He followed Katrina into the examining room, where the victim lay on a stainless-steel table. Salvatore tried to enter the tunnel. He scanned her body: no bruises, no burst blood vessels, the developed muscles of an athlete; if she were a junkie, she hadn’t been one for long.
He stood close, trying to hear what she could tell him. What happened to you? he asked her silently, staring at her face. Often, their eyes were open, but this woman’s were closed. She had a small tattoo of a teddy bear on her upper arm, the word “BEARY” underneath.
Who did this to you? Salvatore asked her.
Why the tattoo of a teddy bear?
Whose daughter are you?
Who loves you, and is wondering where you are?
He imagined her swimming, sinking, trying to claw her way up the side of the trail. Salvatore glanced at her fingernails: oval shaped. No polish. Clean. He saw her fighting to get air, but being held down by something.
Or by someone.
-7-
Barton Hills Mamas
CARLA G
Hey mamas, what is happening on the greenbelt? I took Waylon for a swim （I know, I know, the water’s got all sorts of diseases. No need to tell me. It’s 100 degrees and I needed a freaking break!） and down by Campbell’s Hole, there are cops everywhere. Homeless person down? Drunk teens? What is happening?
MAMATOCHLOE
I heard they found a dead body.
VICKI B
Oh, no. That’s so sad.
BOYMAMA
Jesus Christ, we left the UWS to move somewhere safe! What the hell?
NYCMOM
No joke, we paid almost two mil for a Brady Bunch house and our neighbor has Trump signage. Where on the UWS?! We were in Morningside Heights! But when a dude flashed Finnian’s nanny in Central Park （Finnian was asleep in the Peg Perego, thank God） I told my husband, “It’s Westchester or Austin!” He picked Austin. I’m not so sure. I traded my job and my friends for this.
VICKI B
What is wrong with you people? Someone died! A moment of respect for a lost soul, please!
NYCMOM
You’re right. I’m sorry.
BOYMAMA
Me, too. I get wrapped up in my own world sometimes. It is very sad that someone died. Homeless person? Please don’t hate me for asking. I’m a Democrat!
MARYKAYMOM
Don’t despair, ladies! We all need to stick together. LMK if you want an invite to my summer bash this Friday night. All are welcome! I just got the new City Gal Lip Plumper Kit in stock and I can’t wait to show you the magic of lip plumping. Plus margaritas!
ADMIN
The board is moderated closely to make sure everyone feels safe and respected, and corrective actions will be taken if we feel someone is abusing that. Please no solicitation on the Barton Hills Mamas list.
Janine, if you spam again, you will be removed.
MARYKAYMOM
Sorry! Just trying to be friendly! Come one, come all to my summer bash! 2104 Side Dip Cove at 5PM Friday!
ADMIN
Janine, seriously.
MARYKAYMOM
I totally apologize. All invited!
-8-
Whitney
WHITNEY’S CLIENT, GEOFF, LIVED at the Four Seasons Residences on Lady Bird Lake. Jules and Whitney had been to parties there, sipped wine on a balcony that overlooked the whole glittering city. One night, Jules had gotten tipsy and stumbled into a grandfather clock, breaking off a piece of wood. A small sliver: Whitney told him to find the hostess and apologize. Instead, he wrapped it in a napkin, handed the evidence to Whitney, and went to refill his Scotch. She’d been on edge for the rest of the evening, watching him drink more （his British accent growing stronger with every sip）， terrified someone would ask what had happened to the clock.
No one asked.
Wealth brought invisibility.
Whitney left the napkin in her empty champagne glass, placing it on the bar on her way out and trying to smile at the bartender who whisked the glass away.
* * *
—
AS GEOFF’S ASSISTANT HAD instructed, Whitney parked her car in the Four Seasons Residence Parking, then entered the Residence Lobby. Floor-to-ceiling white marble and a perfect temperature （she guessed 71 degrees） made Whitney feel as if she’d escaped hellish summer Texas, if only for a while.
In the center of the lobby, a Saarinen table held a stunning array of flowers in varying shades of lavender: dozens of glass vases holding delphinium and carnations surrounding a centerpiece of a hundred or more orchids. Whitney had read somewhere that Saarinen designed his iconic Tulip Table （a perfect circle of marble, quartz, or laminate somehow balanced on a single, cast-iron leg） to “clear up the slum of legs in the U.S. home.” Whitney appreciated both Saarinen’s creation and his sly, judgmental wit.
Circular orchid arrangements were hung overhead, in addition to at least a hundred exquisite, pale-purple, origami birds. Whitney moved toward the back wall of the enormous space, where a man with a white mustache stood between two towering birds made of paper. Whitney recognized them as the breathtaking work of the British sculptor Lisa Lloyd. Behind the man was a six-panel lacquer screen, golden cranes portrayed midflight. It was similar to one Whitney and Jules had seen at the Met during a New York trip. Painted in Japan in the late sixteenth century, the Met’s screen was titled Birds and Flowers of the Four Seasons.
The Four Seasons. Clever, thought Whitney.
“Hello, how may I help you?” asked the mustachioed man.
“I’m here for Geoff MacKenzie.” Whitney touched her silk caftan, her large gold earrings. Though Ballet Austin master classes kept Whitney a muscular size four, she’d stopped showing off her body recently. It felt freeing to wear flowing silks, though her Neiman Marcus shopper, Adele, had been surprised when Whitney sent a late-night, emailed request for caftans after watching a documentary about Elizabeth Taylor in her later years. “How about very short caftans…with heels?” she’d asked, and Whitney said sure.
“Can I get you a rainwater?” said the desk attendant—was that what he was called? “Butler” seemed apropos but outdated.
“No, but thank you,” said Whitney. She rubbed her sister’s locket between her fingers.
“Glass of something bubbly?”
“No, but thank you,” she repeated.
* * *
—
WHITNEY WAS NO LONGER surprised when her client was a boy in sweatpants. His T-shirt was emblazoned with the word GUCCI, which had been Whitney’s grandmother’s favorite brand. Geoff ambled from the gilded elevator toward Whitney as if he owned the place. Which, who knew, maybe he did. “Whitney,” he said. “I’m Geoff.”
“Very nice to meet you,” said Whitney. Geoff’s clasp was moist.
“Can I get a rainwater?” he asked the desk attendant.
“Of course, Mr. MacKenzie.”
“You da man,” said Geoff. The butler was a pro—he didn’t flinch.
As they climbed into Whitney’s Model X, Geoff noted, “Your car is so clean.”
“Red Bull?” asked Whitney. They always wanted Red Bull, these young internet-millionaires in sweatpants.
“You have green?” said Geoff, rolling down his window and tossing his rainwater into the street.
“Of course.” Whitney gritted her teeth, did not mention his littering, and gestured to the Platinum Yeti cooler she’d had installed in the back.
“Epic,” said Geoff. Whitney smiled. If he bought a doomsday bunker out in Buda, her commission would top six figures. He could have all the kiwi apple Red Bull he wanted.