No Such Person (11 page)

Jack nods. “I know, but I can't think of anything else. I mean, Lander is scary enough already. She doesn't need a gun.”

Jack is twelve. He is an awkward boy, although not as awkward as Geoffrey, who is fifteen, and nowhere near as awkward as Stu, who is twenty-three. Maybe it's something in the water.

She remembers the running water she heard in her dream, and her waking assumption that it was Geoffrey or Stu. But really, it could have been anybody. Somebody could have tied up at the dock, scrambled up the stairs…

This is fried brain talking. In her whole life she has never heard of trespassing by dock.

Jack says, “Have you talked to her yet? Lander? Is she—well, I know she can't be okay, but is she—like—
okay
?”

The comic aspect of friending adult neighbors recedes.

Lander is not okay. She is in jail. She may never get out of jail. A man is dead. He has been murdered. He has been shot in the back.

It is only because Miranda met the police herself—heard their voices—saw their uniforms and weapons—watched their lights whirl on their cop car—that she can believe this is actually happening to her very own family.

Lander is now part of a world that belongs on television: one of those half-reality, half-reenactment crime shows. Bad photography, clumsy filming, blurry faces.

And Miranda is standing around worrying about Facebook friends? She makes the friend request to Mrs. Warren. To Jack, she says, “The murderer is that guy Jason Firenza. The one playing chicken with the barge. Which turns out not to be his name. There's no such person. Even the police can't find a person named Jason Firenza.”

“I know. I saw Lander's Facebook page. You put that photo and that request on there?”

“Yes.”

“Way to go,” compliments Jack. “Let's see if you have responses yet.”

What a failure she is as an investigator. It's been hours since posting that accusation and she hasn't looked yet to read the responses!
Oh, Lanny, I want to help, I'm trying to help, I'm sorry I'm so stupid.

Lander's Facebook page is filled with posts. Friends denying that Lander could ever have done such a thing. Friends offering to help. Strangers commenting on previous posts of Lander's, which apparently include views of her body that she should never have put online. Strangers claiming evidence that Lander is the killer is piling up, and this accusation of somebody else is libel.

No one provides the real identity of Jason Firenza.

But the real identity of the dead man is now known. He is Derry Romaine.

Miranda's horror doubles. I probably
did
see Jason Firenza cut back on the throttle. He probably did hope the barge would kill Derry. But his murder attempt failed. Six days later, Derry was murdered by bullet.

Could Lander have been so hypnotized by Jason that she agreed to fire the bullet? Impossible! But then how did it happen?  Why did it happen?

Miranda's cell phone peals with her mother's ring tone. Something too big for a text message.

“Honey, I'm driving down to the shoreline so I can meet the defense lawyer,” says her mother. The speech is fast and frantic. “Daddy is staying here. He doesn't want to leave the house while the police are searching it and anyway he's got to raise a lot of money and we're not sure how. The lawyer has to have money up front. I'm absolutely panicked about the money.”

Miranda is taken aback that the conversation is about money rather than Lander.

Lander has complained more than once that their parents are far too concerned with money; it's not good for people to think so much about money.

Lander is correct. She is in the world's worst trouble, and all their parents can think about is money.

Miranda rarely considers money.

When the topic of wealth comes up, her father always says that they are “comfortable.” Indeed, Miranda's life is so comfortable she can hardly imagine leaving for college; the way she lives now is the exact way she always wants to live.

“You can't just write a check?” asks Miranda.

“We could if we had anything in our checking account.” There is a funny choking pause. Her mother is trying not to sob. “We live beyond our means, Rimmie. We always have. It's more fun. We have no savings. We have huge debts. Mortgages, car payments, lots of credit cards. Everything depends on everything working. And now, when something is really wrong, and it's going to be really expensive, we have nothing to fall back on. We can't even get loans on the houses because we already have such big loans.” Miranda's mother pauses. And then in her normal calm Mother-knows-all voice, she says, “Don't worry about it, Rimmie. We'll solve it.”

