Second Chance (Hudson Valley Murder Mysteries #2)

Chapter Ten

T ony wakes with a start some time past three in the morning, leaned back against the couch, overstretched, his neck killing him. The DVD menu is on a loop. Colette sleeps slumped against the other arm of the couch. Her neck must be hurting too; she’s bent forward, chin to her chest. The spreadsheet they were filling out rests on the coffee table precariously. It shows tracking on Bones for the locations, perpetrators, and frequency of violent crimes as well as whether or not they’re solved.

Tony stumbles to his feet to check the bedroom.

Empty.

Daniel would have woken them up when he came home.

Tony finds his phone on the coffee table, his battery at 11 percent.

Daniel still hasn’t read his messages.

With shaking fingers, Tony dials his number. It goes straight to voicemail again.

On the couch, Colette groans and stretches. “What…”

“He’s not home.” Tony’s voice sounds awful. Dry and cracked and terrified. “Colette, he didn’t come home.”

She straightens. “Do we call the police?”

“I’m calling Taylor.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

Tony shrugs. Some of Daniel’s deep and abiding skepticism toward law enforcement has rubbed off on him during the last year. Detective Taylor’s handling of Mario’s murder put Colette under wrongful arrest and Daniel and Tony in danger. The slow, slow seconds, when the only thing between Daniel and death were Tony’s hands gripping his arms as he dangled over the Hudson River, altered a part of Tony that used to have optimism and faith in community.

The police should have been there earlier. They should have found the solution themselves. It shouldn’t have been him and Daniel.

“She’s still the only person who can actually help,” he says anyway.

“We could call Lily,” Colette suggests.

When she tries, it goes straight to voicemail again.

Out of options, Tony scrolls through his contacts for the personal number he was hoping he would never have to use. It rings and rings and rings, and finally, when he thinks it’s time to give up and try 911, Detective Taylor answers, groggy and annoyed.

“Hi. This is Tony d’Angelo. It’s about Daniel Rosenbaum. He’s missing.” Saying it out loud sends a bolt of fear straight down Tony’s spine.

Tony answers a few questions Taylor asks distractedly—when he last saw Daniel, whether not coming home late is unusual for him, what he was doing when he went missing.

“He texted me around four and said he was in a meeting with counseling, but counseling says he never showed up. Anyone could have texted from his phone, though.” Tony feels compelled to point it out. Daniel refuses to use a biometric lock on his phone. He says he doesn’t trust them, but his pin is easy.

Not that a biometric lock is safe from criminals. Stacy had Tony press his thumbprint to his phone so she could text Daniel to stop him from looking. She was pointing a gun at him. He had to do it. If someone was pointing a weapon at Daniel, he’d have told them Worf’s birthday.

Don’t spiral , Tony tells himself firmly. It won’t help .

There’s probably a rational explanation: Lily Peterson waylaid Daniel in a crisis; he took her to the hospital; his phone ran out of battery; he doesn’t know anyone’s number by heart except the landline in the New York City apartment he used to share with his grad school roommate, Paul Weintrob.

It will be fine, and Detective Taylor will be pissed at them for wasting her time.

She shows up half an hour later, wearing her dress shirt inside out, badge pinned to it haphazardly.

Colette grabbed her coffee grounds and cooker from downstairs, which is a mercy. Tony has no idea what he would have done with the time if not sit there and drink coffee. Worf reads the nervous energy in the room and hides under the couch, purring incessantly as if it will calm them all down.

“Walk me through it,” the detective demands as she sits on the chair she always uses to interrogate them. “You last saw him yesterday morning.”

“We left here around eight,” Tony confirms. “I went to work in Kingston. Daniel and Colette drove to Lobell.”

Colette nods. “We got there at around twenty past, I believe. I went to my office. Daniel went to a meeting with the president. He texted in the afternoon to say he would drive us home at six.”

“And he texted you as well?”

“Yeah.” Tony thumbs open his phone to show her. “He said he was meeting counseling to talk about the room searches, and he’d be home by six or six thirty.”

The detective says nothing as she writes down the information.

Unable to stop himself, Tony adds, “He has a student who’s seemed increasingly unstable. Lily Peterson.”

“Lily Peterson.” The detective makes another note in her booklet. “That’s the girl who found Professor Lawrence.”

