Deja Who

  “Can we even say ‘handicap’ these days?” Cat fretted. “I’m a little behind on my PC jargon.”

  “Focus! Listen, I like not having the weight of a dozen lives smashing me down with everything I do. Most people don’t get that. And besides, Leah’s my proof.”

  “Proof of what?”

  “That I’m not a true rasa. If she doesn’t know, then I’m not.”

  Cat laughed. “Your faith in her is adorable. And not misplaced,” she added as Archer frowned. “She’s among the best in the world at what she does, no question. But you’re acting like Insighters are infallible, and you gotta know they aren’t. Just because Insighters all over the world want to refer patients to her doesn’t mean she doesn’t ever get it wrong. Besides, what’s it all for?”

  “What?”

  “This. Us. Life.” Cat gestured vaguely at the air, the people around them, the traffic. “Everything we go through, all our past mistakes. Our attempts to fix things in this life . . . what’s it all for, if there’s never a chance to be born with a clean slate? Well, a clean slate until you fuck something up severely. Then it’s back to the end of the line, pal.”

  “Kid stuff,” he replied, feeling uncomfortable. He didn’t like thinking about this, and not just because their focus should be on Leah. It brought back painful memories. Because there had been a time he thought he was different because he was a clean slate. Not a cripple, not someone so stupid in all their lives they could never see them. “Like I said. Fairy tales for grown-ups.”

  “I don’t think so,” was Cat’s only response, and to his relief she appeared to get back on track when she added, “And I don’t think you’re a bum. And d’you know how often Leah takes to a guy under the best of circumstances?”

  “I have no—”

  “Years. Okay? As in, she never takes to a guy right away. Never mind one working for her mom. Never mind one who’s been stalking her while he works for her mom. But she didn’t chuck you out the back door, which I think is interesting. Just stabbed you.”

  “‘Just,’ huh?”

  “And then forgave you. My point, get it?”

  “Yeah, she took to me right away but chucked me out the back door in under a month, so it’s not interesting. And speaking of her mom, getting back to what I said earlier, why’d the killer decide to kill her mom first? He would have known he was killing the wrong woman, right? All he or she did was bring attention to himself or herself. The cops know something’s up, Leah knows he’s close now. Pretty dumb. Pretty obvious and dumb.” It was strange to be discussing such things while walking down a beautiful street in sunny Chicago, where almost everyone was smiling and enjoying the day.

  Sad and scary how much bad shit went on when everything else looked great.

  “What happened? What’d Ms. Nazir do to make him lose his shit and kill her? Not just kill her. He didn’t shoot her, didn’t stab her, choke her . . . he or she picked up Leah’s Emmy and whack-whack-whack.”

  “I get it, I get it, stop drawing that mental picture.” Cat paused and swallowed. “If you knew that, you’d probably know who did it. And maybe it wasn’t anything. Because, you know. Psycho killer. That’s for the cops to figure out. They’re checking alibis, all that behind-the-scenes stuff, right? Canvassing the neighborhood, and even B-list celeb deaths make the news, so people are talking about it, thinking about it . . . Again, he’s exposed. He’s gotta kill Leah quick and get out.”

  “Yeah. Not that there are many alibis to check. Leah and I are each other’s alibis, so I’m not sure how that works. And Leah’s old agent, what’s-his-face. You should have seen this guy, Cat. He looks like he’s always on the verge of hay fever, or sobbing uncontrollably. Big watery eyes, runny nose.”

  “Yeah? Why’s he even a suspect?”

  “He was there when Leah blew off her mom for the tenth time. At the McMansion.”

  “Huh. Doesn’t make sense for an agent to kill his client, though. Much easier to just drop ’em. Like there’s a shortage of B-list actresses in Hollywood?”

  “Right. Anyway, he was on a plane to L.A. when Ms. Nazir got iced with Leah’s Emmy.”

  “Oh.” A short pause, then: “How d’you know?”

