A Measure of Blood (11 page)

The kid turns on his heel and reverses direction.

“When she's working, she even forgets to eat,” Arthur tells Matt.

Jan laughs. “Hardly.” She stands and squeezes Matt's hand.

The little group starts to move toward the lobby.

All the while, Matt, doing round licks of his chocolate cone, is turning in circles, taking in the Gothic ceilings, the chandelier, the stage. He must think he landed in a Harry Potter film. Interesting kid. Dreamy. Distressed. It will be
easy
to play falling in love with him onstage. He … pulls you to him. He's lovely to look at, with big, deep eyes and that thick head of dark hair. And the sorrow, beautiful, too.

Jan's student assistant, Beattie, has come up to them. She's this brilliant student they are all amazed by, good at absolutely everything.

“This is Matt,” Jan tells Beattie. “Matt, this is Beatrice. She's my assistant. We call her Beattie for short.”

Beattie puts up a hand in a shy salute hello to Matt. “Want to see the theatre?”

“Okay.”

“Is it all right if I show him?”

“Yes.”

“This goes to the balcony,” she tells him, pointing to the carpeted stairs. “Let's check the sightlines, okay?”

“Going okay?” Arthur asks Jan. But her face falls as she watches Matt run off happily with Beattie. Marina understands. Matt is showing whoever longs for him that he doesn't need them. Telling himself the same thing.

“
SEAT BELT.”

“Can't I sit up front?”

“I wish. Afraid not. People in the know tell me I have to put you in the backseat.”

“Oh.”

He watches the kid slump. “You liked the theatre?”

“It was okay.”

Arthur has wondered what it would be like to be a father. He wanted that in his first marriage—children, a whole brood really, but it didn't happen. He stayed married for twelve years and it didn't happen. He learned eventually that his wife, Eve, had a secret abortion. She would not tell him if the child was his or someone else's. After that, he knew the marriage was truly over. Eve never gave him a fight. He realized that work, his students, and his colleagues had been what kept him going all along. When he divorced, he was almost forty—and for the first year and a half, he didn't date, just worked all the time. He couldn't imagine wanting to try again.

He studies Matt in the rearview mirror. Ah. The sleep schedule may be improving. Matt's eyes are closed.

No.

“Did, um, Jan, always do directing?”

“Pretty much always. I met her at a conference when she was talking about it.”

He tells Matt how he went to her talk at MLA, how he liked it, how he'd heard of her for years but never met her.

He
likes
remembering. He'd asked her for a drink and then that led to dinner and then talk, talk, talk … At first he had thought her pleasant looking only, but as they spoke, she became more beautiful to him. The way her bones shaped her face. The smartness in her eyes. She was a bit shy, one of those quiet theatre people, not at all dramatic in her own life.

“Meet you for breakfast tomorrow?” she asked. She had the most wonderful look in her eyes, acknowledging what was happening between them.

They married a year later.

They threw away birth control; they wanted the whole ball of wax, everything they'd missed. But Destiny, Fate, God, whatever you want to call it, didn't come through for them.

Matt sits up a little straighter in his seat. He says, “Grady lives near here. After this street and the next one, you turn left.”

“Good. Got it. We'll do that tomorrow or the next day.” I'm right here in the car with you, Arthur thinks; see
me
, see
me
. And he laughs to himself at his childish need.

After a few more blocks Matt says, “That big street back there, where there was a gas station, that was the one to Grady's house.”

“So Grady is your
best
friend?”

“And Jade. Jade and Grady.”

“We'll make sure you see them.” Arthur is dismayed at the sound of his voice, the stiffness, and he's noticed it in Jan, too, as if they're amateur actors, he and Jan, taking on their new roles, trying their lines, but always with that layer of performance over them.

Time. It takes time.

NADAL GOES HOME
where he watches TV late into Tuesday night with his roommates and eats chicken and rice prepared by them. They seem happy he is eating their food. “Good? Okay?”

“Very good,” he says.

At every commercial break, they joke around in Korean, which unnerves him, but then they remember him and translate. It's nothing about him, all about how that guy, one of their professors, whom they haven't even had yet and won't until classes begin tomorrow, is reputedly so mean. They can't stop talking about him, even mocking themselves, quaking in fear.

