Shot in the Dark Page 6

  She shook her head. “Unfortunately, throwing off societal constraints amounts to nothing if it produces nothing; and a life of aimlessness is far from a triumph of the human spirit. That’s what I’d like you to keep in mind before I tell you what took place that summer.”

  “In 1967, you mean? The Summer of Love?”

  “‘Turn on, tune in, drop out’ became a slogan that lured scores of impressionable young people to our neighborhood. What concerned me most were the teenagers—children, really—who fled middle-class homes to chase the bohemian ideal. By that summer, the streets and parks in and around our neighborhood were teeming with young runaways, drifters, panhandlers, and phony gurus . . .”

  Madame’s third Troubled Waters arrived, and she took a melancholy sip. “Some were girls from sheltered families, who made themselves available to men who used ‘free love’ as an excuse to take the worst sort of advantage of their naïveté. I knew the family of one of these young women. By the end of 1967, every New Yorker knew Linda’s story.”

  “Linda?”

  “She died a teenager in the dingy basement of a Greenwich Village flophouse. But she was born to a well-off Connecticut clan whose great-great-grandfather started a coffee importing business after the Civil War. Antonio knew the owners. Their daughter, Linda, entertained dreams of becoming an artist. She dropped out of an exclusive boarding school to live the kind of romantic lifestyle that she believed would lead to making her great. And so, at eighteen years old, she moved to the Village.”

  “Her family allowed it?”

  “Linda convinced them she was serious about pursuing her art, and her doting parents sent her money every week. Of course, they had no idea how she spent it. The girl lied to them, claiming she was living with a female friend, ‘Paula,’ but her roommate turned out to be ‘Paul,’ a man, and she had relationships with a number of men. She told her family she had a job when she didn’t. She wasn’t studying. She wasn’t producing any art. Most of the money her parents gave her was spent on drugs, which she shared with friends. In the end, all those lies and all those drugs finally caught up with her.

  “One afternoon, Linda took some of the cash her parents sent her, hooked up with a young man—a gentle neighborhood character we knew as Groovy—and together they went looking for drugs in Tompkins Square Park. That decision prevented Linda from seeing her nineteenth birthday. A few hours later, she and Groovy were dead, murdered in the boiler room of an East Village tenement. The papers shied away from the bloody details, but they soon leaked . . .”

  Madame suppressed a shudder. “Linda was drugged, sexually assaulted, and her skull bashed by a brick. The perpetrators were a local drug dealer and his accomplice, well-known in the hippie community . . .”

  On the river, a barge horn released an unsettling blast, and Madame fell silent. As we both stared somberly at the dark water, I couldn’t help thinking of my own daughter. Despite the pier’s heat lamps, a shiver went through me.

  “Linda’s parents must have been devastated,” I whispered.

  “They were. We all were. That brutal crime affected the whole neighborhood. It changed the culture.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those murders shook awake the youth camping out in the Village. They were shocked into a realization: Peace and love may be worthy ideas, but the real world is no Garden of Eden. It’s a perilous place with dangerous predators.”

  “They didn’t know that already?”

  “Not the sheltered ones. To them, ‘concrete jungle’ was a literary term—not a literal one. They came to the Village wanting freedom from rules and expectations. But while conventional living requires standards of behavior, it also provides a blanket of security. Those murders hardened hearts and sent a bone cold chill through most of those vagabond children. They suddenly realized how exposed they were, and they wanted that blanket back. Within a few weeks, most of the runaways gave up on their bohemian playtime and returned to their homes. The drifters drifted, and attitudes changed. The Groovy Murders were the beginning of the end of an era . . .”

  As Madame’s voice trailed off, I couldn’t help thinking of ubuntu again, how human beings should treat one another.

  “The hippie ideals weren’t wrong,” I pointed out.

  “No—but it takes work to make a vision come true. You can’t simply wish things into being.” Madame squeezed my hand. “This phone app culture with its swipe-to-meet ethos, I must admit, is seductive, too. There’s someone out there who’s perfect for you. Someone who will finally complete you, make you happy. You simply have to keep swiping, keep shopping. With all this new technology, and all the potential matches out there, it’s easy to believe . . .” Her eyes shined with amusement. “Even I wanted to believe it of my Silver Snake. But it’s a fad, that’s all. In time, it will float down the river, like all the others.”

  “I don’t know. This phone culture is so pervasive. I can’t see how this genie goes back in the bottle.”

  “I’m not saying people will stop swiping, my dear. Our modern culture rewards novelty—and, unfortunately, disposability. But as young people age, most of them will grow bored with games. That’s when they’ll stop shopping and start working on real relationships. Sooner or later they’ll understand that shared experiences over time are what create true intimacy and steadfast love.”

  The waiter brought the check unasked—a signal that the restaurant would soon be closing. Madame sat back in her chair and drained yet another cocktail glass.

  “Perhaps the incident at our coffeehouse tonight will alert a few young people—girls and boys—of the risk they take in too hastily trusting complete strangers. And that’s a start.”

