Like to Die Page 23

  She disconnected the charger, closed the hood, negotiated the narrow space between the garage wall and the car, and opened the driver’s side door. She slipped inside. The car started with little effort. Erin drove it out of the garage onto the storage facility’s wide driveway. I recognized it as a two-door Toyota Solara coupe, a car they stopped manufacturing in 2008. It was light brown, Desert Sand I think they called it, the least noticeable color for a car. Erin turned it off and got out. She threw me the keys. I caught them with my left hand and winced.

  “Where’s your sling?” Erin asked.

  “I left it in the Mustang.”

  “Was that a good idea?”

  “No.”

  “Put the Beemer inside.”

  I did as she asked. After parking the BMW, I carried my gym bag out of the garage. Erin had removed both her coat and her green sweater and was now standing with her naked back to me. I considered briefly how smooth her skin looked—C’mon, McKenzie, my inner voice said, focus—and then shook the thought from my head.

  The trunk of the Solara was open. Erin reached inside and pulled out a light blue pullover that matched the color of her bra and put it on. I moved to the trunk and looked at the contents. There were two suitcases. One was opened. Along with clothes, it contained a number of burn phones and a handful of prepaid credit cards bound with a rubber band. I picked up the credit cards.

  “Prepaid credit cards can be purchased without a credit check.” Erin used a hair tie to pull her golden hair into a ponytail. “They aren’t connected to your bank account, and because the money is front-loaded, your transactions are never reported to credit agencies.” She flipped the ponytail over the top of her head and secured it in place with a wig cap.

  “How much is here?” I asked.

  Erin carefully fit a medium-length red wig over the cap.

  “About fifty thousand,” she said. “There’s cash, too.”

  I dropped the credit cards back into the suitcase and tossed the gym bag next to it.

  “Pretty elaborate go-bag,” I said. “Obviously you’ve been planning this for some time.”

  Erin used a handheld mirror to make sure her wig fit properly.

  “I’ve been tinkering with it every few months for over ten years,” she said. “It’s like maintaining a storm shelter in your backyard. You never actually want to use it. How do I look?”

  I examined the red wig.

  “Good,” I said. “Although I prefer you as a blonde.”

  “That’s because it’s what you’re used to. Here.”

  Erin gave me a Minnesota Twins baseball hat. I put it on while she slipped on a black fleece jacket.

  “Keys,” she said.

  I returned them to her. Erin slammed the trunk lid shut and moved back to the garage door. She pulled it down and locked it.

  “Is your shoulder okay?” she asked. “Are you good to drive?’

  “Yes.”

  She tossed the keys to me as she started back to the Solara. I climbed into the driver’s side while Erin made herself comfortable in the passenger seat.

  “Straight at the door,” she said. “Not too fast.”

  I drove slowly toward the huge garage door at the end of the driveway. It opened when I was close enough to trip an electronic eye. I drove out of the storage facility toward yet another gate. This one also opened without our having to input a code. We soon found ourselves on a city street.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “You decide.”

  “I have property up north.”

  “Then we should go in the opposite direction. Give me your phone.”

  I passed my cell over and maneuvered the Solara onto I-94 and headed east. Erin opened my phone, removed the battery, and gave both back to me. I slipped them into my pocket.

  “Nice car,” I said. “I’m surprised Toyota stopped making them.”

  “They didn’t sell as well as the Camry. This is a first-generation model, built in 1999. You’ll notice it has no computer, no GPS.”

  “I did notice. I assume that’s why you dismantled my cell phone, to deactivate the GPS.”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  Soon we were crossing the Lafayette Bridge and driving south on Highway 52.

  “Who goes first?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Should I tell you my story, or would you prefer to tell me yours?”

  “How badly did Randy hurt me?”

  I explained, starting with Alice Pfeifer’s phone call yesterday afternoon and ending with my meeting with Carson Brazill at the Mall of America that morning.

