A supermarket tabloid that Imani often flipped through had a feature called “Stars—Just Like Us.” It showed various celebrities engaged in the mundane necessities of modern life: paying parking meters, hailing cabs, picking up takeout, or pushing a grocery cart. The point of the feature was to convince readers that folks who earned millions of dollars for three-month shoots still donned their pants one leg at a time like the rest of the hoi polloi, that these folks were relatable, despite the very fact that they’d been photographed doing regular old activities and then had those pictures mailed out by a publicist or sold to a magazine.
As Imani approached the Walkers’ front door, she considered that her friends had lived like “the rest of us,” only everything they’d owned was bigger, brighter, and worthy of a close-up. Their brownstone had the same taupe exterior and black-trimmed windows as so many of its neighbors, but it was bathed in sunlight, mere feet from the tree-lined promenade. It was also surrounded by paparazzi.
Imani and Bill kept their heads down as they dodged camera lenses and the paparazzi’s questions. The photographers backed off once they hit the first stair, restrained by New York City’s private property laws and the dour expression of the uniformed, armed officer guarding the door.
Bill nodded at the cop as though they’d been previously introduced. “Ava couldn’t come. I brought her friend’s mom to help.”
Imani wondered if Bill knew her name. She tried recalling whether she’d introduced herself and then decided it didn’t matter. Nate’s dad had enough to process. As long as the officer let her in, Imani was fine with the “friend’s mom” attribution.
The cop cracked one of the brownstone’s arched double doors. He gruffly gestured for them to enter, more annoyed bouncer than gracious doorman. As soon as Imani’s feet hit the tiled vestibule, the door shut, locking them in the small vestibule between the front door and true apartment entrance. Usually, Melissa left the second door open, enabling visitors to shed their coats and shoes before heading right in. Imani tried the knob only to find it locked.
She knocked on the interior door’s walnut-stained wood. A shadow advanced through the frosted window, ultimately filling it with darkness. Imani had a flash of Melissa on the other side of the glass, broad smile that she so often covered with her fingers when laughing, as if afraid to give hidden photographers a shot of her molars.
The door retracted, revealing Detective Calvente beyond the threshold. She gave Imani a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here glare before realizing that Nate’s father stood beside her.
“Mr. Walker.”
If pity had a sound, Imani thought, it would be the trailing rumble to that final r. Again, Imani wondered why the detective struck such a different tone with her.
“Come on in, please.”
Nate’s dad led the way into the Walkers’ rotunda. Imani found it odd that the hallway looked as it always had. She’d expected yellow police tape and evidence markers, props from crime scene investigation shows. Instead, there were the familiar wide-planked herringbone floors, untouched by chalk, covered by the same Persian rug that Imani had always believed belonged on a museum wall.
“Mrs. Banks.”
Detective Calvente pronounced her name like a question.
“I’m here to help Ava collect what she’ll need,” Imani explained.
“My granddaughter wasn’t up to coming,” Bill added.
If the detective was disappointed by Ava’s absence, she didn’t show it. Instead, Calvente told Bill that she was required to accompany them, as the house was a crime scene and nothing could be removed from the premises without inspection. “If you’ll follow me,” she said, finishing her spiel.
The detective marched toward the narrow staircase with Nate’s dad in tow. Imani followed at a snail’s pace, spying into each room off the hallway, scanning for something out of place that might scream where Melissa had been taken or, at least, profess her innocence. Everything appeared more or less as Imani remembered, save for the black-jacketed police officers.
She headed up the curved staircase to the third story. The fact that the level above the entrance wasn’t the second floor was one of the oddities of brownstone living. Often, the entrance was located up a flight leading to an elevated “parlor floor.” The story right below was typically the true first floor or “garden level,” as Realtors liked to say, despite only the priciest homes possessing backyards. The Walkers’ residence had a yard, however, right above the basement level, which housed the media room, gym, a closet-turned-wine-cellar, and Nate’s den.
As Imani rounded the staircase landing, she couldn’t help but wonder about the room somewhere below her in which Nate had been killed. Was it covered in blood? Were there footprints? Had the police found evidence in there of a woman running from the scene? Was that why they’d honed in on Melissa’s Instagram?
They passed through a narrow hallway lined with closets and headed to Ava’s room. Melissa had given her daughter the second-biggest bedroom on the floor, as it faced the water and overlooked the promenade. Across from it were two guest bedrooms, the larger of which had been converted into a teenage hangout space.
Detective Calvente held the door back. To Imani, the teen’s room had always seemed as if its designer had smoked a doobie in Restoration Hardware. It was a wealthy person’s idea of bohemian chic, too many blankets artfully draped over too-expensive surfaces. Imani had a room that was truly boho-chic, filled with Craigslist finds and hand-me-down pieces that her father had found too painful to keep after her mother’s death. The combination was an eclectic mix of things that didn’t match but were united by loved-in wear and tear. This was not that.