  I wished I shared Madame’s optimism, but I didn’t see how one bad date gone viral would change the way millions of people behaved on a daily basis.

  On top of that, I couldn’t get the grisly image of poor murdered Linda out of my head. Even now I could almost see her body, lying on the dirty floor of a dingy boiler room, head crushed.

  The vision was so strong, I thought for a moment I actually saw a dead woman floating in the rippling waters of the Hudson River.

  I sat up in my chair.

  My God. I’m not imagining it.

  There really was something in the water. Or someone . . .

  Twelve

  RISING from our table, I leaned over the railing.

  Madame sensed my alarm.

  “Clare? What is it? What do you see?”

  I wasn’t sure, but in the dark water below, a human figure appeared to be pushed along by the white-water wake of a passing barge.

  “Do you see a body down there?” I whispered.

  She squinted at the river and frowned. “It’s all a blur. I admit vanity is to blame. I left my glasses at home.”

  A second look made me doubt my own eyes.

  Is it a mannequin? A life-size display standee?

  Oddly, it appeared a flotation device of some sort was ballooned beside the figure’s head, obscuring my view of its facial features. As I watched, the sudsy wake from another passing vessel swept the figure closer to the pier. But I still couldn’t tell what it was.

  “Shall I summon the hostess?” Madame asked.

  “No. I’m not sure what’s down there. I need a closer look.”

  “Should I go with you?” Madame began to rise when her eyes went wide and she sat back down. “Oh, my!”

  “Are you all right?”

  She laughed. “I’m feeling no pain. It’s all those Troubled Waters. They’re finally making waves!”

  “The drinks are hitting you. Just stay put. I’ll be right back . . .”

  I asked our waiter to bring Madame a pot of coffee. Then I hurried out of the restaurant.

  * * *

  • • •

  AWAY from the space heaters, the cold was b
iting. I buttoned my coat as I walked past the lightship. Its festive bar sounds faded as I moved toward land.

  Back on the riverbank, I searched for the entrance to another dock, which I noticed ran parallel to Pier 66. No more than a collection of planks, it was really more of an observation deck, offering water-level views of activities on the river.

  I found its entrance easily enough, on the north side of the restaurant pier. But at this late hour, the area was shuttered, its overhead lights turned off.

  Luckily, a single chain was all that blocked my way, and I was short enough to duck under it. Then I proceeded with caution. I had to. With no exterior lighting, this deserted dock was nearly pitch-black—nearly if not for the residual glow from the antique light tower atop the Frying Pan on the other side of the big pier.

  Silently thanking the scrappy old girl for her lofty light, I continued on. Sounds of life faded as I moved out over the river. Water gurgled and growled as it lapped the worn wood piles under my feet. But the omnipresent thunder of Manhattan was muted and distant.

  The farther my low boots walked, the blacker my surroundings. Windows of riverfront buildings became little more than pinpoints of plasma, light-years away.

  With growing unease, I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out my key chain’s mini flashlight. Its weak power barely penetrated the gloom as I approached the railing at the far end of the platform.

  It took me a moment, but I spotted the floating figure again. It was close to the edge of the dock, practically bumping the wooden planks, and once more, I noticed a balloon-like object attached to its form.

  I aimed my flashlight at that ballooning bulge.

  Though it appeared black in all this darkness, my little light unmasked its true color—bright red with the trademark name Patagonia printed in bold letters. At last, I knew what it was.

  A waterproof backpack!

  I dropped down to all fours and reached through the railing bars. The wood dug into my knees, the cold leeched through my jeans, and the gap was so narrow the steel bars pinched my upper arm. But I strained as hard as I could to grab that pack.

  For all my groping, my fingers merely brushed it, and I ended up nudging the figure farther out of reach!

  With a soft curse, I despaired—until another wake, this time from a passing party ship, pushed the figure toward me again. My fingers quickly closed on a strap, and I held on tight. Still on my knees, I tugged at the heavy form with one hand while I directed the flashlight with the other.

  The figure slowly turned in the water. Faceup at last, there was no more doubt. My hand was holding the strap of a backpack worn by a human corpse.

  Biting back a scream, I gritted my teeth and forced the flashlight beam over the woman’s face.

  She was cold and still and appeared to be young—early to mid-twenties. Shoulder-length blond hair with brightly dyed streaks of hot pink floated around her head like rays of light from a center sun.

  I noticed a visible gash high up, on the left side of her forehead. And there was something on her face. I steadied the little flashlight for a closer look.

  Finally, I saw what it was: a tiny heart-shaped tattoo inked on her left cheek. The sight struck me like a blow. I remembered that tattoo and the girl wearing it.

  She was a Village Blend customer.

  Thirteen

  BREATHING hard, I released the backpack and crab crawled backward, until my spine pressed against the opposite railing.

  The dead girl slipped back into her watery grave, and I watched her slowly twirl. Her blue eyes were half-open. She seemed to be watching me, too.