Restless, Nadal announces he's going to his room to read.

“You work hard,” Gab-do observes approvingly. They do, too; they have been studying the course texts before they even have class.

Shin's computer is open on the kitchen table. Nadal is tempted to say, “You mind?” and use it. But he forces himself not to. He goes to his room and tries to read, but he can't.

Then he chances it. He opens up his own computer and calls up
whitepages.com
, asking for Morris, Robert Arthur. On the Pitt website, there was no home address included, only a campus office. There are twelve men listed under Robert or R. A. He considers as unlikely the twenty-nine-year-old, the seventy-year-old, the ninety-two-year-old. The rest, thirty-five to sixty-two, are more in the possible range. Oh, it's easy, so easy, in the end. There it is, Robert Arthur, fifty-two, and listed in his household, Janet Gabriel.

That does it. Beacon Street. That's Squirrel Hill. That's … practically right around the corner.

He lies in bed for a long time before he can sleep.

Wednesday

THE SQUAD MEETING INCLUDES
all the detectives working on three concurrent cases. Colleen and Potocki and Dolan and Christie report but only briefly—there is not a lot that is new and they're quick about it, explaining there are no answers as yet on either Tokey's or Katz's phones but that Potocki and Dolan will keep calling. Denman and Hurwitz give their summary reports, which include substantiation that Maggie Brown had no remaining relatives. After the squad meeting the six of them meet in Christie's office for a less formal talk.

“How does the new-parent situation for Matt seem to be taking?” Potocki asks.

“Well, he's got two parents now and neither one is crazy. That's to the good.”

“I know this is obvious, but he's probably watching to see if they'll leave him,” Colleen says.

Denman says, “Of all the people we talked to—you know we went back to the friends—there was one consistent theme. This kid, Matt, asked the guy from the gallery and the guy from the coffee shop and even a neighbor if they were his father—these guys were embarrassed to tell us and probably a little
scared
that we'd start suspecting them. But mostly they were sad.”

“Did you pick up any relationship history there?”

“Did not,” Denman says. “Didn't think so. It's always possible. I think the dating service is the better bet.”

Potocki and Dolan wave their pieces of paper. They still have Tokey and Katz as possibles. Christie shakes his head. “Look, don't people get multiple contacts from a dating service … ? There might be several more men. If it isn't in the phone records, then her email?”

Potocki says, “See the thing with email—there are so many different applications. You know that. Lots of people use the free ones. And why not? I did everything I could with her computer and then I sent it on to a guy at CMU to see what he could dig up. He's the closest thing we have to an archaeologist, digging under and under for the hidden history.”

“I wish I understood that stuff,” Denman says.

Potocki sits forward. “Quick lesson?” he asks.

They all say yes.

“Well, there are three kinds of email servers—POP, IMAP, and Exchange. The possibilities of recovering email varies with each. POP—with this kind of server, the server receives the email and then pops it to the user's computer the next time that he/she connects, deleting it from the server. If it is downloaded to the user's computer, and if it is then deleted from there, there is a decent chance that it can be recovered from the hard drive using forensic tools; but recovery is not guaranteed.”

“Oh,” says Christie.

“This is what we have my guy at CMU doing. If you want to know about IMAP and cache servers, I can try to explain—”

Christie laughs. “You're giving me a headache.”

Denman says, “I've got to learn that stuff at some point. It's the future.”

“If not the present,” Potocki smiles. “Anyway, our victim was on AOL and Hotmail eight years ago. What she deleted may just stay deleted. Or, with luck, there may be the shadow of something.”

Christie shakes his head. “There's got to be a trail somewhere. The dating service she used?”

“We don't know what she used. She might have used a newspaper ad. Or a service that came and went. Or even Yahoo! when nobody was rigid about record keeping. But we're checking all of it.”

Dolan adds, “And then people meet other people on the street, on trains, at airports and they ditch the dating service or lump it all together, as in, ‘I'm done with dating services.' ”

“Yeah,” Potocki says. “Yeah.”

“How maddening that she hid a whole segment of her life.”

They sit around for a moment, thinking.