  “Leah figured it out, and the cops were gonna follow up. They’ve probably verified by now.” Archer shuddered, recalling the crime scene (the McMansion had never seemed more bleak, or more sinister) and Leah’s white face and tight, clipped voice as she explained how she could have killed It while knowing damned well she didn’t kill It. “Beaten to death with Leah’s Emmy. I didn’t know Leah even had an Emmy. But then, you know. Known her less than a month.”

  “Yeah, Outstanding Guest Actress in a Comedy.” At Archer’s stare, Cat shrugged. “Okay, I was a fan. I loved the stuff she did in the nineties. Recognized her straight off when one of her clients chased her through my park.” He was still staring, so she elaborated. “Her eyes are the same. It’s why they always cast her as the smart-ass kid who acts tough but is a big sweetie inside. And don’t worry. Leah knows I was a fan. She decided we’d be pals anyway.”

  “Okay, well, when this blows over and Leah’s pregnant with my twins—”

  “Whoa!”

  “—I’ll need to borrow some of your DVDs.”

  “Okay, I can’t think about your weird twins right now, or the fact that you think I have a DVD collection stashed somewhere. So how did you know her agent was in L.A.?”

  “Leah’s mom told Leah.”

  “Leah’s mom.”

  “Uh. Yeah. Problem?”

  Cat was walking faster, a frown spreading across her broad face. Archer knew there were two kinds of people in the world: the ones who slow down when they’re thinking hard, and the ones who speed up. Almost jogging, he tried to match her pace. “Told Leah when? Over the phone?”

  “Yeah. I was right there; I heard Leah’s whole side of it. Did you know her mom’s ringtone is ‘no wire hangers’? Creepy as shit.”

  “So you weren’t at the house. Neither of you. You didn’t actually see the agent not be there.”

  Archer was having trouble figuring out the source of her growing alarm. “No, but Cat, it’s like I said, Nellie cleared him, even if she didn’t know she did at the time.”

  The mayor shook her head so hard, Archer got sympathy dizziness. “And you believed her? Jesus!”

  “Sure I did. Why wouldn’t—hey. Hey!” He grabbed her elbow and planted his feet, though the mayor could move him if she was inclined. The mayor could toss him into a pile of garbage if she was inclined. “Please, stop sprinting and explain this to me. What’s the big deal? Why wouldn’t I believe Nellie? Leah did.”

  “Yeah, well, the problem with that is that Leah’s a little too close to the problem.”

  “Okay, I appreciate the emphasis on problem, but I’m new to the story, here. You’ve got to give me more,” he begged, “and standing still, please. Me, I go slow when I think, that’s the kind I am.”

  “Okay.” She shot him an annoyed look, doubtless wondering at the relevancy of going slow. “The problem is that Nellie Nazir set the standard for unreliable narrator.”

  He blinked and absorbed that. “She lied?”

  “Unreliable narrator doesn’t necessarily mean lying. She could have believed it herself. Or convinced herself that if it wasn’t true right that minute, it would be true.”

  “Okay . . . I have faith you’re gonna get there eventually, so I’m hanging in.”

  People streamed around them as they again stood in the middle of a public sidewalk discussing lies and murder. “I think she lied about the agent being out of the house. I think he was right there with her. And I think Leah didn’t catch on at the time because she had plenty of other shit to worry about. Which brings me to the ‘baaaad shit’ part of our program.”

  “No, it’s good shit!”

/>   She peered up at him. “I think you’re getting too much sun. It’s bad shit.”

  “Cat, don’t you get it?” Archer was so excited he danced the mayor in a little circle, right there outside Burger King. “The cops will check his alibi and know it’s bullshit. They’ll have him!”

  “I know. Stop spinning me.” The mayor was growing pale, which was alarming as she normally had a healthy tan from all her time in the park. “They’ll have him. And the thing about that, Archer, is that he knows they’ll have him.”

  “Oh.”

  “So he knows he’s almost out of time.”

  “Oh!”

  Without another word, Archer whirled, stepped off the curb, ignored the bus about to kill him, flagged a taxi, then leaped out of the way of the bus about to kill him.

