I find the closest librarian. She gives me a surprised look when I ask where I can find microfilm from the 1920s, but sends me to the basement.
I pour the next few hours into scanning every newspaper and document from the Twenties I can get my hands on. If only I could have applied myself like this in history class. I’m absolutely diligent. You never know where there might be a mention of him.
I can’t really say why I’m so tense. It’s almost as if I know there’s something I’m supposed to find. Some piece of the puzzle that will help this whole crazy situation make sense.
And then I find it.
A few lines on an inner page. Dated August 9, 1925. A few lines that strike me like a bullet in the throat. 11544 Seaside Estates to enter foreclosure. Owner, local banker Edward Foster, seeks short sale, following the tragic murder of his nephew, Lawrence Foster, on the property’s private beach. The death has stumped local authorities, who are still investigating possible suspects.
The crime was committed August 5. That’s only two weeks away.
Chapter 14
Lawrence
T he streets of Manhattan are like bathtub gin: fast, cheap,
and intoxicating. It’s the perfect place to escape to forget
Cassandra. Ned invited me to come along with him on a business trip for a few days. I agreed. Anything would beat sitting alone on the beach, waiting for a girl who never comes, a girl
who very possibly was just a dream.
So, Manhattan it is. The lights and noise engulf me. Meeting
Ned’s business associates has turned into one party after
another, congregating at basement joints that serve bootlegged
hooch. I’m not sure why he bothers to do business with those
types, but I suppose that for a banker, money is money. I’m surrounded by sights and sounds, but even still, my mind dwells on Cassandra.
Ned and I sit in a dim, crowded speakeasy, watching the
fellas get edged up while the flappers dance the Charleston,
their short skirts whirling around in glittering streaks of silver
and gold. Ned laughs like old friends with a raven-haired man
in his twenties. He slaps the man on the arm and orders him to
get his associates a few more drinks.
“Swell joint, eh, kid?” Ned says, turning back to me.
“Sure.”
It’s not an enthusiastic response, and Ned gives his nose a
tap. “Ah, I know why you’re not having much fun. Missing a
certain gal?”
I tense a little. “I…”
Ned laughs. “I think I can brighten your night, m’boy.”
His friend arrives with two drinks in hand, and Ned points at
me. “Carlo. Take Lonnie here back to the billiards room. Let’s
show him our little surprise.”
Carlo winks. “Sure thing.”
I’d really rather stay here and wait out the party, but I can see
I have little choice. Ned’s in one of those moods. Reluctantly,
I follow Carlo across the dance floor, weaving past exuberant
dancers who either laugh or drunkenly scold us for getting in
the way. We move down a dark, narrow hall where a few couples have stolen away to smooch.
Finally, Carlo opens a dingy, painted door.
“Right in here,” he says, his voice tinged with a faint accent.
I hesitate. In a joint like this, who knows what could be waiting on the other side. Grinning, Carlo opens the door, grabs my arm, and shoves me in.
The room is dimly lit and filled with the stench of cigarette
smoke and alcohol. Three billiard tables stand in the center,
with smaller poker tables and chairs around the sides. There’s
no one in the room, though the buzz of music from the main
dance hall vibrates the walls. I have no idea what Ned expects
me to find in here.
Then a pair of hands cover my eyes. Soft hands. The scent of
flowered perfume teases my nose. And a breathy voice tickles
my neck.
“Guess who.”
I grab the slender wrists. Pulling the hands from my eyes, I
spin around.
Fay gives me her triumphant little smirk. “Why, hello. Fancy
meeting you here.”
“What are you doing in New York?” I ask, shocked by the
sight of her.