“She’s moving in a month.”
“Chavi’s girlfriend, Josephine,” Ramirez says, skimming through the yellow folder. “She mentioned an unfamiliar man at the neighborhood spring festival a couple weeks before the murder. Said he wasn’t creepy, just attentive, especially to Chavi and Priya.”
“To both of them?”
“She said he mentioned having a sister. He seemed to find it charming how close they were.” She closes the folder and taps her thumbs against it, not in any discernible rhythm. “Chavi and Josephine weren’t out except to their mothers and Priya. Deshani said her husband would have gone through the roof, but the girls had been best friends since the Sravastis moved to Boston, so no one ever suspected they were dating.”
“So as far as he knew, Chavi was a good friend and a great sister.”
“Josephine is . . .” After a flurry of clicking keys, Finney makes a soft sound of triumph. “She’s in New York. Columbia Law.”
“I could take the train up,” Eddison offers. “Take the pictures Priya gave us, see if anyone looks familiar. It’s been five years, but something might ring a bell.”
“Get more mugs from your friend,” Vic tells him. “Inara says they’re almost out.”
“In a week and a half? The box had three dozen!”
Smacking her forehead against the table, Ramirez dissolves into soft, semi-hysterical laughter.
“Priya called this afternoon,” Finney says once they’ve settled somewhat. “There were yellow chrysanthemums on the doorstep when she got home from a field trip; the oldest vet and his granddaughter took her to their church to see the windows. First flowers in just over a week.”
Chavi had a sunburst of yellow chrysanthemums around her head, a few blossoms placed in her dark hair.
“Did Priya . . .” But Eddison doesn’t know how to ask that question, not of Finney. Not in front of Ramirez and Vic.
“She asked me for Ward’s phone number so she could give it to her mother,” he replies. “Speaking of which . . .”
“Don’t say it,” groans Vic.
“Ward rejected the request for a protection detail on the house, then chewed me out for wasting Bureau resources on a community service murder that has no connection to any active case.”
Eddison sputters. “No connection?”
But Vic gives a resigned sigh. “Let me guess: can’t be our killer because the profile says he doesn’t kill men, can’t be the stalker because he’s shown no signs of being violent. Pure coincidence.”
“Pretty much, and her boss is backing her up. Huntington PD is being remarkably polite over us not telling them about the stalking investigation—I suspect we can thank Deshani for that, after she eviscerated the captain for the behavior of Officer Clare—and they’ve agreed to keep me updated on the progress of their investigation.”
“Is Ward pushing against Sterling and Archer yet?”
“So far she’s focused on me and I’m trying to keep it that way. I’ve got to be honest, Vic, if she gets me much more against the wall, I’m doing my best, but . . .”
“Understood. I’ve got a meeting with one of the assistant directors tomorrow. He doesn’t like Ward, but he also doesn’t like interfering in other agents’ cases. I’m not sure how that’s going to go.”
“Both Sravastis mapped out their movements in the days around Landon’s estimated date of death,” Finney says after a minute. “No holes large enough for the locals to accuse them of anything. That’s something.”
“Oh?” Vic’s voice is far too mild for the complicated expression. “I thought we were all politely ignoring the fact that Deshani is one hundred percent capable of killing a man who threatens her daughter.”
“She wouldn’t have been messy,” Eddison and Ramirez say together.
Finney groans. “Terrifying woman. Let me know what you get from Josephine.”
It’s Ramirez who reaches across to shut off the speaker, ending the call. “Priya and Deshani are careful,” she whispers. “They’re smart, and observant, and they pay attention. When their gut tells them something is off, they listen. How do we find someone they don’t notice?”
Neither of the men tries to answer her.
Neither of them points out there are only four flowers left to be delivered.
The fourth mega-crash of the morning has Mum swearing in an accent she mostly left in London, with a few Hindi curses slipped in for good measure. A glance outside says the shipping container is once again in the middle of the driveway, not off to the right as it needs to be so Mum can still pull the car out of the garage. I could almost feel bad for the deliverymen—Mum started out displeased about having to take the day off work so she could sign for the delivery, some bullshit about my signature not being acceptable because I’m a minor, but four times? Really?
And because she’s in a bad mood, and because we woke up to hyacinths on the doorstep, I am safely sequestered in my room with one of Chavi’s journals, staying the hell out of the way.
I haven’t read straight through the journals—there’s too many to manage it quickly—but I’ve jumped around, picking them up at random and skimming through. Where mine have photographs slipped in all over the place like bizarre bookmarks, hers are full of sketches, many on the pages themselves, as she either lost track of what she wanted to say or couldn’t make the words she had say it. Even after she died, it never felt right to read them. They were still private.
The Chavi of five springs ago was excited and scared in pretty equal measure. She was so happy with Josephine, almost giddy to be dating her best friend, but she was scared of Dad’s reaction when he eventually found out. Not just for herself and Josephine, but for me, too—would Dad have insisted on cutting off contact between us once she left for school? And school, too. She’d been accepted to Sarah Lawrence and Josephine was going to NYU, so they’d even be in the same metropolitan area, but it was college and new, and as much as she was looking forward to it, she worried.
I squirm through her entry about her and Mum giving me my bindi, mainly because it segued into a discussion on tampons and pads and other period things, and on the second day of my first period, I was still a bit squicky about it all. I’d known the theory, and obviously I’d been around Chavi and Mum for many, many periods, but still. Not even twelve, at that point. There really isn’t a way for a lesson in using tampons to not be mortifying at that age.
Toward the end, there are drawings tucked in between the memories from the spring festival. We held all sorts of neighborhood parties and festivals at the old church, sometimes to raise money for repairs and to augment Frank’s salary without him knowing, sometimes for charity. Sometimes just for fun. Chavi had spent both days painting faces and drawing caricatures, and I’d helped younger kids make flower crowns and run a maze made of old bedsheets.
It was what gave me the idea for my birthday party, seeing all the munchkins running around with flowers and trailing ribbons.
Leaving the notebook open on the bed, I slide off and open the top middle drawer of my dresser. I think it’s meant for socks or something, but I have it lined in velvet to hold the flower crowns from my birthday. Chavi’s was made of silk chrysanthemums, like a fringed headband, and Mum’s was a bristling, angular wreath of lavender that made her look like a brown-skinned Demeter. Mine was white roses, big bloomed and heavy, with five different shades of blue ribbon weaving through and trailing down the back.
It’s still heavy, but a little too small now.