  “Cops!” Cat yelled after him, but he didn’t see, didn’t hear, didn’t turn. He was climbing inside the cab, totally focused on getting to Leah. “Cops would be a good thing now!”

  The taxi never slowed.

  FORTY-ONE

  Leah turned impatiently toward her front door when the doorbell chimed. Finally! She felt as if she had been waiting forever for her killer to show up and murder her. And so she had, for over two decades. An entire life wasted waiting. If Archer was here, he’d laugh and—

  Do not think about Archer.

  “About time, thank you!” She stomped to her door, observed all the secured locks, and peeped through the aptly named peephole to observe Tom Winn of Winner’s TalentTM (ugh) blinking at her from the other side of the door.

  “Go away, Tom, I’m waiting for my—never mind.”

  “Gotta talk to you, Leah. About your mom.”

  She hissed out breath. Tom had the tenacity of a bred-in-the-bone Hollywood agent; he would never quit until he’d talked to her about Nellie. This was no doubt the “but Hollywood loves when famous relatives of famous murder victims do reality TV” pitch. Or the offer to play herself in the Lifetime movie inevitably written about her mom, New Life, Old Murder. Or perhaps Hushed Killing. She could send him away and have him come back and back and back, or she could deal with it now, be rid of him forever, and hope he didn’t scare the killer off.

  Of course, he might be the killer. On TV it always seems to be the one you never suspect. However, TV has gotten nothing right this month.

  But still.

  “Make it quick,” she warned, unlocking the three security locks and swinging the door wide. “I’m a little pressed for time.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” He shuffled inside, past her, and she closed the door.

  “You missed the reading of her will,” he told her with gentle disappointment.

  “Her last performance? Yes. Well. I was, at that time, in jail for her murder, talking Celia into judging our Oddest Place You’ve Ever Done It contest. But it’s not like it’s a lot of trouble to hit rewind on the disc.”

  Tom’s wispy blond hair always looked like he was in a gale, even inside, and his big wet eyes got bigger and wetter. “Yes, I—yes. I knew that. That’s what the police—yeah. They said. Um, I know you didn’t do it, Leah.”

  “How very kind. You did not swing by to reprimand me about missing the will.”

  “No.”

  She ground her teeth. “What. Is it. Tom?”

  “The cops. I had to talk to them while you were in jail. They’ll check my alibi.”

  “Yes, and?” He couldn’t be worried about negative press. The only press that could hurt an agent was embezzlement coverage.

  “I’m almost done here.”

  Hopefully that includes this tedious meeting. “That’s fine.”

  “She lied,” he whined. He hadn’t taken off his trench coat (trench coat? in summer? really?) and sweat was beading his forehead and running down his face like tears. Wait. Those might be tears. Well, he had just left his biggest client’s last performance. He had been a part of Nellie’s life for so long, perhaps he could not imagine his without her. Certainly he had also been a part of hers; some of her earliest memories were of Tom coming over to their overpriced Beverly Hills condo with contracts for Nellie to sign. Distracted pity rose in her and she stomped on it. Absolutely no time, not for any of that nonsense. She had her murder to get on with, dammit. “She lied about you.”

  “Who? It?”

  “You shouldn’t call her that,” he said in mild rebuke. At five, she had bent an attentive ear to such rebukes, since he gave her far more attention than Nellie and she wished to please him. By the time she was in her teens, her contempt for the man and her mother had long smothered her need for his approval, or hers. “It’s very disrespectful and the press wouldn’t like it.”

  “Yes, it’s almost as bad as stealing your only daughter’s childhood and then all the money you forced her to make. And trust me: the press did not give a shit.”

  “She was disrespectful, too. About you.”

  “That. Is. So. Fascinating!” She smothered a groan. Ninety seconds, that’s what he could have. A minute and a half and then out he would go.

  “But the lie, that was the worst. I couldn’t forgive that.”

  Leah softened at once. Holy God, she had never considered this. That Nellie’s death would force him to reexamine her life, Leah’s life, and his complicity in the ruin of her childhood. That he might feel regret. Perhaps he always felt regret. Perhaps he could never admit it while It breathed and dominated and terrorized as she walked the earth in her pink satin kitten heels.