“Yes. Daniel is her academic advisor.”

“Mm-hm. And he sees her frequently?”

Tony and Colette exchange a glance.

Tony clears his throat. “More often since…what happened with Professor Lawrence. From what Daniel has said, she hasn’t been doing well.” He doesn’t mention that Daniel wants to believe she’s doing well and resisted mentioning her to the police on several occasions. Tony hopes Daniel will forgive him later for mentioning Lily and potentially getting her into trouble after Daniel has tried so hard to keep her off the police’s radar.

Taylor taps her pen against the notebook. “She was involved last year as well, wasn’t she?”

Colette looks away, toward the dark windows. It’s still a sore subject for her, what Mario did with—to—his students. Tony’s not sure if she and Daniel have talked about it. Heck, Daniel barely talks to Tony about it, probably because he knows Tony still can’t let go of the anger toward Mario for what he did to Gianna. It wakens another layer of guilt in Tony that Daniel’s still grieving a friend, and Tony can’t even empathize.

He can at least take the heat off Colette. “She had feelings for Professor Lombardi. It’s unclear whether they were returned. She said the relationship was never physical, but after his death, she attempted suicide.”

“Right.” Detective Taylor scrubs a hand through her hair, pulling it out of its updo. She curses, drops her pen on her lap, and tries to fix it. “Did Professor Rosenbaum say anything else about these counseling sessions with Lily?”

“Advising sessions,” Colette corrects. “He’s concerned.”

Tony adds, “Lily struggles with her mental health. Daniel’s trying to encourage her to seek counseling.”

“I hate to ask, but do either of you think there might be something…inappropriate between her and Professor Rosenbaum?”

An undignified snort escapes Tony’s nose.

Colette shakes her head instantly. “Absolutely not.”

The detective raises an eyebrow. “She has a history.”

“As does Daniel, with men, exclusively. He’s also adamantly against relationships between professors and students.” Colette sounds bored, as if both these things should be extremely obvious.

To a certain degree, maybe they should be. The detective should certainly be aware by now that Daniel and Tony are together. Then again, in her line of work, she probably sees all sorts of relationships end all sorts of horrible ways. Daniel has never talked to her about his orientation. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to think he’s bi.

Someone who has met Daniel and spent significant time with him would find the idea laughable. Not Daniel being bi, but Daniel being unscrupulous enough to take advantage of a student. He would never.

“Lily was concerned about the police searches,” Tony remembers. “She was trying to start a petition against them.”

Colette and the detective both look at him blankly.

“And she was focused on whether she could get an automatic pass on Professor Lawrence’s class or something. She didn’t even go to the memorial. But she was also worried she’d be a suspect because she found the professor.”

Detective Taylor closes her eyes as if asking for patience. “I thought I told you not to investigate .”

“You told Daniel not to investigate. I just…happened to be in the room.”

She gives him a cold, hard stare. “That was a general encouragement to all of you.”

“It’s suspicious, though, right?” he pushes.

“ If it were, I wouldn’t be able to say anything about an ongoing investigation.”

Tony’s patience snaps. He yanks open the junk drawer in the kitchen and throws the plastic bag with the letter on the table, the one she dismissed only last week when this all started. “And what about this? This still isn’t suspicious?”

Taylor opens her mouth, then closes it again.

“Or this?” Tony slams the second baggie, the one with the knife, on the table next to it. “This was on our door last Thursday.”

“Why didn’t you call me then ?”

“Daniel refused. He thought you would arrest him or Colette for it.”

“I wouldn’t—”

Tony crosses his arms.

“Well, at least he’d have been safe in custody.” Detective Taylor has the good grace to at least look sheepish. “It’s not uncommon for people to get a taste of adrenaline chasing criminals, and then start creating their own crimes.”

“It’s not uncommon for innocent people to end up in jail in this country because the police won’t do their fucking jobs.” Tony slams the junk drawer shut with more force than necessary.

Choosing this as her moment for some reason, Colette leans forward. “What about the husband? He and Amelia were having difficulties, and he made a scene at her memorial. He yelled at Daniel.”

“You didn’t tell me he yelled at Daniel.” Tony turns to her, frowning.

“He didn’t want to worry you.” Colette’s mouth twists. “Clearly, that worked well.”

The detective throws her hands up. “Are all of you incapable of following basic instructions?”

