19

Odessa Dean @OdessaWaiting ∙ July 15

Does anyone even pinkie swear anymore, or is it just me? It’s just me, isn’t it? #pinkieswear #sorrynotsorry

As usual, Vincent Castillo’s dark hair was buzzed short. He wore tight, dark indigo jeans with a pale green shirt and a coal gray vest. He held his phone up to one ear and the other hand was poised to ring the doorbell again. He glared at me as he hung up the phone.

Before I could say anything, Izzy appeared from the living room. “Who is it?” She froze, then let out an exaggerated sigh. “Might as well come on in and join the party.”

Castillo brushed past me. “Pinkie swear?” he asked, shaking his head. “I expected better from you.” I shrugged and followed him. When he sat down on the sofa, the plastic cover let out a squeak. “You’ve been dodging my calls,” he said to Izzy. “And worse, you got Odessa to cover for you.”

“I wasn’t covering . . .”

He silenced me with another glare.

“Vince, I was about to call you,” Izzy said. Overhead, I could hear creaks coming from old, loose floorboards as Gennifer presumably paced with the baby, trying to quiet her. “How did you find me?”

“I’m good at my job.” He glanced around the living room, taking in the floral furniture, the baby playpen in the center of the carpet, and the framed photographs on the walls before focusing on the stairs leading to the second floor. “Is Ms. Buckley available?”

“She’s upstairs. I’ll go get her for you,” Izzy volunteered.

“Nice try,” Castillo said, rising from the sofa. “Then you can shimmy out an upstairs window to what, the drainpipe? A trellis?”

“I feel seen,” Izzy said.

“Which one is it? A drainpipe or a trellis?” Castillo asked.

“The garage roof,” Izzy admitted. “The yard slopes up to meet it. There’s only a three-foot drop from there.”

“What’d you do, scope the place out before you came over?” he asked.

“Gennifer grew up here and I was over a lot. We might have snuck out once or twice when we were in high school. Odessa, do you mind asking Gennifer to come downstairs?”

As I mounted the stairs, I heard Castillo chuckle. “I have to admire your spirit, Iz.” If he was laughing, maybe he wasn’t arresting Izzy. Or me, for that matter. Was I harboring a fugitive? Aiding and abetting? I sure hoped not.

“Hey, Gennifer, Detective Castillo is here to see you,” I said, sticking my head into a room that looked like the pink factory had exploded. The walls were pink. The carpet was pink. The curtains were pink. The five-foot-tall bear shoved into a pink rocking chair was pink. On seeing me, the baby’s cries escalated to wails.

Little Penny had chubby little cheeks and chubby little fists that she waved about in frustration. She had a full head of dark hair and if her screams were any indication, very healthy lungs. Poor thing. I often felt like crying when people woke me up from naps, too.

Gennifer nodded at me over the baby’s head. “Coming.”

I followed them back down the stairs, wondering if Vincent would notice if we slipped out while he was interrogating Gennifer. Izzy must have been on the same wavelength, because as soon as she saw me, she announced, “We’ll just give you two some privacy,” and headed for the front door.

“Sit,” he told her. Izzy sat.

Gennifer stood in the center of her living room, bouncing the fussy baby on her hip. “Can I offer you something? Coffee? Water?”

“I’m fine,” Castillo said. “I’m here to follow up on Ms. Marsh’s death. Have you thought of anything new?”

Gennifer shook her head. “Sorry, no.”

“Okay, then, I think we’re finished here.”

“That’s it?” Izzy asked, popping up off the couch. “You’ve been hounding me for days and all you have for Gennifer is one lousy question?”

“Ms. Buckley has been very forthcoming and cooperative. And her fingerprints weren’t found on the murder weapon.”

“Yeah, well, did she tell you that there was a Facebook invite that went out for Vickie’s little celebration party? Instead of focusing on the people who did show up, maybe you should be interrogating the ones that didn’t.”

“I’m sure there were plenty of people that weren’t locked in the escape room when Ms. Marsh died. That’s over eight million solid alibis in New York City alone. I’m more interested in the people that were in the room at the time.” He shifted his focus to Gennifer. “But as long as I’m here, mind sharing that Facebook invite?”

Gennifer nodded. “Screenshots okay?” She handed Penny off to Izzy, retrieved her phone, and started scrolling through the app.