“I love you, Mom,” whispers Miranda, but she is staring at a terrifying invisible truth. Love does not raise money.

There will be no way to get Lander out of trouble without money.

They have no money.

Miranda is still listening to her mother on her cell phone, but she is also looking at the iPad, because when a screen is active, Miranda finds it difficult to look away.

Either Mrs. Warren really does work at a computer and checks her activity log constantly, or she has nothing to do all day except hope somebody gets in touch, because the friend acceptance has already come through.

Miranda taps the Warren page.

She has never seen a Facebook page so covered with faces: Henry's face, Hayden's face; their faces at birthday parties and nature walks and Disney World; their faces being painted at a fair; their faces asleep.

Mrs. Warren posts only about her sons. How brilliant, handsome and interesting they are. Her female friends post the same about their children. They're all basically saying,
Yeah, your little boy can use a fork, fine—but my little boy multiplies four-digit numbers.

The site does not seem to be a cover for the sick activity of drug dealing on the Connecticut River.

Miranda looks at the same two little boys sitting fifteen feet away and is overwhelmed. Is this to be her life? Suspecting nice people? Thinking evil of them?

What is her point?

The point is to identify Jason Firenza and get him in trouble, instead of Lander. The Warrens have nothing to do with anything.

Jack is talking on his own cell to his cousin Tanner, a girl apparently on the cutting edge of computer communications. She is instructing him in the use of  Vine, on which he will put the little video of the lime-green tow rope. Tanner has decided that the hashtag for everything will be #LanderAllerdon. That's what the world is going to check.

On the phone, Miranda's mother drones on about raising money.

“Lemme use the iPad,” whispers Jack. She nods, and he takes it into the living room, saying into his own phone, “Tanner, what will it accomplish to show the video? Rimmie was so far away when she filmed the powerboat that you can't recognize Jason Firenza.”

Miranda would like to hear Tanner's answer, but her mother says, “There's no other choice, Rimmie. We'll have to sell one of the houses.”

Sell one of the houses?

Miranda knows immediately that no one will buy the West Hartford house. It is a big rambling old place built in the 1930s, in a style called Tudor, which means it has timber framing on the outside, huge chimneys and small windows. It is costly to heat. It has no walk-in closets. It has no granite countertops. It's not on the best street. It doesn't have the best yard. It would take a fortune to fix up.

But the cottage might actually sell overnight. It has a world-class view. It is waterfront. There is a legal dock, however small. It has a beautiful acre and a half of sloping land, with magnificent trees and thickets of native mountain laurel and rhododendron. Weekenders—not just from Hartford, but also Boston and New York—love this location.

Sell the cottage.

Jack is now chatting with Tanner about the best utilization of Lander's Twitter account.

Her mother says, “Shall I swing by the cottage and get you on my way to the shoreline?”

The Connecticut River is a serious barrier. Picking up Miranda will add a lot of time to the journey. And what use will Miranda be?  Will the defense lawyer even want the little sister there? Certainly Lander never wants the little sister there.

Miranda forgets how frightened she was a few hours ago. The house is full of little boys, noise and pancake mix. In a minute this girl Tanner will have a plan of action and anyway, Miranda does not want to be in a car with her mother, listening to this awful talk of dollars. “I'm fine, Mom,” she says. “Don't make the detour for me.”

Through the open front door and the torn screen, Miranda sees a large four-door silver sedan coming down the drive. It is an old Crown Victoria, a model frequently used by the state police.

She grabs Jack's shoulder and whispers, “Take the iPad, go home and do everything Tanner tells you.”

Jack frowns, unwilling to cooperate.

Nobody ever wants to leave the Allerdon cottage. It has a pull for the neighborhood that Miranda loves. To be the center of activity is as wonderful as the river itself.

When the cottage is sold, the buyer will tear it down and build a mansion worthy of the site. Part of the reason kids swarm here is that the house is all but a shack. It is built for fun by the river. Its purpose is summer. The other reason is that her parents love kids. They love feeding them and reading to them, playing badminton or catch with them and dragging out the keg of Legos for them.

