your roommate.”
They met the next afternoon in the downstairs reception area of the precinct to go see Paul at the salon. Spencer had on a suit jacket in which he looked boiling hot, while Lily had practically no clothes on at all, and still had glistening arms and legs and neck. New York City in July. Hot.
“A little warm in that jacket, detective?”
“I am, yes. But who’s going to take me seriously if I wear skimpy shorts and a tank top, Miss Quinn?”
Lily squinted. Another tease from Spencer? She didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he noticed her summer outfit. He didn’t seem to be the kind that noticed that sort of thing. He noticed everything, as an officer of the law, but not that sort of thing. Yet he said skimpy shorts. When she walked in front of him to cross the street she wondered if he was watching her.
“Your partner doesn’t come with you?”
“On little errands like this? Nah. You’ve seen Detective Harkman. He likes to save himself for the big trips. Most of the day, he’s just a housemouse.”
Lily laughed at the terminology.
At the salon, Paul declared that he knew “nothing about nothin’.” That period of Amy’s life, he told Spencer, was a two-year hole from which Amy emerged intact, as if the two years had never existed. She graduated high school, she disappeared, she went to find her wild and new self, she came back, her wild and new self found, and re-entered life. She enrolled at Hunter, became a waitress at a cocktail bar, transferred to City College where she met Lily, re-established her friendships, and did not talk about the two years on the road.
“I’m not asking about the two years on the road. I’m asking about the people Amy traveled with.”
Paul didn’t know them.
“You and she weren’t friendly in high school?”
“Best friendly.”
Spencer waited.
“We lived on the same block but we didn’t hang out with the same people, all right. She hung out with some real losers, and I didn’t. They weren’t musicians, they weren’t jocks, or nerds, or in choir. I don’t know who they were. I don’t know them, don’t know their names, don’t know what happened to them. Like I said, we didn’t travel in the same circles back then.”
“I see. Could you point them out in your high school year-book?”
“God! I don’t see what it matters. It was six years ago. What does high school matter now?”
“Could you point them out in your high school yearbook?” repeated Spencer.
“No, I don’t think I could.”
“Did they belong to a club?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Were they political maybe?”
“Maybe. I don’t know about them. Political! They were just a bunch of going-nowhere potheads.”
“Amy too?”
“No, not her! She just got mixed up with the wrong people, all right?”
“Well,” said Spencer, “it would be all right, if Amy weren’t missing for two months, but since she is, it’s not all right, no. Your friend here seems to think it was something stronger than pot.”
Paul shot Lily a withering look, standing clutching his colorist’s chair. “Does Harlequin know this for sure?”
“Harlequin knows nothing for sure,” said Lily.
“Exactly,” said Paul.
Spencer led her away, his hand momentarily pressing her between her bare shoulder-blades.
Talking to Spencer about Amy was getting to be bad for Lily’s ego. It was like being with Joshua. It was occurring to Lily withstartling alarm how many things she ought to have known that she didn’t know.
Did Amy live a life that was more troubled and troublesome than Amy let on, coming from white, middle-class, peaceful Port Jefferson? Did Amy have secrets she kept so well? Or was Lily less interested than she realized? She didn’t know and didn’t want to know.
How long had Lily not been able to speak normally to her mother? When did her mother so thoroughly and completely check out of Lily’s life? Lily didn’t know and didn’t
They met the next afternoon in the downstairs reception area of the precinct to go see Paul at the salon. Spencer had on a suit jacket in which he looked boiling hot, while Lily had practically no clothes on at all, and still had glistening arms and legs and neck. New York City in July. Hot.
“A little warm in that jacket, detective?”
“I am, yes. But who’s going to take me seriously if I wear skimpy shorts and a tank top, Miss Quinn?”
Lily squinted. Another tease from Spencer? She didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he noticed her summer outfit. He didn’t seem to be the kind that noticed that sort of thing. He noticed everything, as an officer of the law, but not that sort of thing. Yet he said skimpy shorts. When she walked in front of him to cross the street she wondered if he was watching her.
“Your partner doesn’t come with you?”
“On little errands like this? Nah. You’ve seen Detective Harkman. He likes to save himself for the big trips. Most of the day, he’s just a housemouse.”
Lily laughed at the terminology.
At the salon, Paul declared that he knew “nothing about nothin’.” That period of Amy’s life, he told Spencer, was a two-year hole from which Amy emerged intact, as if the two years had never existed. She graduated high school, she disappeared, she went to find her wild and new self, she came back, her wild and new self found, and re-entered life. She enrolled at Hunter, became a waitress at a cocktail bar, transferred to City College where she met Lily, re-established her friendships, and did not talk about the two years on the road.
“I’m not asking about the two years on the road. I’m asking about the people Amy traveled with.”
Paul didn’t know them.
“You and she weren’t friendly in high school?”
“Best friendly.”
Spencer waited.
“We lived on the same block but we didn’t hang out with the same people, all right. She hung out with some real losers, and I didn’t. They weren’t musicians, they weren’t jocks, or nerds, or in choir. I don’t know who they were. I don’t know them, don’t know their names, don’t know what happened to them. Like I said, we didn’t travel in the same circles back then.”
“I see. Could you point them out in your high school year-book?”
“God! I don’t see what it matters. It was six years ago. What does high school matter now?”
“Could you point them out in your high school yearbook?” repeated Spencer.
“No, I don’t think I could.”
“Did they belong to a club?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Were they political maybe?”
“Maybe. I don’t know about them. Political! They were just a bunch of going-nowhere potheads.”
“Amy too?”
“No, not her! She just got mixed up with the wrong people, all right?”
“Well,” said Spencer, “it would be all right, if Amy weren’t missing for two months, but since she is, it’s not all right, no. Your friend here seems to think it was something stronger than pot.”
Paul shot Lily a withering look, standing clutching his colorist’s chair. “Does Harlequin know this for sure?”
“Harlequin knows nothing for sure,” said Lily.
“Exactly,” said Paul.
Spencer led her away, his hand momentarily pressing her between her bare shoulder-blades.
Talking to Spencer about Amy was getting to be bad for Lily’s ego. It was like being with Joshua. It was occurring to Lily withstartling alarm how many things she ought to have known that she didn’t know.
Did Amy live a life that was more troubled and troublesome than Amy let on, coming from white, middle-class, peaceful Port Jefferson? Did Amy have secrets she kept so well? Or was Lily less interested than she realized? She didn’t know and didn’t want to know.
How long had Lily not been able to speak normally to her mother? When did her mother so thoroughly and completely check out of Lily’s life? Lily didn’t know and didn’t
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