Castillo handed her his business card. “If you could email that to me, I’d appreciate it.”

“Send me a copy, too,” Izzy mouthed, pantomiming with her free hand.

Castillo’s phone chimed. He scrolled through his email before standing. “Thank you very much, Ms. Buckley. Izzy, Odessa, let’s go. I’m giving both of you a ride back to Williamsburg.”

“I’d love to, but Penny just fell back asleep,” Izzy said, rocking the baby. She really did look like a tiny angel, when she wasn’t screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Give the baby back and get in the car,” Castillo ordered.

We complied, following him back to his car. Izzy got in the front seat, and I climbed into the back. It wasn’t the same marked cruiser Castillo had been driving the day before—or was that two days ago? The days were starting to blur together—but it was obviously police issue, from the nondescript paint job to the smell of one too many stakeouts. I sat in the back, in the middle so I wouldn’t miss a word from the front seat. I mean, it’s not eavesdropping if everyone’s in the same car, right?

Right?

Which might have been true if anyone was talking.

“Are we under arrest?” Izzy asked.

“For what? Hanging out in Staten Island? They might revoke your hipster card if anyone finds out, but last I checked, it wasn’t an arrestable offense. Technically, you haven’t even left New York City.”

“We’re not hipsters,” Izzy protested.

“You live in Williamsburg. You work in a bookstore that sells craft beer. You won a cornhole tournament. You might as well both have man buns and ironic mustache tattoos on your fingers.”

“That doesn’t make us . . .”

“You’ve been dodging my calls,” he interrupted her.

“It’s been a hectic few days.”

“Yup, imagine it has been. Good thing I can save you, what, an hour or so on transit.” He merged into a line of traffic heading for the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge. At almost a mile long, the Verrazzano was one of the longest suspension bridges in the U.S. It was certainly the longest and highest bridge I had ever seen, and crossing it made my stomach coil up in knots. I wasn’t scared of heights, not really, but flying across a double-decker bridge at what felt like a gazillion miles per hour with multiple lanes of traffic was where I drew the line.

“Thanks,” Izzy said, looking out the passenger window. I didn’t understand how she could do that so casually, when what I really wanted to do was close my eyes and hold my breath until we were safely on the other side. Of course, that wouldn’t block out the sound of the wind buffeting the car or the heart-stopping thud of the tires going over supports. “Sorry. I know you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad. I’m disappointed.” He let the silence stretch out again, before asking, “Where are you staying?”

“Around,” Izzy responded.

“I’m not familiar with that neighborhood. Sorta hard to drop you off at ‘around.’ ”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Not only was the end of the bridge in sight, but dropping us off seemed a whole lot more encouraging than locking us up and throwing away the key.

“You can drop us at Untapped,” Izzy said, shifting in her seat. I could tell by the weariness in her voice that she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. The silence stretched out between us. I was half tempted to ask Castillo to turn on the radio, just to break the tension. But Izzy broke first. “I haven’t been avoiding you, you know. I’ve been busy. Plus, after our last conversation, I wasn’t sure you wanted to talk to me.”

“Sure. I’ve left you twenty messages a day because I didn’t want to talk.”

“I told you . . .”

“Yeah, yeah. Your phone is dead. It’s out of minutes. You can’t find your charger. The dog ate it.” He took one hand off the steering wheel and dropped it on her knee. “Here’s the problem, Iz. I know you’re not the murdering type, but as lead detective on this case, I need to convince my captain that I’m completely objective or she’s gonna replace me with someone who isn’t dating you. Someone who is gonna take one look at your fingerprints on the murder weapon, review the witness statements that all say the same thing—you didn’t get along with the vic—and bring you in for a forty-eight-hour hold while they interrogate you and wait for you to slip up.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Izzy protested.

“To some cops, that might not matter.” He paused and let that sink in. “Here’s the deal. You had beef with the vic. You provided the murder weapon—your cornhole trophy. I’ve only got five possible suspects, and none of you can give a full accounting as to where the other suspects were at any given time. It’s impossible to narrow down the vic’s death to less than an hour-long window when you all were in a locked room together, so all I have to go on is fingerprints. Your fingerprints. And you were one of the people who discovered the body. You see why this might be a problem?”

“I didn’t do it,” she repeated.

