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Because, truthfully, the thing with Rachel is more important.
Which is why I say, “This is stupid. You know, there are trains to the Hamptons. I’ll just go look up the schedule online and—”
I don’t know if he gave in because he realized it was the only way to shut me up, or if he was genuinely concerned that I might do myself harm on the LIRR. Maybe he was just trying to placate the crazy injured girl.
In any case, in the time it takes me to get dressed, Cooper has retrieved his car—a ’74 BMW 2002, a vehicle that invariably causes the drug dealers on my street to hoot tauntingly, because, in their opinion, the only good BMW is a new one—from its parking garage. He isn’t happy about it, or anything. In fact, I’m pretty sure he was cursing whatever impulse had prompted him to ask me to move in with him in the first place.
And I feel bad about it. I really do.
But not enough to tell him to forget the whole thing. Because, you know, a girl’s life is at stake.
It’s easy to find the Allingtons’ weekend place. I mean, they’re in the East Hampton phone book. If they didn’t want people to drop in, they’d have had an unlisted number, right?
And okay, there’s this big wrought-iron gate at the end of their driveway, with a built-in intercom and everything, that might lead the average person to believe visitors were unwelcome.
But I for one didn’t fall for it. I hop out of the car and go to press on the buzzer. And even when no one answers, I’m not discouraged. Well, very much.
“Heather,” Cooper says, from the driver’s window of his car, which he’s rolled down. “I don’t think anybody’s going to—”
But then the intercom crackles, and a voice that is unmistakably Chris’s says,“What?”
I can understand why he’s so testy. I’d sort of been leaning on the buzzer, knowing that eventually the person inside would be driven insane and have to answer. It’s a trick I’d picked up from the reporters who used to stake out the place Jordan and I had shared.
“Um, hi, Chris,” I say into the intercom. “It’s me.”
“Me who?” Chris demands, still sounding a
“You know,” I say, trying to sound girlishly flirtatious. “Let me in.”
Then I add the three little words I’d learned from Justine’s files that few students—and that’s what Chris is, after all—can resist: “I brought pizza.”
There’s a pause. Then the gate slowly starts to open.
I hurry back to the car, where Cooper is sitting, looking—even if I do say so myself—vaguely impressed.
“Pizza,” he echoes. “I’ll have to remember that one.”
“Works every time,” I say. I don’t mention how I knew. I’m kind of sick of Justine, to tell the truth.
We pull into the circular driveway, and Villa d’Allington, in all its white stucco glory, looms ahead of us.
I’ve been to the Hamptons before, of course. The Cartwrights have a house there, right on the water, surrounded on three sides by a federally protected bird sanctuary, so no else can build there, and ruin the view.
I’ve been to other people’s homes there as well—houses that were considered architectural marvels and once even a chateau that had been transported, brick by brick, from the south of France. Seriously.
But I’ve never seen anything quite like the Allingtons’ house. Not in the Hamptons, anyway. Stark white and massive, filled with airy, Mediterranean archways and bright, flowering plants, the place is lit up as brightly as Rockefeller Center.
Only instead of a great big gold guy looming over a skating rink, there’s a great big white house looming over a swimming pool.
“How about,” Cooper says, as we get out of the car, “you let me do the talking for a change.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You aren’t going to hit him, are you?”
“Why would I do that?” Cooper asks, sounding surprised.
“Don’t you hit people? I mean, in your line of work?”
“Can’t remember the last time I did,” Cooper says, mildly.
A little bit disappointed, I say, “Well, I think Christopher Allington’s the type of guy you’d like to hit. If you hit people.”
“He is,” Cooper agrees, with a faint smile. “But I won’t. At least, not right away.”
We hear them first, and see them as soon as we part the morning glories that hang like a curtain over one of the archways. Ducking through the sweet-smelling vines, we end up in the backyard. To the left of the shimmering pool is a hot tub, steaming in the cool night air.
In the hot tub are two people, neither of whom, I’m thankful to see, is President Allington or his wife. I think that might have killed me, the sight of President Allington in a Speedo.
They don’t notice us right away, probably because of all the steam and the bright floodlights that light the deck around the pool, but cast the hot tub area in shadow. Scattered here and there along the wide wooden planks of the patio are lounge chairs with pale pink cushions. Off to one side of the pool is a bar, a real bar with stools in front of it and a back-lit area that’s filled with bottles.
I approach the hot tub and clear my throat noisily.
Chris lifts his face from the girl whose breasts he was nuzzling and blinks at us. He is clearly drunk.
The girl is, too. She says, “Hey, she hasn’t got any pizza.” She sounds disappointed about it, even though the two of them seemed to have been doing just fine for themselves in the extra cheese department.
“Hi, Chris,” I say, and I sit down on the end of one of the lounge chairs. The cushion beneath me is damp. It has rained recently in the Hamptons.
It seems to take a few seconds for Chris to recognize me. And when he does, he isn’t too happy.
“Blondie?” He reaches up to slick some of his wet hair back from his eyes. “Is that you? What are you doing here?”
“We just dropped by to ask you a few questions,” I say. Lucy has come with us—I couldn’t leave her cooped up in the brownstone all night—and now she butts her head against my knees and sits down, panting happily. “How are you, anyway?”
“I’m okay, I guess,” Chris replies. He looks up at Cooper. “Who’s he?”
“A friend,” Cooper says. Then adds, “Of hers,” I guess so there won’t be any confusion.
“Huh,” Chris says. Then, in an apparent attempt to make the best out of a bad situation, he goes, “Well. Care for a drink?”
“No, thank you,” Cooper says. “What we’d really like is to talk to you about Elizabeth Kellogg and Roberta Pace.”
Chris doesn’t look alarmed. In fact, he doesn’t even look surprised. Instead he says graciously, “Oh, sure. Sure. Oh, hey, where are my ma
The girl in the hot tub pouts. “But, Chris—”
“Go on, honey.”
“But my name’s Hope, not Faith.”
“Whatever.” Chris slaps her on the backside as she climbs, dripping like a mermaid, from the hot tub. She has on a bathing suit, but it’s a bikini, and the top is so skimpy and her boobs so large that the tiny Lycra triangles seem like mere suggestions.
Cooper notices the bikini phenomenon right away. I can tell by his raised eyebrows. It so pays to be a trained investigator.
Her rear proves as impressive as her front. Not an ounce of cellulite. I wonder if she, like Rachel, had StairMastered it all away.
“So, Chris,” Cooper says, as soon as the girl is gone. “What’s the deal with you and Rachel Walcott?”
Chris chokes on the sip of Chardo
“Wh-what?” he coughs, when he can speak again.
But Cooper’s just looking down at Chris the way he might have looked down at a really interesting but kind of gross bug that he’d found in his salad.
“Rachel Walcott,” he says. “She was the director of the dorm—I mean, residence hall—you lived in your senior year at Earlcrest. Now she’s ru