  I couldn’t take it. I had to turn off my flashlight.

  My hands trembled as I dialed 911. In the low glow of the smartphone’s light, I gave my name and reported my discovery to the emergency operator. She told me to stay on the line and put me on hold.

  I got to my feet, clutching the phone like a lifeline.

  I felt very alone and vulnerable—and that’s when I heard another sound.

  Footsteps! Coming closer . . . and closer . . .

  I held my breath as I peered into the darkness. The mobile phone’s light obscured my night vision, but I could make out a human figure moving toward me.

  Skin prickling, I fumbled for my key chain’s flashlight again, barely swallowing a scream when—

  “Clare! Clare!”

  I steadied my little light. “Madame?”

  “Clare! I can’t see! What happened?”

  “I called the police.”

  “Police!”

  “Why did you follow me? It’s dangerous out here.”

  “You seemed so agitated, and . . . I was curious.”

  And more than a little tipsy, I noticed.

  Madame’s gaze shifted to the body in the water.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  For a moment, she shuddered, then quickly steeled herself. “What can we do?”

  “She’s beyond our help. But there is something we can do to help the authorities. Here, take this—”

  I handed her the flashlight. Then I activated the camera on my smartphone. “Shine that beam on her face while I take a picture.”

  Madam’s eyes went wide. “A picture! Whatever for?!”

  “She was a Village Blend customer. I can’t ID her. But one of my baristas might know her name . . .”

  As I shot the photos, a shiver ran through me.

  The red tattoo on the dead girl’s cheek sent my mind back to the first time I’d seen that little heart. It was a frigid winter afternoon, many months ago, during the frenzy of the holiday season . . .

  * * *

  • • •

  THE Village Blend was dressed in its festive best and packed with last-minute shoppers, all needing the warmth of our fireplace and energizing caffeine from our coffee before pushing on to the next store.

  I was at the machines, pulling espressos and mixing drinks. Esther, in a floppy Santa hat, worked the register.

  “Cool tattoo,” she noted as she rang up a young woman’s purchase.

  “Thanks! Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves. I prefer mine on my cheek. It’s my way of telling the world it’s right here, and you can’t break it. Ha!”

  The young woman wore her blond hair in a severe pixie cut. Her eyes were bright blue, her good cheer infectious. Esther and I caught the bug, laughing along with her.

  “I have a tattoo like that,” Esther confided. “But if I showed it off, I’d get arrested for public indecency!”

  While they laughed and chatted, teenage twin sisters began arguing in the line behind the girl with the heart tattoo.

  “I can’t pay. I’m out of cash,” the first twin told her sister. “I gave you everything I saved up. Don’t you have any left?”

  “Hardly anything. Grandma’s gift cost way more than we thought it would. Maybe we should have bought her something else.”

  “How can you say that? You know she’s going to love it! I can’t wait to see her face when she opens it. But we still have to buy a nice card and some pretty wrapping paper—”

  “We don’t have enough money for that today. And I only have two dollars left. Maybe we should leave.”

  “No. I’m really cold and want to warm up. Here’s all my loose change. Count it up. We can’t afford the fancy holiday lattes, but we can share one small drink before we head home. You decide . . .”

  Overhearing the exchange, Heart Girl winked at us and laid a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.

  “We’ve all been there, right?” she whispered. “This should get them whatever they want—with change to help pay for Grandma’s card and wrapping paper. Just don’t tell them it’s from me.”

  “Your secret is safe with us,” Esther told her.

  “And
your heart is a lot bigger than that little tattoo,” I added.

  Heart Girl lit us up with her smile. Then she wished us both a happy holiday and went on her way . . .

  * * *

  • • •

  NOW my own heart sank as I snapped image after image of a beautiful life snuffed out.

  It was too late to save this sweet girl. But I could help her parents, her friends, her family—by bringing to light who she was and what in the devil had happened to her.

  “I’m sending these photos to my baristas now . . .”

  I included a warning that the images were disturbing and they were to remain private, but I urged my staff to reply with anything they knew.

  “Sent!” I took a breath, hoping I’d hear from them soon.

  Madame hugged herself. “Shall we go back now?”

  “I’m supposed to wait for the police. I called 911 a few minutes ago, but I don’t see any sign of them . . .”

  I tensely scanned Manhattan’s Twelfth Avenue. No emergency vehicles, no sirens, just sparse traffic, rolling along without urgency.

  Then a muted voice called, “Ma’am? Ma’am?”

  It was the 911 operator who’d put me on hold.

  “I’m here!”

  “Officers are on the scene. You should see them now.”

  But Twelfth Avenue looked no different. “Where are they? I don’t see any—”

  Madame tapped me and pointed at the river. Flashing emergency lights lit up the mirror-black water. Then a sleek police boat burst into view. Powerful engine rumbling, it streaked toward us.

  Of course!

  I’d been expecting the authorities to arrive by car, but in this town, the river was a road, too. And it was served by an elite force—

  The NYPD Harbor Patrol.

  Fourteen