Even so, Imani could guess where things were kept here. She opened the top drawer of Ava’s dresser, wanting to prove that she meant to help before confronting Detective Calvente about Melissa’s supposed boy toy. If she asked about him too early, she feared the cop might escort her back to the exit.
Imani selected warm, casual clothing, the kind of wear-all-day gear that one could sleep or cry or work out in. Sweatshirts and yoga pants. Sweaters and jeans. She also grabbed handfuls of panties, bras, and socks, as well as a box of maxi pads tucked in the underwear drawer.
“Any word on that list from Ava yet?” Imani asked as she put the pile in the center of Ava’s unmade bed.
Bill hovered by the exit, avoiding eye contact with his granddaughter’s undergarments. “I’ll call Nancy,” he said, stepping into the hallway.
Detective Calvente moved closer to the door, perhaps to keep an eye on both of them. Imani decided it was now or never. With all the detectives’ innuendos in his head, Bill might try to shut down any defense of Melissa.
“You’re wrong, you know,” Imani said, folding one of the shirts. “You don’t understand Melissa at all.”
The detective widened her stance, a defensive maneuver that wasn’t quite as obvious as crossing arms over one’s chest. “What do you mean?”
“You told Nate’s parents that she was having an affair.”
The detective looked over her shoulder to where Bill was pacing. “I asked about the state of their son’s marriage.”
Imani stopped folding to fix the detective in her sights. “You suggested that she was carrying on with some guy from Instagram, which Nate’s parents will probably repeat to their granddaughter even though it’s not true.”
Detective Calvente held her gaze. They were two dogs, Imani thought, testing who would snap first.
After a moment, the detective stood down. “I was planning to ask you about it,” she said, pulling something from her pants pocket. “Since you’re here, might as well check out the photo.”
Imani expected to see the pebbled green of Melissa’s phone case. Instead, the detective typed a code into a plain black phone. She tapped the screen, typed again, and then turned it to face Imani. “Recognize this guy?”
On the screen was an actor’s headshot if Imani had ever seen one. The photo was taken straight on, flaunting the near-perfect symmetry of its subject’s face. He had black hair and a matching five-o’clock shadow that looked dusted onto his boyish jawline. His eyes were deep-set and dark brown, but so luminous that they almost appeared another color, something belonging in the hazel category.
There was something vaguely familiar about him, though Imani doubted she’d ever seen him before. He had a leading-man face, Imani figured, the kind with features that Hollywood found again and again as the original model grew too old to play the same characters. The man’s handle meant nothing to her: MickyKline_Drinks. Was he an alcoholic? What kind of person bragged about drinking post-college?
“I don’t know him,” Imani said.
Detective Calvente tilted her head, like she suspected Imani of lying.
“He seems like the kind of person who might have been working on a production with her,” Imani said. “What kind of messages did they exchange that make you think there was something going on between them?”
“They were very complimentary.”
“He’s a good-looking guy,” Imani said. “There’s no crime in telling someone that.”
“They’d exchanged phone numbers.”
“Maybe she thought he’d be good for a future project that she was attached to.” Imani said it, though she didn’t believe it. Melissa hadn’t worked on anything where she would have clout with the casting director in a long time.
Detective Calvente gave her a dubious look.
“I know you have this idea of Melissa because she played cheating characters,” Imani said, resuming folding. “But she loved her family. She wouldn’t have blown up her life for a pretty face.”
Detective Calvente rotated the phone so that the image faced her. “A young guy like this. Maybe she figured it was worth the risk.”
“No.” Imani shook her head. “She loved Nate.”
“How do you know?”
How did anyone know? Imani thought. It was an impression, she supposed, formed from little acts of kindness and longing. The admiring way that Melissa looked at her husband when he wasn’t watching. The frequency with which she laughed at jokes of his that were only marginally funny. The way that Nate had been able to upset her with words said or withheld, betraying that his opinion mattered. And a million other things. Imani simply knew what long-term love looked like. She’d been married for a long time.
“I’m a therapist,” she said. “I see dozens of couples a month.”
“Well, then you know that love is a leading cause of murder.”
The statement seemed flippant given the circumstances. “Well, what are the other ones?”
“Money,” Calvente said. “People kill to inherit everything or to take something they wouldn’t get otherwise. Safety. That’s a popular one with women in the cases of abuse. And, of course, mental breakdowns.” She glanced over her shoulder in the direction of Nate’s father. “People kill when they don’t understand a situation or assume something untrue because their mind is playing tricks.”
“Melissa didn’t snap. She’d called me the prior night looking to hang out. She sounded fine. Rational.” Imani pointed at the detective. “But Melissa could have had some crazy stalkers. Nate too. Are you looking into that?”