  “Randy Bignell-Sax.” Erin spoke as if they were the saddest words she had ever heard. “Can you believe anyone is that stupid? Now they’re going to put him in charge of Bignell Bakeries and Minnesota Foods. That’s a corporate catastrophe waiting to happen. I never thought I’d feel sorry for Marilyn.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what’s happening on the north side of the Cities. On the south side we have two people fleeing the Outfit in a nineteen-year-old Solara.”

  “Nothing of what you said Randy did explains how Carson found me.”

  “I’m still not entirely sure who this Carson is. Or who you are, either, for that matter.”

  Erin spent a lot of time staring out the side window. She didn’t speak until we were approaching Hastings.

  “Once upon a time, there was a young woman,” she said. “No, not a woman. A girl who was nowhere near as smart as she thought she was…”

  * * *

  She was sure everyone was looking at her and wondering what kind of woman she must be to expose herself like that—sprawled out on a beach lounge in the skimpiest bikini she had ever seen much less worn. She had a white cardigan cover-up, but her boyfriend wouldn’t allow her to put it on. Averill Naylor had worked hard over the years to make himself rich, and he wanted everyone to know it. He was almost desperate to flaunt his wealth and the things that it could buy, like his Brioni suits, gold Patek Philippe watch, Jaguar XJ sports car, and beautiful blond girlfriend who was literally fifty years younger than he was, so no, he wouldn’t let her conceal her body even if the Jamaican sun was sautéing her pale skin. Nor would he let her cover her bare shoulders with a chiffon shawl when she entered the dining room in the strapless sequined gown he had bought for her, or even wear her sunglasses in public. He wanted her to be seen, all of her, he said. That’s why he brought her to the resort. So people could see her. So they could see him with her.

  She knew all that, of course; she understood perfectly that she was little more than an ornament to him. It embarrassed her anyway. She worked hard not to show it, though. Averill would become upset if she appeared uncomfortable when they went out together. Once he caught her tugging on the bodice of her evening gown because she was afraid it would slip down and bare her breasts. He slapped her hands and hissed, “Don’t do that.” Later, he apologized. He wasn’t a bad man, she told herself. Most of the time he was very pleasant company, kind and generous, even sweet. But the slap reminded her why she had agreed to let him escort her to Jamaica and Las Vegas and to all those parties and openings and charity galas in Chicago. She did it for the money.

  It wasn’t the career path she had originally chosen for herself. She had studied economics at Northwestern University, but her bachelor’s degree had left her with over $100,000 of debt. She had job offers, mostly from banks and insurance companies. To pay her bills, she took a position at a credit bureau even though she knew it was a dead-end job. As it was, after subtracting the barest living expenses, she discovered that her salary scarcely allowed her to pay the interest on her student loans, much less whack away at the principal. Nor did she have family she could lean on, parents she could live with while she dug herself out of the financial hole that college had dropped her in.

  * * *

  “I told you the truth when I said I was an orphan, McKenzie,” Erin said. “My father really did die when I wa
s a child. My mother passed just two months after I started school. My inheritance paid for my first two years’ tuition.”

  “You lied when you said you went to the University of Wisconsin.”

  “I lied about a lot of things.”

  “When you said—”

  “Do you want me to tell you the story or not?”

  “Go ’head.”

  * * *

  She attended a party with many of her former classmates, some of whom were in the same position as she was, including an ex-boyfriend who had attended DePaul University. Alcohol was consumed and stories were exchanged. Late in the evening a woman pulled her aside, an art history major, who told her that she knew how a girl who was both smart and pretty could make some easy money if she was willing. The art major was very beautiful, and the young woman was jealous of her.

  * * *

  “Startling blue eyes and short black hair,” Erin said. “She looked a little like Nina.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I said.