Gone. It will all be gone.

The Crown Vic parks. The doors open. A tall man wearing a suit and tie gets out of the passenger side. Miranda has not seen him before. She doesn't want to see him now.

“The police are here,” she whispers to Jack. She taps the iPad. “This is what they want. I tricked them. I switched my iPad with Lander's. They left yesterday with mine.”

The driver of the Crown Vic also gets out. He too is wearing a suit and tie.

Miranda calls to Henry. “Go answer the front door, Henry. Tell them I'll be there in a minute!”

Jack is full of admiration. “Rimmie, you are something!”

Her mother is saying, “But selling a house is very slow. We have to find a whole lot of cash somewhere else and we have to find it fast.”

Miranda pushes Jack to the screened porch. “Hurry,” she breathes. The overgrown mountain laurel, climbing roses and rhododendron will hide Jack when he slips out the back. She will stand at the front door, keeping the police attention on herself, making sure they don't glimpse Jack and what he has in his hand.

She is turning everything over to Jack and his unknown cousin Tanner. But if anybody gets in trouble, it will be her, not Jack. He's only twelve. What does he know?

Actually, he knows a lot. He is brilliant on a computer. What will he find?  Will he find Jason Firenza?

Or proof that Lander does know about the drug dealing?

And if they do find Jason Firenza, what about the fact that only Lander touched the gun and only Lander's fingerprints are on it?

What if finding Jason Firenza makes it worse?

What if Jason Firenza vanished because he saw Lander kill Derry, and he does not want to testify against her?

I do not believe that,
Miranda tells herself.
I will not believe that. Jason Firenza tried to murder Derry on the river last Saturday and yesterday he succeeded in murdering Derry with a gun and my sister is an innocent bystander, and I don't care about fingerprints. So there.

“So we're calling relatives,” says Miranda's mother.

Miranda crosses the living room floor. She tries not to burst into tears. If her parents are steeling themselves to call family and beg for cash, she can face down some state trooper.

The front porch is not screened. Big old rockers and sagging wicker chairs wait comfortably in the shade. Henry chats happily with the two men, who remain on the grass just below the steps. Hayden sucks his thumb.

Sell the cottage.

If the cottage is sold, it will kill Miranda.

No, actually. It won't.

A man
has
been killed. That is the point.

Henry is explaining to the police that he lives a few houses upriver and that Miranda babysits for him and his little brother all the time.

Miranda comes to the door.

They introduce themselves. They are detectives.

Not the local constables. Not the resident state trooper.

Detectives.

Their goal is to find evidence that will incriminate Lander. “Are your parents home, Miranda?” they ask courteously.

They haven't met Miranda, but they know who she is.

“No. I'm actually on the phone with my mother right now. Mom?” she says into her cell phone. “I think that sounds like a good plan. And if we have to sell a house, it has to be the cottage. I can call a real estate agent. You want me to do that while you do the lawyer?”

“Oh, my darling girl, you are so wonderful. Let's wait a day or two. I think your father will find enough money for a retainer, so that at least the lawyer can visit the jail and handle the arraignment.”

“Arraignment.” What a terrifying word. Full of judges and cells with bars.

How can this be happening to Lander?

Miranda swallows in horror. “Give Lander a hug for me.” It occurs to her that they might not be
able
to hug Lander; that her parents may have to speak through bars or bulletproof glass.

She slides the phone into her jeans pocket and waves hostess-fashion at the chairs and rockers. “Please sit down,” she says to the detectives.

“Miranda, we have the search warrant. We need to get in and look around.”

“Maybe when my parents get home.”

“The warrant gives us permission.”

Miranda pretends she has never watched television, has no idea what a warrant is, wasn't around last night and can't fathom what's going on. But seven-year-old Henry, who supposedly does not watch any rough, violent TV, says firmly, “Rimmie, once they go to a judge and get a warrant, it's all over. They have to come in.”