“It’s been a while since Melissa or Nate were on anyone’s radar like that,” Calvente said. “But we’re exploring the possibility.”
Imani doubted that the detectives were spending much time “exploring” given their focus on Melissa’s love life. If they were truly searching for her, they were looking in all the wrong places.
She placed the last piece of clothing on Ava’s mattress and then snapped her fingers, emphasizing that she’d just gotten an idea without divulging just what it was to the detective. “I need a suitcase for all of this. If you’ll excuse me.”
Before Calvente could object, Imani was out the door and heading down the stairs. “Mel keeps them in her room,” she shouted.
She exited off the landing and hurried through to Melissa’s bedroom. The space was expansive, large enough for a king bed, two walk-in closets, and, above all, a nook that was Melissa’s workstation. In Imani’s home, Philip handled the finances. But Melissa had been responsible for paying the bills in her family. Nate had considered himself the consummate artist. Bothering with anything as mundane as making sure people got paid had been beneath him, Imani supposed. Moreover, Melissa had said multiple times that he was a poor investor. “Easily swayed by a sales pitch, that one,” she’d quipped once. “He’d buy Florida swampland if someone suggested it was prime for development.”
That Melissa would not fall for such scams had gone without saying. She possessed the financial savvy of someone who’d made a fortune in her twenties and knew well that she had to make it last through her eighties. In all the years that Imani had known her, she’d always been careful with money. Generous, certainly. Yet also frugal.
Thinking about her friend’s talents felt like gathering anecdotes for a eulogy. Imani pushed the thoughts from her mind and hurried to Melissa’s paper-strewn desk, withdrawing her cell from her pocket. She wouldn’t be able to abscond with anything, Imani knew. But maybe she’d be able to snap a photo of something that struck her as worth further investigation.
A metal rack held recent mail. Imani noticed the name at the top of an opened letter: TKM Advisors. She pulled out the document and scanned the front. It appeared to be a law firm. The sight chipped away at her convictions about Melissa’s marriage. She hadn’t seen her friend face-to-face in months. Maybe Philip was right. Perhaps the forced time together had eroded Melissa’s relationship with Nate. It could have even been why Melissa had wanted to see Imani in person, despite her fears of catching the coronavirus.
Somewhere behind her, Imani heard footsteps. She snapped a photo and continued rifling through the documents. There were the standard heating, water, and tax bills. A letter from St. Catherine’s regarding a scholarship—no doubt one that the Walkers had endowed. They’d been very involved in the school, giving money as well as time, especially Nate. In addition to volunteer teaching, Nate had been on the scholarship committee and the admissions board.
“Mrs. Banks?” Detective Calvente called from the hallway.
Imani rushed to the closet and flung back the door. At the top, above a rack of Melissa’s dresses, was a shelf holding a set of soft Louis Vuitton suitcases. Imani grabbed a vacant hanger, stood on her tiptoes, and then swatted the metal hook in the air until it snagged one of the bag handles. She heard the detective enter the room as the bag hit the ground.
“I got it,” Imani called out.
The detective hovered by the closet door, right behind her. She frowned at the suitcase. “I need to watch everything you take out,” she said.
“I know,” Imani quipped. “I’m taking this bag. You can check it.”
Calvente eyed her as if she knew that Imani had taken longer than necessary to pull down a suitcase. However, she didn’t accuse her of anything. Instead, she turned on her heel. “Bring it upstairs.”
Imani grabbed the bag and followed the detective back to Ava’s room. As she ascended the stairs, she kept thinking about other alternative suspects to suggest to the police. She’d already offered up an obsessive stalker. Who else might want to hurt Nate and Melissa? Someone jealous of them, perhaps? Someone upset that Melissa had taken a role seemingly meant for them, or angry that Nate hadn’t jumped on a movie idea? Maybe someone who believed that Melissa and Nate were preventing them from doing something or blocking them in some way?
The answer came to Imani with such force that it stopped her on the stairs. “Detective,” she called out, “have you checked with the school?”
Detective Calvente continued up the stairs. “About Ava? We informed them what’s been going on and—”
“About Nate.” Imani felt something akin to excitement bubbling in her stomach. “He’s been on the admissions’ committee for at least a decade. Maybe someone was upset that their kid didn’t get into St. Catherine’s.”
Detective Calvente stopped walking. She faced her, eyebrows pinched in a disapproving V. “Most of the admissions happen in kindergarten, right?”
Imani nodded. “That’s right.”
“You think Mr. Walker was murdered because someone was mad that he didn’t think their five-year-old was prep-school material?”
Imani ignored the sarcasm. She had kids in the school system and had seen the level of vitriol thrown at the admissions staff up close. “This is New York City,” she countered. “Folks would kill to get into St. Catherine’s.”