  * * *

  Still, she was outraged. Was the art major suggesting prostitution? Turning tricks in some hot-sheet motel for $100 a client? Acting in adult films perhaps, making $1,000 to $1,800 per sex scene? The art major was upset that the economics major would think so little of her. I was trying to do you a favor, she said. What favor? I know people I can introduce you to. What people? Never mind. No, tell me. Older men. What about them? They’ll pay you to be seen with them. Prostitution. No. What do you call it? An economics professor at the University of Chicago says it’s like renting a trophy wife by the hour. That’s where the smart part of it comes in, the art major said. According to her, these men wanted young and attractive women that they could have an intelligent conversation with, women they could introduce to their friends and associates without being embarrassed. Who’s smarter than you are? the art major asked. Who’s prettier?

  The economics major appreciated the art major’s compliments, yet said thanks-but-no-thanks just the same. That’s when the art major mentioned that she had made $6,000 for twelve hours of work the previous week and hadn’t slept with anyone she didn’t want to. The economics major did the math quickly—at $500 an hour for twelve hours a week, she could pay off her student loans in a little over four months. Quicker, if she logged more hours.

  She reminded herself that she wasn’t a virgin saving herself for marriage; she had had a healthy sex life at Northwestern, mostly with college boys who had no idea what they were doing. What difference would it make if she hooked up with older men for a change, she asked herself? She wouldn’t be like a real prostitute. Real prostitutes worked the streets because they were being forced to by some guy, or because they needed money for drugs, or whatever. It was a bad situation, but it wouldn’t be her situation. She’d be a partner in her exploitation. No, not a partner. She’d be the sole proprietor of a service business that was ostensibly no different than accounting or banking.

  She hadn’t entirely talked herself into it, though. Even economics majors have some sense of morality. Yet she had agreed to accompany the art major to a gathering on Sheridan Road. It was surreal—so many older men and a few older women mingling with so many younger women and a few younger men with no age group in between, as if the world had somehow skipped an entire generation. What surprised her even more, though, was how much she enjoyed herself. The conversations were about art, history, politics, the theater, even economics. No one spoke about sports or work or the latest Marvel superhero movie.

  Averill Naylor approached her while she was examining a quirky painting by Chagall. The small canvas caught her eye while she was returning from the restroom. She looked closely to see if it was real or a print. Of course, it was real. Averill asked if she was an admirer. The economics major said that she didn’t particularly care for the modernists but that one had to admire Chagall’s use of color. He asked what kind of art she favored. She said that it might seem like a contradiction, but she admired the realists like Courbet and Daumier as well as the Pre-Raphaelites like Rossetti and Waterhouse.

  Averill smiled at the young woman as if he were proud of her and introduced himself. She said her name was Christine Olson …

  * * *

  “So that is your real name,” I said.

  “No, it’s not,” Erin said. “Pay attention, McKenzie.”

  * * *

  Averill Naylor was a handsome man for his age, tall and thin with a shock of white hair, and looking at him, the economics major knew that if he asked her out she would accept. Yet something tugged at her. Maybe it was her sense of propriety; she didn’t know. She did know that if she agreed to enter Averill’s world, it would be only for a short time; she would take what she needed, and afterward she would never look back. At the same time, she wanted to be sure the life wouldn’t follow her. So she invented her new identity on the spot, and Averill accepted it without question. Not once during the time they were together did he ever ask to see her ID.

  * * *

  “Eventually I would create a false identity to go with the name Christine Olson,” Erin said. “We’ll get to that later.”

  * * *

  For their first date, Averill escorted her to the Art Institute of Chicago. He was very attentive and very knowledgeable, and they held hands like lovers as they maneuvered from one exhibit to another. Christine noticed people watching them, the old man holding the young woman’s hand. Averill enjoyed the attention. Christine felt awkward and uncomfortable, yet she never once removed her hand from his. After he drove her to her apartment, he gave her an envelope. She hesitated before taking it, and when she did, she pushed it down into her purse without opening it. He seemed to like that, too.