Castillo sighed. “I know.” He squeezed her knee. Then he let go so he could reach up and adjust the rearview mirror so he was looking at me. “Your fingerprints were on the trophy, too, Odessa.”

I swallowed down the lump in my throat. “Well, yeah. It was our trophy.”

“Every bit of evidence that points to Izzy could apply to you, too, except for one thing. You didn’t know the vic, so you’ve got exactly zero motive.”

“And what’s my motive?” Izzy asked. “I got into a couple of hair-pulling matches with her in high school? I haven’t even seen her in five years. I was as surprised as anyone to bump into her.”

“Except that’s not exactly true.” Castillo turned his attention back to her. “You were on the Facebook invite.”

“I was?”

“You hadn’t replied one way or the other, but you were on the invite, according to the screenshots that Ms. Buckley provided,” he said. “Something I wouldn’t have even known existed if you hadn’t brought it up.”

“I haven’t checked Facebook since, I don’t know, since forever. I don’t even remember my password anymore.”

“And that is easy enough to check, if you grant me access to your phone and laptop. Or do I need a warrant?” He held out his hand. “Your phone. Please.”

To her credit, Izzy handed it over without argument. With any other person, police or otherwise, she would have been better off holding on to it but if she truly had nothing to hide, this might be exactly what she needed to dig herself out of this hole.

“And your laptop?”

“It’s at the bookstore,” she said.

“Good.” Castillo expertly navigated the streets of Williamsburg. Instead of circling the block to look for a parking space, he pulled up in front and double-parked, blocking in another car and taking up a whole lane of traffic. He put his flashers on, waited for a break, and got out of the car. He walked around and opened both of our doors at the same time. “Ladies.”

“I’d rather wait here if you don’t mind,” I said. “You see, I called in sick earlier and . . .”

“The problem is, I can’t trust you right now, Odessa. You lied to me. You pinkie swore you didn’t know where Izzy was, when she was five feet away from you. Izzy’s a bad influence. Which puts me in an awkward position and makes me less sympathetic.”

Well, since he put it that way, I guess he did have a point. I got out of the car and looked up at Untapped Books & Café, at the familiar display in the window that was long overdue for a rotation and the faded awning that sagged a little in the middle. A few people browsed the shelves inside. A man walking by on the sidewalk paused to check out a poster advertising a local band, which someone had taped to the glass.

A wave of emotion hit me and I realized that sometime in the past two months, this unassuming bookstore-slash-café had become more than a job. It was my home away from home. My safe haven.

“You coming?”

I realized that Castillo was holding the door open for me, and I hurried up the steps.

Todd wasn’t behind the front desk—thank goodness. In his place was Nan, again. “Thought you called out sick,” she said, seeing me.

“I’m feeling better,” I told her.

“Beer delivery didn’t show up,” she said. “Todd had to rent a van and drive to Queens to pick it up. Won’t be back for”—she checked her watch—“another fifteen minutes or so. He’s already in a mood. If I were you, I wouldn’t be here when he gets back.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Where’s your laptop?” Castillo asked Izzy.

“In the back,” she replied, and led the way to the narrow hallway that separated the public spaces from the employees-only area. I assumed she was going to Todd’s office. We had a cabinet in the kitchen where we stored our purses and bags when we’re on shift, but when it got crowded, sometimes Todd would let us lock valuables in his bottom desk drawer. A laptop would be safer there than in the kitchen, where despite my coworkers’ best intentions, it might grow legs and hop off.

But Izzy didn’t stop at Todd’s office. Instead, she continued to the stockroom.

Like the rest of Untapped, the stockroom was crammed to the brim with merchandise waiting to be sold. Only today, it felt even more cramped than normal. The boxes that held excess inventory were piled to the ceiling, and the extra uniform shirts and other supplies were pushed off to one side. “Whoever did inventory last did a lousy job of putting everything back where it belongs,” I mused aloud.

Izzy wove her way through the boxes and disappeared behind a stack. I followed her and Castillo, and noticed that the storeroom felt more claustrophobic because the boxes had been pushed forward away from the wall to create a narrow walkway. Only it wasn’t a walkway. An unrolled sleeping bag was spread out in the narrow space, alongside an assorted collection of garbage bags and thirdhand luggage I recognized as Izzy’s.