Potocki says, “We'll find Tokay and Katz. Hopefully today. But also I want to go back to Brown's apartment. There has got to be something else there. Has to be. She was private. She wasn't careless.”

THERE WAS LITTLE
CHOICE BUT TO TAKE MATT
to work with them early in the day. Arthur had his first Shakespeare class, the first day, at ten, and Jan had a meeting at noon. So the plan was: She got him until eleven, the three of them would take a walk around the block together until noon, then Arthur would take Matt to lunch while Jan had her meeting. Then they all had to go see the attorney.

Last night, Jan had forced herself to sleep in her own room. It meant waking four times in the night to check on Matt. He appeared to sleep soundly.

“This is my office,” she said.

It was crowded with bookcases, a small table with two chairs across from each other, her desk with computer and printer, and a sofa she'd gotten from surplus university furniture. She's weathered the usual jokes about the sofa being a casting couch. The sofa was great for taking naps before a long rehearsal.

She sat at a table with Matt and worked out her callback list, explaining all the while. “The important thing is to see people in combinations. There are times an actor doesn't do much with one partner and suddenly comes alive with another. And there's this thing we call chemistry—not the school subject. The way people are together, what lights them up. So I'll look for that. There are some actors I know what I want to do with—where I am likely to place them—and other ones that are talented but I'm not sure what is best. So anyway, that's what I'm up to. And … I'm putting you on the list—see? I have to post the list by noon.”

He stretched up to look at his name and seemed to be pleased.

“Do you want to read?”

“Could I use your computer while you do that?”

“Yes, sure. You play games, you said?”

“All kinds of things.”

“Okay.”

She worked on her cast list while he played. When she took her jottings to the computer, she saw he'd been playing with Google Maps. “You know how to do that?”

“Kind of.”

“How?”

“Some lady taught me.”

“A teacher?”

He shrugged and nodded.

“What were you looking up?”

“Where we live. Where I used to live.”

She looked at the long purple line that led to Shadyside. “And this?”

He didn't answer. The hospital. He'd been looking up where they took his mother on Sunday.

“Sweetheart … let's talk about your mother.”

“We did yesterday.”

“I know, but there's no limit. We can talk about her all we want.”

“I thought she'd be buried. In the ground.”

“I know. I know.”

“Am I supposed to see her again?”

“If you want, I'm sure we could manage it. This is a holding period … for about a week.” She couldn't bring herself to say
cremation
, though both Christie and Arthur have been preparing Matt.

He tightened his lips.

Jan toughened herself. “Are you asking why she preferred cremation?”

“Who would want to be burned?”

“A lot of people choose it. Because when a person has died, it doesn't hurt … and it's very pure and clean … and it allows the family to scatter the ashes in a place the person loved.” He is listening, though he's heard it before. She is about ready to call the funeral home to tell them to disregard Sasha's word, to prepare Maggie for burial. Instead, she continues. “A lot of people choose the mountains. And a lot choose the sea. Beautiful places. We'll choose one with you.” Sasha has said a park, maybe up north where the two families vacationed once.

Matt doesn't ask where or volunteer a suggestion.

Maggie is out there, floating with possibilities, feckless even in death.

KATZ IS AT
HOME.
He turns out to be a big, bald fellow looming in the doorway of a house in Squirrel Hill.

Dolan and Potocki introduce themselves and ask politely, “May we come in?”

“Yes.” Katz frowns, puzzled or playing at it.

“You live alone?”

“Most of the time.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have friends over from time to time.”

“Relationships? Dates?”

“Yes. Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“I am. Margaret Brown.” The man collapses back onto his sofa. “We understand you knew her.”

“I saw the news.”

“Tell us about her. How often did you see her?” Dolan manages to say this in his honey voice.

“Not for many, many years. I ran into her at the Squirrel Hill Theatre once, oh, a couple of years ago.”

“Who was she with?”

“Her little boy. She was taking him to some kid flick. She seemed happy.”

“You dated her at one point.”

“Two times. We went out two times. That was it.”

“When was that?”

“A long time ago. It was before she had a kid, I'll tell you that.”

“Your relationship didn't work out?”

“Look. I was up-front. I always am. I don't want any commitments. No marriage. I did it once. I don't want it ever again. She was in it for the long haul. She wanted a baby. Now that's a commitment if I ever heard of one. So I stopped seeing her.”