  Averill asked if she would spend more time with him. Christine agreed. She said something then that surprised them both, mostly because it was so obviously true—she couldn’t remember the last time she had enjoyed herself so much in a man’s company. Averill kissed her cheek.

  Later, alone in her apartment, Christine opened the envelope. It contained $2,000.

  They didn’t sleep together until her earnings topped $25,000, and then it was she who made the first move, literally taking Averill’s hand and leading him to the bedroom. Christine didn’t do it for the money. She did it because over the weeks she had come to genuinely care for him. Averill had been as surprised by the turn of events as Christine was. Yet he never stopped giving her envelopes, and she never stopped accepting them.

  They had reached $64,500 when Averill died of a heart attack in his condominium overlooking Millennium Park. Christine had stepped out of the bathroom wearing only her panties and discovered him lying naked on his bed, his hands clasped behind his head as if he had been contemplating something pleasant.

  She could have gotten dressed and walked out; there was no foul play involved, nothing for the police to investigate once someone discovered Averill’s body. Yet she couldn’t leave him like that for some cleaning woman to find. Instead, Christine called 911 and told the operator that her friend had died—because she was his friend.

  Averill’s death had affected Christine more than she could have imagined. She spent the next three days in bed, calling in sick to work, leaving her apartment only to attend his funeral. She remained in the back of the chapel, keeping to herself. Yet the whispers floated around her. Somehow the mourners had learned that she was “that woman.”

  Averill had scrupulously kept her away from his family. Now they came at her—sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. They said that Averill had merely been going through a difficult phase, a bad patch, and that she had taken advantage of him; it was as if they believed he had been suffering a midlife crisis at age seventy-one. They told her if she was expecting more money, if she thought that somehow she had weaseled herself into Averill’s will, to forget it. They had friends in City Hall. They would crush her. Christine listened to it all, suffering their slings and arrows without comment even when they called her a whore a
nd a prostitute. She wasn’t entirely sure they were wrong.

  Finally, as Christine was leaving, a woman her age—Averill’s granddaughter, as it turned out—intercepted her at the door. She said that Averill had been deeply unhappy for many years after his wife had died, except for those months at the end when he had been involved with Christine. She hugged Christine and said thank you, told her she was a good person, and wished her a happy life.

  Christine ran to her car, hoping to get inside before she broke down in tears. She nearly made it …

  * * *

  “I can’t tell you how much that small act of kindness meant to me, McKenzie,” Erin said. “It changed my life. Not then, though. No, it was much, much later. I had to hit rock bottom first.”

  THIRTEEN

  We had left Highway 52 and were now on Highway 61, still heading south. The city of Red Wing was receding in the rearview mirror. On our right was a cyclone fence that was both long and high, with the top curved inward to deter people from climbing over it. On the other side of the fence was a series of Romanesque buildings that reminded me of the kind of English boarding school that you only see in the movies.

  “What is this place?” Erin asked.

  “Minnesota Correctional Facility, mostly for juveniles and a few adults the system still believes it can save.”

  “Maybe we should stop and I could check in, save everyone a lot of trouble.”

  “You’re determined to be a pessimist, aren’t you?”

  “I was still heavily in debt, McKenzie…”

  * * *

  Averill had paid Christine nearly $65,000, but she hadn’t used it all to pay down her student loans as she had originally planned. Instead, she bought a car and upgraded her wardrobe and moved to a better apartment. As a result, she still owed well over $50,000, and because of the apartment and car, she also had a higher overhead than when she started. After a few weeks, she decided to return to the house on Sheridan Road. She was welcomed there; Averill had sung her praises to his friends. Dates were arranged. Christine didn’t enjoy them nearly as much as she had enjoyed her time with Averill, though. Most of the men were more sexually aggressive than he had been. One in particular—his name was Len Grollman—had all but raped her. Afterward, he told Christine how much fun he had and said he hoped that they could do it again sometime. The contents of the envelope he gave her did little to assuage her anger. Or her despondency. The evening with Grollman made it clear to her what she had become.