Tony opens his mouth to deny it; he wants more than anything to tell her she’s the one who’s incapable. It’s her fault for alienating Daniel so thoroughly he put himself in danger again. Tony stops short, clinging to the belief that at least now she knows, she can do something to save Daniel.

“Right,” Taylor says, voice grim. Despite her disheveled appearance, she’s all professionalism. “Well, this has been illuminating. Call me if you hear from him.”

“Wait.” Tony follows her to the door. “Do you think it’s connected? Do you think Daniel’s in danger?”

“Mr. d’Angelo,” the detective says firmly, not unkindly, but unbending. “There’s no way I can give you an answer right now. I’ll let you know when I have more information.”

“But what do we do ?” It comes out plaintive, desperate, which Tony hates. “I have to do something.” This isn’t anything like when Mario Lombardi died. At the time, there was nothing more to do. The event passed, and Tony had no reason to expect anything else to happen. His role was clear: Support Gianna and do what was best for her.

“The best thing you can do is stay where he can find you. If he can, I’m sure he’ll come home. Are you in touch with his family?”

Tony nods.

“You could let them know. If we haven’t found him by the end of the day, you could make flyers.”

Tony wants to scream.

With a tight smile, Taylor leaves, the evidence held between her pinched thumb and forefinger.

It’s still only five in the morning. Daniel’s family on the West Coast won’t be awake for hours. Tony and Colette drift into the kitchen for more coffee. Neither of them can think of anything to say. Eventually, Tony gets too jittery to sit, so he takes a shower. He uses Daniel’s shampoo, letting the smell of it fill the small bathroom. It’s generic—of course it is, it’s three in one—in the way bottom-of-the-shelf men’s hygiene products always are. They made no effort to make it smell like something that would occur naturally. The label says it’s “fresh and clean,” and it does smell like both of those things.

Mostly, it smells like Daniel.

Tony keeps his bag of toiletries in the mirrored cabinet above the sink. Daniel mostly uses it to store his huge bottle of Advil for tension headaches. Tony brought his kit over sometime in January, and it’s stayed here ever since. He needs it for beard care every other day, and he’s been here at least that often. Since it’s still early, and he can’t think of anything else to do, Tony gets out the circular beard brush and starts methodically brushing out his beard. He hasn’t had time or energy to trim it in at least a week or two, and it’s starting to get a little wild. He usually goes for a sleeker look. By now, he’s edging closer and closer to hipster territory.

Daniel never had a beard. He says he tried in his teens, and it was such a patchy disaster he never wanted to repeat it. Tony thinks it would be worth a shot now. If Daniel doesn’t come back, they’ll never know.

The thought takes Tony out at the knees, and he has to sit on the closed toilet lid for a long moment, just breathing.

Today isn’t the day for a trim. He doesn’t trust himself with the scissors right now. Best to leave it at a thorough brush. Halfway through, he pats in some beard oil. It’s neutral, so it won’t mask the scent of Daniel’s shampoo.

Colette knocks while he’s trying to brush out the stubborn swirl of hair on the left, under his jawline.

He has a towel wrapped around his waist, so he opens the door. “What’s up?”

“Do you want breakfast? I can get something from Bread and Basket.”

“Sure.” The bakery’s across the street, and he and Daniel often go on weekend mornings. “I love their quiche.”

“Quiche is not a breakfast food.”

He shrugs.

She stays where she is in the doorway.

“I’m not changing my order.”

She laughs, which is nice to hear. “No, no, sorry. I’ve never watched this process before. I hadn’t imagined it being so involved.”

“That’s probably the real reason Daniel never grew a beard.” Tony snaps his fingers in realization. “Can’t use three in one on a beard.” Probably Daniel would try, but it would be awful.

Colette’s smile dims a little. “That does sound like him.”

“He’ll be fine.” Tony wishes his voice didn’t crack on the words. “Right?”

“I hope so.” Colette sounds as helpless as Tony feels.

It doesn’t comfort either of them.

Neither, it turns out, does the third cup of coffee or the flaky pastry filled with cheese and spinach. Although Tony takes any excuse to eat it otherwise, this morning, it tastes of nothing. Food is only another way to kill time.