“How did you meet her?”

“Dating service. Yahoo!. I've moved onto other ones since.”

Dolan and Potocki look to each other. Good. They have the name of one service at least. “Yahoo! still operates the same service?” Dolan asks.

“Oh, yeah. I'm sure they've upgraded by now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Everybody has. Now these places check your name against your charge card, things like that.”

“Do you know if Ms. Brown used more than one service?”

“I have no idea.”

“You have any idea of anyone else she was seeing around then?”

“No. Well, yes. This young kid was hanging outside her place once when we came back from cocktails. He was clearly upset to see me with her. I'll tell you, I'm no prude, but I was surprised at what a cradle snatcher she was. He looked like trouble so I asked her if she wanted me to beat him up. I'd had a few Manhattans. I probably wouldn't offer today. But she just said no, not to pay him any mind.”

“Did she say who he was?”

“No.”

“No name? Anything about him?”

“No.”

“Anything you noticed?”

“He didn't seem American.”

“What does that mean?”

“I figured he came from somewhere else.”

“An accent?”

“Possibly a little something.”

“What kind?”

“I'm no good at accents.”

“What month?”

“September. No, October.”

“How do you know that?”

“She'd recently started teaching. Had put in several weeks.”

“Where was she living?”

“She had a tiny little studio in a building on Hobart.”

Accurate. They've checked out the place on Hobart where she once lived. Neighbors who were still there didn't remember her.

Dolan smiles. Potocki loves watching Dolan work a witness. “And where were you the morning of August twenty-sixth?”

“This year?”

“Yes.”

“That was that day—you mean—”

Dolan nods, still very sweet.

“Sunday. I was at the house of a very nice widow who lives up on Darlington. Her name is Sarah Wetz. I'd spent the night.”

“This no-commitment thing seems to work for you,” Dolan says mildly.

“Sometimes.”

“Jot down her address.”

On the way out to their car, Dolan says, “He's not a looker. Doesn't pull in his pot. He must have a way about him. Not that I could see it.”

“I don't see any motive. This fellow wouldn't
want
a kid. Thank God.” Potocki gets into the passenger seat.

Dolan checks the address and soon they're on Darlington and at a door.

The woman who opens the door says she is Sarah Wetz. She is dressed nicely for the day. Expensive-looking pants and top. Necklace. Earrings. Makeup on.

“You were on your way out?” Dolan asks.

“No,” she says, puzzled by the question.

“May we come in?”

“Oh, yes. Please. Sit down.”

It's a scrupulously neat house, Potocki notes. Both house and her person, perfect, and time to spare.

Dolan doesn't sit. “We're checking the whereabouts of Herb Katz. He tells us he spent some time here. Do you remember when?”

She blanches. “You're investigating him?”

“We're just being thorough. Do you remember when he was here?”

“Saturday night. Last Saturday.”

“And he stayed the next morning?”

“Yes, we went out to brunch.”

“What time?”

“Noon. We went to the Grand Concourse.”

“They do a nice brunch. You've talked to him since?”

“Never heard from him again. Said he was going to call me when he got home. Never called. I hope he's in trouble. I think he's probably a scumbag,” she says.

Potocki can't help himself. He laughs and says, “I think you have his number.”

THE FELLOW SITTING
NEXT
to Nadal at the command center in the computer lab is Sean, a pale guy with bad skin and an arrogant manner. He is likely to ask incredulously, “You don't know how to … ?” Fill in the blank. It's useful to sit next to him if you can get over the insults. Right now he's lecturing Nadal, “If the guy wants Yahoo!, let him have Yahoo!. They mostly go for Gmail.”

Nadal knows about that. Large storage. Send twenty pictures of yourself at the beach and they all go through.

A fairly good-looking young woman with stylishly cut blonde hair—short in back, longer at her jaw—tiptoes to the desk and, voilà, presents a Starbucks coffee and a sandwich to Sean. There's a sign about not eating or drinking in the lab. Sean does anyway, sometimes. This time, he says, “Cover for me. I'm going out to the hall.” And to the blonde, he says, “Hey, dudesse. I can't believe you knew I was hungry.”