25
Monument Movement’s office was on Wooster Street, in SoHo. It was located inside a historic building that had probably been
some kind of factory long ago, and now was washed a creamy white, its front laced in fire escapes and its colonnaded doorway
sandwiched between a store that sold expensive shoes and another that seemed to sell only watchbands. This was the New York
City that often turned up on shows—the stores Stevie didn’t realize were real were down here, and it looked like people really
did go into Prada and Stella McCartney and Gucci to actually buy things like money wasn’t real.
An ambivalent doorman waved them onto an elevator and they took it up to the top floor, the fifth. Right away, as they stepped
off, they were faced with a massive Monument Movement logo on the wall. The floor was theirs, high-ceilinged and big-windowed,
with thick green pillars cutting into the space.
There was no front desk, but there was a little table and chairs, and a kitchen wall that had teas in jars and a shiny espresso machine.
A woman with a perfectly slicked and twisted ballet bun, elegantly distressed jeans, and gray cashmere sweater that was oversized and worn stepped forward to greet them.
“Welcome to Monument! David Eastman?”
“That’s me,” David said, approaching the counter and getting a faceful of scented mist from the diffuser spilling it out like
a tiny, rose-scented volcano. “I’m David Eastman. I have problems. Terrible problems.”
“If you could just take off your shoes here.”
They left their shoes in cubbies under a bulletin board full of notices—Playing the Big Game, Solstice Release, Keep It Raw, Rainstick Orchestra Practice, Chanting with Rick on New Year’s Eve.
“Chanting with Rick on New Year’s Eve,” David leaned down and said under his breath. “Chanting with Rick.”
That little bit of his breath on her ear caused Stevie to tingle all over—every little hair on her arms, every bit of her
that could tickle. Why David? Why his voice, his stance, the width of his shoulders, the softness of his curls? Why did he
do that to her? Why did her body constantly betray her?
Also, that might have legitimately been a fever chill.
“If you want to come this way. He’ll be here soon. Can I get you a tea? I hear there’s a nasty cold going around.”
This offer was directed at Stevie, who didn’t want to accept things from Monument Movement, but it wasn’t like it was the
land of the fey and if she drank or ate there she’d never be able to leave. She needed the tea.
The tea was offered in a mug with no handle, singeing her hand as they were taken to an area divided off by walls covered in soft rose-reeded tile and sage-green cloth.
The wooden floor was worn from use and there were cushions scattered all over the place, yoga mats, bolsters.
Painted on the wall between the bamboo-curtained windows in swirling letters were the words: BUILD THE MONUMENT TO YOURSELF.
Dean arrived almost as soon as they did, breezing through the sliding door.
“It’s so good to meet you,” he said, nodding to himself, as if he had just been thinking about meeting them and lo, there they were, out of the
blue, the answer to his dreams. He had a light, natural tan that suggested regular vacations in sunny climates and a trim
build and bouncing step. His silver-gray hair was trimmed close to his head, which was a bit large for his body. He gave Stevie
the impression of a happy skeleton, jittering around in well-fitting jeans.
“So, you’re David Eastman. Your father is . . .”
“The dark lord,” David said.
“Edward King. And you are . . .”
“His friend,” Stevie said. “Stevie.”
Dean smiled in a way Stevie had grown to recognize. It was a cousin to the look Benny had given her the other night. It was
a glint of recognition. He knew exactly who she was. His gaze lingered on her longer than David, and his smile was wide and
taut.
“So,” he said. “Tell me how I can help you.”
“I need to ask you about Helen Jesperson,” Stevie said.
Stevie was well prepared for a “Helen who?” Instead, he nodded sadly and sat back.
“Helen Jesperson? Oh, Helen. A friend of mine from way back. She just passed away. Did you know Helen?”
So much for the flying tackle.
“I did,” she said. “She mentioned you.”
“Did she? That’s so nice to hear. You’ve had her bread, right? Incredible bread. Best you’ll ever eat.”
“Helen was talking about a woman named Melissa Long who disappeared in September 1976. Her family looked for her for years.
Her skull and some of her bones were found in 1998. She lived with you, didn’t she? In the 1970s. In Ellenville?”
“Melissa Long . . . ” he said slowly. “That’s not ringing any bells.”
It wasn’t a denial. There was something flickering in his expression now. There was quickness in his dark eyes. They seemed
to be fixed in one place—right on her—but she could tell there were a thousand micromovements, the pupils drinking in the
information.
“Here’s her picture,” Stevie said, pulling the printout from her bag and handing it over. Dean took his glasses out of his
shirt pocket to examine it.
