"Your visits with Brandy," Cheryl said impatiently. "You took her to dinner at the Posthouse just two days ago. She had a steak. How did she seem to you?"
"Cheryl, I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't had dinner with Brandy in three weeks. She doesn't want to see me."
Cheryl was stunned. "You're kidding?"
"Why would I lie about something like that?"
"Um." Cheryl was at a loss for words.
"Did Brandy tell you she's been with me?" Seymour asked.
"Yes, she did."
"A lot?"
"Yes, she's been with you a lot."
"What about Tuesday night?"
"Yes, Seymour, she was with you Tuesday night. You went to the Posthouse. Is it coming back now?"
"No, she was not."
"And you know what? A police detective came to see us tonight. Brandy has been cutting school."
A very long silence. "Well, you know, she comes over to my place when I'm at work sometimes. I know she's done it at least once. The maid told me. What do the police want with her?"
So that's where Brandy went. She hung out at her dad's. Cheryl made an exasperated noise.
"She said she was interested in the tracking dog searching for that man who disappeared in the park. Apparently, she got to talking to some cops about it and they wrote down her name."
"Didn't I see something on the news about it?"
"I don't know, See. What's going on with her?"
"How would I know? She won't see me, Cheryl."
"This is very disturbing. Maybe we should meet and talk about it," Cheryl said brightly.
"I don't want to meet, Cheryl."
"Seymour, your daughter is in trouble." It was only reasonable. She'd wear something serious-looking; nothing provocative. He'd see how great she looked. And she'd be sweet, she'd be forgiving. She'd appeal to his sense of family, responsibility.
Seymour raised his voice on the phone. "And why is she in trouble, Cheryl? Why doesn't her mother know where she is most of the time?'
"Just wait one little second. Don't blame me for Brandy's problems. You're the one who dragged the family through the mud with that horrible lawsuit." Cheryl felt the rage rising again.
Seymour clicked his tongue. "This is ridiculous. Put her on the line."
"But I'm not finished."
"Put her on the line, Cheryl."
"Maybe we should do family therapy." Conciliatory again.
"Maybe we should have when I suggested it three years ago."
"You didn't," Cheryl protested.
Seymour sighed on the other end of the line. Cheryl hated that sigh. "Forget it, I'll call her myself."
He hung up. A few seconds later the phone rang and Brandy's line lit up. It rang four times, then stopped. The eight-thousand-dollar phone system had caller ID. Seymour's name popped up on the screen. Brandy could not fail to know who was on the line. Curious, Cheryl got up and went to Brandy's door and opened it. The phone was ringing again, but Brandy wasn't there to answer it.
Fifty-seven
Brandy and David met in front of Bloomingdale's. On Thursdays the store was open until nine. Brandy wanted to have a makeover for the TV shows she was going to be on, but David was already waiting for her when she got off the bus on Lexington. She'd taken a bus because all she had was four dollars and an ATM card for an account that had no money in it. Her father was always at least two weeks late with the alimony checks just to make her mother angry, and her mother was a big spender. She always needed it bad. Right now Cheryl and she were penniless. It was no problem to live off the credit cards, but Cheryl had taken away Brandy's cards to punish her for lying, and Brandy hadn't had a chance to steal them back yet.
David crossed the street to meet her. She gave him a peck on the cheek the way Cheryl did with her boyfriend, Aston, and was disappointed that he didn't look happier to see her.
"What's the matter?" she asked, hoping he didn't think she was a dork for using public transportation.
"This sketchy-looking detective with cowboy boots asked my mom all kinds of questions about me. She's freaking out. She hates cops." He looked angry about it.
Brandy laughed. "He talked to my mom, too. She thought he was cool and asked him if he was single. Totally inappropriate as usual." Still laughing, Brandy grabbed his arm and steered him across the street. "Isn't this cool?"
"Tcheesh. Where are we going?"
"Bloomingdale's."
"Oh, no," he cried. "I can't stand that place."
"We can get something to eat in the restaurant there."
Brandy was excited. She went through Bloomingdale's revolving door, and glanced at the stairs leading down to the Lexington Avenue subway. Suddenly she got the idea that they could go downtown to the Village, hang out there. They could go to Queens or Brooklyn or the Bronx, or New Jersey. They could get on an Amtrak and take a train to Florida. She'd always wanted to do that. They could go on a killing spree across America like the ones in the movies. That would be better than being on TV. Mostly she wanted him to buy her a present to prove he loved her.
David hung back. "Look, I can't stay. My mom will kill me if she finds out I didn't go to my shrink."
"What does he do, call your mommy when you don't show up?" she teased. Inside the store, she stopped by the purses to study a Prada bag. She glanced at David to see if he'd buy it for her.
"Nah, he doesn't call. He doesn't give a shit." David wasn't thinking about the Prada bag. He was twitching all over, worried about his mother's mood. He didn't want to get yelled at.
A saleslady asked, "Can I help you?"
"I hate this place. Let's get out of here," he said.
"Okay, whatever." Disgusted, Brandy got on the escalator and they traveled up to the main floor. She got off and dawdled as much as she could in the vast cosmetic section, then the men's store. Finally, he dragged her out on Third Avenue. Sam Goody was across the street. Brandy thought he might buy her a few discs, but David couldn't handle the music store for more than thirty seconds, either. He wasn't in a buying mood.
"Come on, let's go," he said angrily. "I hate shopping."
"Buy me something," she urged.
"Why?"
"Because I want some new discs. You're my boyfriend. You're supposed to get me stuff."
"Fine, I'll get you a pizza. Then I have to go home."
"I don't see why." Sulky, Brandy followed him out.
David raised his hand and punched her lightly in the arm. "Better watch out. Like the talented Mr. Ripley, I can make anybody disappear."
"Yeah, right." She punched him back, not happy without the present.
"Two for dinner?" Inside California Pizza Kitchen, a girl who looked like she ate all the leftovers came over with two menus. She led the way up the stairs to the second floor, where David pointed at a corner table in the back.
They ordered.
"What did you do with the finger?" David asked.
"Oh, I forgot it."
"What do you mean you forgot it? I thought you were taking it with you for a souvenir."
"I was, but I dropped it."
"Now you tell me. I wanted that, you nut."
"You're the nut. You go to a psychiatrist."
"Yeah, but I don't need it. Half the time I don't even go. I'm really bummed about the finger."
Brandy leaned over the table and lowered her voice. "Okay, tell me."
He looked at his watch. "Tell you what?"
"How you killed him? Tell me everything."
"I punched him, then I kicked him. Then I strangled him," David said simply.
Brandy bounced in her chair. "It sounds cool. You're cool."