  “I . . .” She could not believe the words about to leave her mouth. “I appreciate that, Tom. Which lie? When she told the casting director for A Thousand Rapes that I was eighteen when I was fifteen? When she told the casting director for The Huggies Musical that I could play two when I was eighteen months? The lie to the judge, so she could keep my money?” He opened his mouth and she held up a hand. “Whichever lie you regret, I’m grateful. Well, not grateful, but I despise you somewhat less now.”

  “I’m tired. I’m tired all the time.”

  “Well, it has been a stressful week for us all, Tom, and you really must be going.” She started toward the door. “But thank you for stopping by and being sorrowful and vague, I guess.”

  He stepped in front of her, blocking her path to the door.

  “Tom.”

  “She said she had changed your mind about Mother Daughter Hookers Heroes. She said you were on board and we’d all go back to Hollywood and it’d be the way it was when you were—when you didn’t hate us. She said that. To me.”

  “Tom.”

  “But you made it clear, that last call. I figured it out, then. How she tricked me; I forgot how good she is at tricking people. Me, an agent, and her, an actress! The worst kind, the desperate kind. That goes for both of us,” he added.

  “Tom!”

  “You said you were done with her at the house but I thought maybe . . . maybe you weren’t—well, all right, I knew you were serious but I hoped you’d change your mind. We knew how much you hated Insighting. Knew you’d turn your back on it if you could. But you didn’t.”

  “Didn’t hate Insighting? Or didn’t turn my back?” She was having trouble following him. Tom seemed weepy and distracted, even more so than usual.

  “You didn’t change your mind,” he elaborated. “And I knew. I remembered what she always made herself forget, how stubborn you are, how unmoving. So there was no point, you get it? When you wouldn’t just do the show, you wouldn’t be with her anymore for any reason. No point to stay in her life. I wasn’t ever supposed to be in her life anyway.”

  “No?”

  “I did it wrong this time; I got in her life when you were young. I had to. You see it, right?”

  “Maybe talk me through it.” She realized she was using her clinical voice, and no wonder. This could be a session like any other session, with one crucia
l difference: she wasn’t bored. She sent a silent apology to all her patients. Should have been nicer, should have seen you weren’t pieces of paper in a chart. I’m paying for it now, if that makes it better.

  “The only way I could be in your life is if I was in hers. I wanted to be near you for a long time, I didn’t want to make you go away, because then I don’t have you until the next time.” This in a tone people used for “two plus two equals four; it’s so easy, isn’t it?”

  “A dilemma,” she agreed, sounding like she was speaking through a mouthful of sawdust. My kingdom for a glass of water. And a shotgun.

  “But I didn’t count on the stubbornness. Yours or hers. By the time I realized I was hiding too well you’d left and built your own life somewhere else. But she was always sure she could talk you into coming back. And I—I let myself believe it, because it was what I wanted, too. I believed it because she believed it.”

  “Yes, my mother could take a polygraph and the needles would never twitch,” Leah managed, her thoughts whirling. “It’s why she was such a good actress. She was always acting. Even Nellie Nazir was a role.”

  He took a step forward. He was three feet away, between her and the door. No other exit. Phone still charging in the other room. She could stand there and shriek, but the door had locked when it closed. No one would get there in time. And she was a fool. It seemed she was always a fool.

  Tom’s tears weren’t for Nellie. They weren’t even for her. They were for himself, only for himself. Never thought I’d say this, Mother: you deserved better.

  “Is that why you beat her to death?” She couldn’t believe how detached she sounded, attentive yet slightly bored. Ho-hum, just another day in the salt mines. “Because I refused to do the show?”

  “No. Because she told me she knew how to get you to Hollywood. To get you back. She was so proud for thinking of it. So she made me wait there in the photo room, the shrine to your careers—”

  “I honestly would rather hear about my mother’s murder instead of the photo room, and I don’t want to hear about my mother’s murder,” she admitted.