I rolled my eyes. Matt grunted. Then the girl wrapped her arm around my ex’s biceps and we were off.
The weather had turned colder by now, and Hudson Street was practically deserted. We strolled through the shadows on the empty sidewalk, past closed storefronts, parked cars, chained-up bicycles, and the redbrick fronts of restored Federal-style town houses.
The girl continued to coo what a gentleman Matt was. He didn’t say much, but I could see he was soaking it up. Her flirting was cute and innocent, nothing like the sophisticated temptress persona she’d projected while performing back at the White Horse. She seemed naive, too, but also funny and open, and (unlike the woman she’d been paid to impersonate) easy for me to like.
She told us she’d been living in New York for only about six months, something I could believe, given her bubbly optimism. The city usually beat it out of girls like her in a year or two.
“I came here to become a Broadway star,” she said, “but the only steady work I could get was dancing at a club uptown. These side jobs with an agency pay a lot more, though.”
“Agency?” I asked.
“It specializes in look-alike strippers. Funny, huh? They’ve got guys doin’ it, too. There’s a Matt Damon and a Brad Pitt. They even got a Mel Gibson, but he’s so old, I can’t imagine anyone wanting Mel to strip for ’em, can you?”
Matt shot me an exasperated look. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
Curious, I couldn’t help asking, “Have you ever done the Breanne act before?”
“Only once, for some guy’s birthday party at the New York Journal.”
Hearing that, Matt grunted and gave me the I-told-you-so look.
“I’m usually tapped to do Uma,” the girl said.
“Uma Thurman?” I asked. “The actress?”
The dancer rolled her eyes. “Who else? How many girls named Uma do you know?”
“Well, I—”
“For Uma, I keep my hair blond like tonight for Breanne Summour, but instead of the suit and briefcase I wear this sweet li’l yellow jumpsuit and carry a samurai sword—”
“Excuse me?” I broke in again. “Did you say a samurai sword?”
“From Kill Bill. You know, the movie? Uma played a kick-ass assassin!”
“Wild guess,” I said. “When you’re dressed as Uma, you don’t have any problem with mashers.”
“You’re right about that one, honey!” The girl snorted. “I just point the tip of my li’l ol’ Japanese blade to a certain part of the horndog’s anatomy, and he’s hightailin’ it right down the road!”
We both laughed so hard that Matt had to stop us from stepping into oncoming traffic. We waited for the few cars to pass. Then I looked up and noticed we were almost home. I could see the golden light spilling from the Blend’s tall windows just a block away.
“I haven’t given up, though,” the girl chattered on. “I’m just starting out. I’m going to make my mark on this town!” she declared to the century-old buildings.
That’s when I heard the pop, like a car backfiring, only not as loud. The sound merged with a hollow thump that seemed much closer. I turned to see the dancer’s face had blanched whiter than milk froth. She staggered forward. Her mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. Then she fell to the pavement.
“My God!” Matt lunged to catch the girl, but her body dropped too fast.
Eyes wide and staring, bone china arms spread like a discarded doll, Breanne’s look-alike was dead an instant later. Her seeping blood on the hard sidewalk was the last mark on New York she’d ever make.
Four
Within seconds of the girl’s collapse, Matt and I had called 911. Now we stood staring as two FDNY paramedics attempted to breathe life back into a motionless mannequin.
From the grim expressions on their faces, I knew every last vital sign pointed to one conclusion. Resigned to the inevitable, the men snapped off their latex gloves and withdrew.
I stepped back into a nearby doorway and sank like a defeated boxer onto the chilly concrete stoop. Matt followed, but he didn’t collapse beside me. Instead, he fisted his hands and paced back and forth in a tight pattern, the sizable silhouette of his muscular shoulders continually eclipsing the bloodred flashes of the police emergency lights.
I swiped my wet eyes and returned my gaze to the girl’s corpse, pale as moonlight against the dark sidewalk. For a bizarre moment, her pretty form and ruined skull reminded me of Joy’s old Malibu Barbie.
Back when I’d been raising my daughter alone in New Jersey, a slobbering pit bull had slipped into our yard and chewed up the doll’s pretty blond head. While Joy was still at school, I’d raced to the mall to replace the mangled plaything, determined as any mother to hold off my child’s inevitable encounters with the world’s brutalities. But there was no running to a store to replace this lost life, no do-over, no turning back the clock. The young woman had taken a shot to the brain, and she hadn’t survived. It sounded simple enough to understand, but so what? When death was involved, understanding and acceptance were two very different things.
I closed my eyes, said a quiet prayer, and realized how forcefully my ex-husband’s lungs were now exhaling breaths. I was horrified by the girl’s death, shocked and saddened, but Matt seemed to be struggling with a mounting rage. With nowhere to vent, he threw up his arms at the growing crowd.
“Where did all these people come from?!”
I opened my eyes, surveyed the two Sixth Precinct sector cars, their radios squawking; the boxy FDNY ambulance with its doors thrown wide; and the rubbernecking drivers now backing up traffic. Four uniformed officers were hovering around the scene. One of them asked onlookers to stand back, another made a large perimeter with yellow crime-scene tape.
“They’re gawking like it’s a sideshow.”
“Well, you know what they say.” I shrugged numbly. “Dead bodies attract everything, not just flies.”
“They say?” Matt grunted, folded his arms. “And who the hell is they? Wait, don’t tell me. That’s one of your boyfriend’s little quips, isn’t it?”
Matt was right. Mike Quinn had been the one to convey that pithy piece of postmortem philosophy. The way Matt spat out the word boyfriend, however, reminded me that he still hadn’t forgiven the detective for arresting him last fall.
I could see Matt didn’t appreciate Quinn’s use of humor, either. But his quips weren’t meant to be disrespectful, just a way to help lighten the relentlessly weighty work of evaluating crime scenes. I was about to make that point when I heard the fast click of heels on concrete. Two pairs of women’s boots approached us and stopped abruptly in front of Matt.
“Excuse me, sir. You gave a statement to Officer Spinelli? He said you were a witness to the shooting?”
I looked up. A familiar pair of detectives was standing on the sidewalk, staring nearly eye to eye with my six foot ex. Like Mike Quinn, Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass worked out of the Sixth Precinct on West Tenth.
“We were with the girl,” Matt told the women, “but we didn’t see much.”
Lori Soles finally noticed me far below her and smiled in recognition. “Clare Cosi? Is that you?”
I nodded and rose off the low stoop—all five foot two of me. (I may as well have stayed sitting.)
Detective Soles gazed down at me, her short, tight curls making her look like a giant cherub. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here. Isn’t you coffeehouse just a block away?” She held a small notebook in one hand, gestured to the Village Blend with the other.