After breakfast, they try Lily again. Still no response. Fortified with what must be her fourth coffee, Colette calls Sean again and asks if he’s heard from Lily. He hasn’t. With all of their avenues of research exhausted, short of doing something Taylor would probably arrest them for, they have nothing left to do but wait.

They don’t talk much. Tony’s thankful Colette takes at face value that they will stay here, together, to wait this out. She makes no attempt to return to her own apartment. Instead, they fuck around on their phones as if anything on there could calm the buzzing of Tony’s nerves. He toggles between the same three apps, scrolling blindly and not taking in anything he sees.

“Look at this,” Colette demands, turning her phone screen toward him. The black-and-white website has blocks of color down the left side, denoting different scores, and the bold letters R M P at the top.

Amelia Lawrence’s name jumps out at him immediately.

“What is this?”

“Rate my professor.”

Tony blinks. “What.”

Colette grimaces, mouth pulling wide and tight. “I know, I know. It’s essentially word of mouth, but for the digital age. Anonymous users leave reviews of their college and their professors, possibly to help students decide which courses to take.”

“Hm.” Tony peers at the screen. “And the categories are—‘for credit, would take again, grade, and textbook’? What does ‘textbook’ mean?”

“Whether the class requires you to buy a textbook. This website does not use a scientific metric.” Colette makes another face. “They used to allot little pepper symbols along with academic quality to indicate physical attractiveness.”

Tony snorts. “It’s nice to hear about students objectifying professors instead of the opposite for a change. So, what am I looking at here?”

“Amelia Lawrence’s page.”

There are five ratings on the page with a combined score of 2.0, which, based on the fact that it’s colored red, is not a good thing. Three of the ratings score her as a 1.0 or a 1.5, while the other two situate her at a 4.0.

The three low ratings all appear to be for the same class: Psych 218. Research Methods, apparently. The first one reads: Professor Lawrence only cares about her Zebrafish. She wouldn’t lift a finger for a student if they were drowning in a lake. I hope someone teaches her a lesson on research ethics. The listed grade is “NA.”

“Sounds like a threat,” Tony says.

Colette nods. “My thoughts exactly.”

Just to check, Tony scrolls to the positive reviews. They rate different classes and offer fairly generic praise, saying Amelia Lawrence was good at her job, friendly, and helpful.

“So…where does this leave us?” Tony asks.

Colette takes her phone back, studying it briefly before turning off the display. “I’m wondering if Lily wrote those.”

“Daniel did say she was only interested in whether or not she could get an automatic pass on the class now Professor Lawrence is dead.”

“That’s a motive.”

It’s a shitty motive. “I don’t know. Is she that callous?”

“A few hours ago, you were trying to convince the detective she’s a suspect, despite Daniel’s beliefs to the contrary.” Colette’s cadence reminds Tony of the way she speaks when she and Daniel get into academic debates, detached and analytical, but Tony knows her well enough by now to hear the tight coil of anger in her voice.

“And you were sure it was the husband. It’s not our job to figure out—”

“You were doing it anyway, though, weren’t you?”

Tony rolls his eyes and is instantly annoyed at himself for having done it. Too much like Gianna. “They left a knife on the door! Sue me for feeling threatened. Anyway, it’s not as if I was investigating on purpose. I happened to hear her say some stuff. You’re the one who was going out of your way to—”

“Forgive me if my faith in the Dutchess County police force is not high.” Colette bites out the words, harsh and angry, and Tony instantly feels bad.

“Sorry. I know what they did to you—”

“Me!” She snorts. “I was at least being credibly framed. They nearly let you and Daniel die last year. Who’s to say they won’t do it again if we don’t…”

“If we don’t do something,” Tony finishes. It makes a horrific amount of sense. He doesn’t want to think about Daniel, alone with a killer, possibly injured, waiting on rescue only for Detective Taylor and her miles of red tape to be too late this time. Tony considers the idea from every angle he can think of. “Daniel would hate it.”

“If it were you, Daniel would be staking out the Lawrence’s family home like a character on CSI .”

Tony draws in a shuddering breath. “Okay. I see your point. Let me…uh…let me call his family first, and then we can…we can figure something out.”

She shrugs. “I can always go on my own.”

“You absolutely cannot. If you think I’ll let you be next, you’re out of your mind.”

