The Finishing School

“They must’ve wanted her to go back at the end of the week,” Trevor said.

“Where were these girls’ parents? I can’t believe they just let their teenage daughters go off with a thug like Esposito,” Melanie said, shaking her head.

Trevor shrugged cynically. “All Bria

“What about Whitney’s parents? Were they totally out to lunch? I mean, these girls were only sixteen years old.”

“Yeah, Whitney’s parents were out to lunch. Out to something anyway. I was at her house a bunch, and I never once saw her parents. Her dad was always gone. Her mom stayed in her bedroom with the door locked, mainlining like OxyContin and vodka or some shit. If Whitney wanted to talk to her, she’d call her on the intercom, and most of the time her mom wouldn’t even answer.”

That certainly added up with the picture the tabloids painted of Charlotte Seward. Melanie briefly considered the implications of Whitney’s mother’s drug problem. Was it possible Charlotte had, knowingly or not, supplied the heroin that killed the girls? Perhaps she had a private stash and they swiped some? That would explain a thing or two-like why James Seward delayed calling the police.

“Dan, can you please make a note that we should interview Charlotte Seward right away?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, Trevor, did Esposito ever give any money to Bria

A vein began to throb in Trevor’s temple. “I really wouldn’t know,” he said.

He avoided her eyes, and a light sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. Suspects held out on Melanie on a daily basis, but few were this obvious about it.

“I don’t believe you, Trevor,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Well, that’s rude,” he sputtered, flushing bright red. “Fine, then. Believe whatever you want. How should I know if Expo gave Bria

Melanie looked at him steadily. Trevor became even more uncomfortable and shifted in his seat.

Bridget Mulqueen had been shredding the label off a bottle of Poland Spring water, seemingly miles away mentally, but now she looked up. “Hey, Melanie, toss me that phone.”

“What?”

“Trevor’s phone. Chuck it over here.”

Melanie hesitated but then did as requested. Bridget began scrolling through the text messages.

“What are you doing, Bridget?” she asked nervously. All Melanie needed was Bridget erasing her evidence by mistake.

“I looked through these before. Hold on a second. Here it is. What’s this, Trev?”

Bridget held up the phone so Trevor could read the display. Without so much as a glance at it, Trevor thrust his chin out and said, “I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“Let me read it to you, then, jog your memory. ‘That lechuga is in locker 4703 near the Delta counter but only get it if something really happens to me then blow it all on something nice in my memory wuv u Bree,’” Bridget read.

Lechuga-“lettuce” in Spanish-was common parlance for cash among drug dealers, rap artists, and the teenagers who loved to imitate them. Melanie, Dan, and Trevor all stared at Bridget in astonishment.

“How much money is in the locker, Trevor?” Melanie demanded.

“Bria

“You’re in a lot of trouble already. Don’t make it worse for yourself. How much is in there?” Melanie said.

“Ten thousand,” he replied in a small voice, averting his eyes. Debriefing this kid was like taking candy from a baby, after the hardened characters Melanie was used to.

“Cash?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did Jay Esposito pay Bria

“Well, I can’t be a hundred percent sure, because she never came right out and said. But I have a pretty good idea Bree and Whitney were muling heroin for him.”

17

BUD HAD KEPT his phone off all day, because he knew Jay would be going ballistic trying to call him, and he just didn’t feel like listening to his bullshit. But when he turned the damn thing on and there were seven voice mails, every one of ’em a hang-up, he decided he’d better call back. Jay Esposito had been the same since their schoolyard days. If he smelled a rat, he’d move right in for the kill. Shoot first, ask questions later.

Despite the inconvenience, Bud knew he should call from a pay phone. He’d been thinking a lot about phone records these days, what would show up and what wouldn’t if someone were checking into things. At the end of the day, he wanted to get away clean. That was his main concern. So he’d been taking precautions for a while now. Not only to deflect attention away from himself but also to focus it on Jay. Like, he’d purposely called Jay last night from the phone on Whitney’s desk while Bria

He knew of a phone in the back of a Korean grocery about ten blocks from his apartment, so he walked uptown for a ways, his scarf pulled up over his face, actually enjoying the sleet that the wind drove into his eyes. Soon enough he’d be in a warm, su

He bought three packs of Dunhills from the ski

“Got a telephone?” he asked, as if he’d never been in the place before.

“Yuh. Back. Near beer.”

He headed toward the back of the small store. Bins of pungent-smelling root vegetables lined the shelves on either side of the narrow aisle, their strange odors assaulting him as he trod the uneven floor-boards. He got to the phone, checked to make sure he was alone, then dropped the quarter into the slot.

“Yeah?” Esposito answered. He had a whiny voice, high-pitched for a guy his substantial size.

“It’s me.”

“What the fuck, Bud! You said everything was all right! Then I wake up to Whitney in a fuckin’ body bag on the front page of the Post.”

Bud had already decided how he would handle this. The lies flowed like honey from his mouth.

“Everything was all right when I called you, but things went south. Shit happens sometimes in this line of work. You know that.”

“I’m go

“Take it easy, Jay-”

“Don’t tell me to fuckin’ take it easy! You realize what you’ve fuckin’ done here, Bud? Young girl, fancy family. Not a lot of those willin’ to smuggle heroin in their bellies. And not only is she hard to replace, but with her dead now, the cops are go

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Every other word out of his mouth, the lowlife. Learn another fuckin’ word, you fuckin’ prick. Bud could barely stand to be associated with him. He had to take a deep breath to calm himself before speaking.

“Look, you wa

Mirta Jimenez had dropped dead a while back in the bathroom at Marín Airport before she even got on the plane to New York. Jay was always careful to sit several rows behind the mules when he rode shotgun, so he wasn’t questioned in her death. He just got on the plane and flew to New York like nothing had happened, then took the opportunity to upgrade the quality of his employees by hiring Whitney Seward.