, sleepy brown eyes, and one day’s worth of stubble all on top of a scrawny body. The type you’d pass on the street and never know he was one of the biggest names in music. He’d blown up in the time they’d been together—first as a DJ and more recently as a producer—peaking when he made the cover of Rolling Stone. It was a shot of him completely naked—besides some Calvin Klein tighty-whities and of course the helmet.