They discuss logistics idly in the time it takes for 9:00 a.m. to roll around. Watching Mr. Lawrence is the easiest and safest course of action, which makes Tony more inclined to try that out instead of the alternative. This is in no small part because the alternative would be breaking into Lily’s dorm room to figure out what it is she’s so scared of the police finding. Counting on his fingers, Tony easily comes up with five reasons not to do it: One, figuring out where her dorm room is will alert the college of what they’re up to. Two, chances are Lily is in her dorm room and would be shocked, if not further traumatized, by them showing up at her door. Three, if she weren’t there and they didn’t find anything, she would report the break-in, and Tony and Colette would get arrested. Four, if she weren’t there and they did find something, they would have to tell Taylor and get arrested. Five, Tony’s ma would be so disappointed in him.

Besides, some part of Tony still feels it would be a betrayal to go after Lily. Daniel was so sure of her. Tony already feels bad for telling the detective about her and about the knife, though he thinks it was the right thing to do. Which he also feels bad about. It’s a sentimental train of thought and nowhere near as practical as he needs to be if it really is down to him and Colette to keep Daniel safe. There’s a reason Tony’s not a detective, and this is it.

Finally, he can’t reasonably put it off anymore, so Tony searches his phone for Leah Rosenbaum’s number. He only has it because of the time Daniel’s cell phone ran out of battery while he was in Albany with his parents last summer, and he left it too late to double-check with Tony about dinner plans. He called Tony from his mom’s phone, and Tony saved the number, just in case.

They had dinner at a sushi place in Tivoli that night. Daniel taught Tony how to use chopsticks properly. It was delicious, and they’ve been meaning to go back since, even though Daniel’s dad complained afterward it was nothing compared to Japanese food in the Bay Area.

Tony hopes desperately they will go again. He hopes Daniel can take him to California someday. He hopes he and Colette won’t be too late.

Mrs. Rosenbaum—Leah, Daniel’s mom—picks up on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, uh, it’s Tony. D’Angelo?”

“Tony? Is everything all right?”

Of course she’d ask immediately. Why else would he be calling? He doesn’t call her; he hangs out in the background when Daniel calls.

“Uh, no,” he manages. “You…have you heard from Daniel?”

“Not since last week. Has something happened?”

“He’s gone missing.” It feels like someone else said the words, far away through the buzzing in his ears.

“Oh my god.”

He doesn’t know Daniel’s mom well enough to understand her tone of voice, what it might mean to her to hear this news. He will someday, maybe, if he and Daniel are still together years from now, but it’s too soon.

“Is it…anything to do with the man who was killed last year?”

Jesus fucking Christ , Tony thinks and immediately feels guilty. It makes sense for her to make that leap, even if it’s the last thing he wants to think about. If everyone could stop mentioning Mario in conjunction with the current case, it would be great for Tony’s mental health.

“Um, probably not. Another professor was injured on campus last week. It might be connected.”

“Might?” Her voice is climbing in pitch, headed for hysterical, and Tony can’t blame her.

“The police don’t know anything right now. But, uh, they wanted me to get in touch to see if you’ve heard anything.”

“Oh my god,” she says again. “We should be there.”

“I—” Tony starts and then realizes he has nothing to say.

“Aaron’s getting his operation today. How are we going to…oh my god.”

A distant bell rings in the depths of Tony’s mind. It feels like months ago, Daniel mentioning his dad’s hip replacement in passing, but it was only last week.

“Maybe wait on telling him until after the operation?” he says.

“I hate lying to him. And we should be there.”

“Flying with a bad hip, though—”

“Oh, I know. It was already bad in the summer, not that he would admit it to Daniel. What will we do?”

Selfishly, Tony doesn’t want them to fly out. He doesn’t know what he would possibly say to them, how he could bridge the gap of their missing child. They should wait to come. Until Daniel is home, safe and sound. Until they know what’s happened.

“What about Meredith?” he suggests. Daniel’s sister is sensible, almost to the point of being cynical. She’ll talk them out of getting on any hasty flights.

“Meredith!” Daniel’s mom sounds cheered by the mere mention of her name. “I’m sure she can make it out. Benjamin can watch the kids for a change. That would be perfect. Thank you for calling, Tony. I’ll let you know as soon as we’ve figured out travel plans.”

“She doesn’t need to—” Tony starts, but the line has gone dead.