“Oh my actual goodness, you’ve been staying here?” I asked incredulously.

“NBD. It’s just temporary, until I find something for us,” she said, waving a hand at me.

But I knew it was a big deal. “Todd would lose his entire mind if he found out. You’d be out of a job on top of being homeless.”

Izzy shrugged. “Nah. I fixed the air conditioner, scrubbed the walk-in, and kept Huckleberry company. If anything, he ought to be paying me overtime.”

No wonder Huckleberry had been content to sleep in the shop instead of following random employees and customers home lately. I should have guessed that something was up. Izzy had been staying here under everyone’s noses and no one had noticed, not even me.

Castillo pursed his lips. He grabbed the nearest bulging garbage sack and shoved it at me. Then he knelt and rolled up the sleeping bag. Once he looped the elastic around the bundle, he handed that to me as well.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Izzy asked, positioning herself between him and the rest of her belongings.

“You’re staying with me tonight,” he said, brushing past her to pick up a battered suitcase that had seen better decades. “Bring the laptop.”

“Won’t you get in trouble if your captain finds out that Suspect Numero Uno is sleeping at your place?” she asked.

“Not nearly as much as if you get arrested for trespassing here after hours and I knew about it.” He grabbed another bag. “Let’s go.”

I had no choice other than to retreat, as there was nowhere else to go. I lugged the heavy bag through the storeroom and into the hall. “It was just for a few nights,” Izzy protested, bringing up the rear. “It’s not like I was hurting anyone.”

I bit my lip to keep from saying anything. This was my fault. She’d given up her previous living arrangement—as odd as it had been, staying in an abandoned schoolhouse with other squatters—because I’d convinced my aunt to let her stay with me. Then when my aunt showed up a month and a half early, Izzy hadn’t had a backup plan.

The worst part was I should have figured it out sooner. Izzy showing up at the bookstore first thing in the morning and right before closing, even when she wasn’t scheduled to work. The AC miraculously starting to work. Izzy popping up in the store when I never saw her come or go.

It was all totes obvious, in hindsight. And to be completely honest, it wasn’t even the worst idea. There was a working bathroom—sans shower—and a fully functioning, well-stocked kitchen. She knew everyone’s schedule, and like most of the employees, knew the alarm code if she accidentally set it off. The only thing she didn’t have was a key to the door, and that wouldn’t be a problem as long as she slipped in and out during operating hours.

To be completely honest, it was brilliant.

And sad.

“I’m sorry,” I said as she drew even with me.

“For what?” she asked brightly. All traces of the embarrassment and annoyance she had shown in the stockroom were gone, replaced by her usual cheeriness.

“I’ve been a bad bestie,” I admitted.

“Odessa, you’ve been a better friend to me the last coupla weeks than people I’ve known for years. You let me stay in that big, bougie apartment with a washer and dryer and a big kitchen and that gorgeous pool on the roof. You taught me how to use a sewing machine and split the grocery bills without complaint.”

“You were the best roomie I’ve ever had,” I told her, propping the front door open with my foot so she could follow me outside.

“I’m the only roomie you’ve ever had,” she pointed out.

“True, but you made me coffee in the morning, then made dinner and did the dishes. You even cleaned the cat’s litter box and somehow got the old grump at the concierge’s desk to like you.”

“I’ve got a way with folks,” she said.

“You do,” I agreed.

Castillo unlocked the trunk of the sedan. Then he yanked at it. Nothing happened. He smacked it a few times, and the creaky trunk finally relented. He pushed the trunk open and stared inside it in dismay. It was filled to the brim with crumpled fast-food bags and what smelled like sweaty gym clothes. “Back seat it is,” he said, slamming the trunk and walking around to open the passenger door.

As we filled the back seat, I asked, “Where am I supposed to sit?”

Castillo gave me a sideways glance. “Izzy will call you later.”

I looked at her, not wanting to ask aloud if she was all right. She nodded and gave me a hug. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. Text me later.” She got in the front seat and buckled her seat belt before Castillo pulled away from the curb.

I had the rest of the afternoon to kill, so I started down the sidewalk toward my aunt’s apartment. A windowless white panel van pulled up next to me, then jerked over at such a sharp angle that the front-right tire jumped the curb. The van screeched to a stop and the driver’s side door popped open.