“I don’t think I know this person,” he said. “Helen and I, we were part of a small commune. People came and went.”
“More went than came,” Stevie said, her voice snot-thick. She really needed to blow her nose before saying any more, but you can’t break the flow of questioning with a huge honk into a tissue. “There was an accident. A van drove off a cliff.”
Dean leaned back and considered them both for a moment.
“I thought you were coming here to get some personal help, not to discuss some tragedies in my life.”
His mouth was saying the words. His posture and expression spoke of sincerity. But the eyes—they didn’t lie.
“Some of those people were friends of mine. Driving stoned around those mountains—we did it all the time. It was dangerous.
It was stupid. That crash affected me profoundly— it showed me how quickly life could change. You know . . .” He leaned back
and crossed his right leg high over his left, as if settling back to tell a tale by the fire. “I say they were my friends.
I didn’t even know them. We had nicknames, but I couldn’t tell you who they were. That’s because I didn’t know who I was.
Sounds like touchy-feely crap, but it’s true. When you don’t know yourself, you don’t pay other people much attention. When
you have your feet on the ground, you can open up more. You listen. That’s why this is called Monument. You’re building a
monument to yourself, of yourself. Something solid. You two, though. Are you dating?”
The question caught Stevie so off guard that she jerked back a bit.
“Were dating,” Dean said, pressing a thoughtful fist to his lips. “What happened?”
“She just keeps having fantasies about my mom,” David said. “And yours.”
“So it was your fault,” Dean replied, never taking his eyes off David.
“So you’re a con man,” Stevie said.
“You can call me whatever you want,” Dean said, “but am I wrong? What did you do? I’m guessing that you cheated, David. It
happens.”
Suddenly, Stevie was back at Helen’s kitchen table. She and Dean shared the same playbook.
“You’re cold reading,” Stevie replied. “You’re taking visual and verbal cues and making educated guesses.”
“I call it paying attention, but if you want to call it cold reading, have at it. I’m right, though. I think he cheated on
you and you’ve been trying to deal with it.”
Stevie heard herself inhale sharply. She was digging her nails into her palms.
“You got it,” David said. “But only in part. You missed the why.”
“There are a lot of whys for something like that, but I’m going to go with insecurity on your part. You, my friend, are someone
who needs to know himself. Because I don’t think you do. Her . . .”
He tipped a nod in Stevie’s direction.
“I think she’s way ahead of you in that department.”
“She is,” David replied. “But I’m ahead of her in the listening to bullshit department. I’m kind of an expert in that, so
you’ll have to try harder.”
“Your father is a senator, and he’s had some legal trouble, I know. That’s got to be stressful.”
Stevie was sizzling now. He had probed her and found a soft spot. A vulnerability. As the sting wore off, she found that she was furious.
“That was a quick change of topic back there, Dean,” Stevie cut in. “We were talking about five people who went over the side of the mountain road, and how someone from your
group was found dead and dismembered in the woods nearby with a massive head wound.”
Dean’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze had locked in on her.
“Whoever that poor girl was,” he said, “I hope she gets justice. But since you’ve come here to talk about something I can’t
help with, I’m going to have to call time on this meeting . . .”
“The good thing,” Stevie went on, through sniffles, “is that there are so many ways that murderers mess up, especially murderers
from so long ago. There was no way to know that in the future all it would take is a strand of hair, or a drop of blood—there’s
so many ways things go wrong for them. Whoever killed your friend, they made a mistake. People always do. And there’s no statute
of limitations on murder. You must be glad about that, that the clock is never going to run out. That there’s always something,
if people look for it. And people are looking. Aren’t you glad?”
On that, she got up and walked out, with David behind her. It was important to get the last word. By the front desk, she grabbed her shoes. David was about to sit and put his on, but she shook her head stiffly, indicating that they should keep moving.
“Here,” said the girl in the expensive sweater. She was all smiles, either unaware of what had just taken place or unbothered
by it. “Dean signed a copy of his book for you.”
Stevie took the copy of You Are the Monument: How to Tear Down the Architecture of Pain and Build Yourself Anew and went out the door to the hall, shoes in hand.
“You got to him,” David said. “He didn’t like that.”
“No,” Stevie replied. “He didn’t.”
“Was it a good idea to make the murder guy mad?”
“People make mistakes when they’re mad,” Stevie said, pressing the elevator button and stepping into her sneakers without
untying them. “He may have even been expecting me.”
“I have a girlfriend people expect,” David said with a smile. Then he caught himself.
The elevator arrived and they entered without another word.