Degree of Guilt (26 page)

‘What does he do?’

‘He’s trying to start his own company.’ Terri paused. ‘He’s very bright, really, very inventive. Like Elena, Richie sees things that I really don’t. It’s just that sometimes, I think, someone like that finds it difficult to work for other people.’

‘Are you ready to order?’ the waitress asked.

As Paget finished ordering, Terri looked around them. The tables were filled with couples and foursomes, some smiling, some serious and intent, their profiles reflected in the mirrors. These days, Terri and Richie seldom ate out alone; when they did, Terri enjoyed looking at the other faces and imagining their lives. Sometimes she would pick a man and woman, trying to figure out which date this was or why they were together. It caused her to wonder now what she would think were she someone else, watching herself with Christopher Paget. ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ Paget said. ‘Or would you like a raise?’

Terri smiled. ‘I was just thinking that I liked this place.’

Paget nodded. ‘I like rooms with a little animation. This way I don’t feel like I’m communing with my ancestors.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘On the subject of raises, we review our compensation every year. You’re doing well with us, and it might make the joys of ownership look a bit more doable.’

Terri looked at the table. ‘Thank you. It’s nice of you to take an interest. But there’s daycare, too, and I can see some other expenses coming up.’

Paget looked quizzical. ‘Does Richie watch her in the afternoon?’

‘No.’ Terri paused. ‘He’s busy at home.’

The quizzical look vanished, replaced by the blank expression that, Terri had come to realize, concealed thoughts Paget did not wish to show.

‘Perhaps you can work it out,’ he finally said. ‘Elena sounds like a special kid. I know when Carlo came to me, I decided that education and stability were what he needed most. It was worth the pain of paying for it.’

Terri hesitated. But there was no point in discussing her fights with Richie, his insistence that children were flexible and could be happy anywhere. ‘When it comes to money,’ Terri joked, ‘“pain” is a relative concept. I mean, don’t you own a railroad or something?’

Paget laughed. ‘The
government
owns America’s railroads, including Great-Great-Grandfather Kenyon’s. As for the money I inherited, I never touch the stuff.’

Terri looked at him a moment, trying to decide whether he was serious. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Of course not.’ Paget smiled. ‘Are you familiar with the theory of devolution? That’s what happens when your great-great-grandfather passes down a ton of money, creating three of the most useless generations that ever walked the planet. It’s like a curse. Shortly after college, I decided that my only hope was to make my own money. Which I have.’

‘So when Carlo talks about how hard you work . . .’

Paget nodded. ‘Sad but true. That didn’t help with Andrea, either.’

For a moment, Terri felt dull-witted, trying to process how this changed her idea of him. The thing that came to her was that, more than most people, Christopher Paget had his own idea of himself and had never wished to tamper with it. Finally, she asked, ‘What do you do with all the money?’

‘Except for the occasional gift to worthy causes, it’s in trust for Carlo and my theoretical other children, who grow more theoretical by the day.’ Paget smiled again. ‘The dirty trick I’ve played on Carlo is that, for purposes both legal and philosophical, the money actually goes to
his
children – which is as far into the future as I can postpone the curse. Carlo gets a more than comfortable life income, but only after I die. By which time, I trust, he will have developed what used to be called character.’

Terri laughed. ‘That’s appalling. Does Carlo know?’

‘Oh, I’ve told him. Just last year, once he was secure in the more spiritual aspects of my paternal devotion.’

‘What did he say?’

‘As I recall them, his precise words were, “Then there’s no point in putting rat poison in your cabernet.” I nearly choked up with real tears.’ Paget smiled again. ‘“Don’t worry, son,” I said. “You’ve still got me.” To which Carlo responded, deadpan, “Then you’re just going to have to work a little harder.”’

‘He really said that?’

‘Absolutely. But the truly frightening thing was that his grades shot up next quarter.’

Terri smiled. ‘I liked watching the two of you – the joking back and forth.’

‘It’s my way of showing affection, and I fear I’ve passed it on.’ Paget’s tone was dry. ‘But then I had to give the boy
something
. As matters stand, Carlo’s the last of the Pagets.’

‘You never wanted more?’

‘I just never had the right situation, and now I’m pretty much out of time.’ Paget glanced at her. ‘Are you and Richie planning on another one?’

Terri sipped her wine. ‘I don’t know yet.’ She paused a moment. ‘We didn’t plan Elena, really.’

Paget nodded. ‘Birth control is tough these days, given that IUDs and the pill can kill you. If I were Johnny Moore, I’d say something like: “The marvels of medical science – condoms to condoms in a single generation.” And once you’re pregnant, the options aren’t so hot.’

‘I really couldn’t have done anything else.’ Terri stared at her wine-glass. ‘It was time, I guess. Richie wanted a commitment – we’d have gotten married anyhow, he said, and he really wanted children. And I’d always had this strong sense of wanting to build a real family, one that’s intact and free from conflict. That still means a lot to me.’

Paget appraised her for a while. ‘This may be presumptuous,’ he said, ‘but have you ever wondered if you’re still trying to fix your family of origin?’

Terri looked up at him. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘But sometimes I’ve wondered if I’m too much like my mother.’

Paget paused, as if sensing that he had gone too far. ‘Perhaps
I’m
too much like someone who’s divorced and has spent far too much time thinking about why.’ His voice was dismissive. ‘Probably the biggest gulf between my generation and our parents is that self-examination frightened them to death, whereas we’re attuned to every quiver of the id and ego. It’s tiresome, I’m sure.’

It was uncanny, Terri thought: Paget seemed to know what questions to ask, when to talk, when to listen, and when to retreat under cover of self-deprecation. Either he was more sensitive than he cared to show, or he was getting a better fix on her than she herself had or wanted anyone else to have. It was unexpected, and somewhat unnerving.

‘Not tiresome,’ she said lightly. ‘It’s just that I’m too tired for all this stimulation.’

Paget laughed. ‘Tell that to Carlo. The other night, when I was philosophizing about something or another, I heard him murmur, “Get the hook.”’

‘Like in vaudeville?’

‘Uh-huh. The kid’s ruthless. But it may be a line worth remembering?’

Paget, Terri realized, was telling her that she controlled the depth and rhythm of their conversation, was free to pick and choose. All at once, she felt relaxed again: grateful for the evening and for everything that he had said.

‘This was nice of you,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘I thought you and Carlo said I didn’t get “nice.”’

Terri raised her glass. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You get it.’

Almost in spite of himself, Terri thought, Paget looked pleased. Lightly, he said, ‘I’ll put that one in the bank, Terri,’ and changed the subject to work.

Dinner arrived; ahi tuna for Terri; cassoulet for Paget. The food was wonderful, Terri thought; they shared a little, and went over Steinhardt and Caldwell again, all the way through crème brûlée and a glass of port.

‘Do you have any idea,’ Paget asked as they finished, ‘who the other two tapes belonged to? The ones Steinhardt couldn’t identify?’

She shook her head. ‘No way to tell that they even existed, except to find them: the index is gone, and for all we know, it’s just a gap. Does it matter?’

‘Probably not. I’m just curious, that’s all.’ Paget thought for a moment. ‘If they do exist and Ransom had them, Sharpe will find them soon enough. She’s probably at home right now, baking cookies and listening to Troy Donahue tell Dr Steinhardt about his mother.’

‘“Ids on Tape,”’ Terri said. ‘Poor Lindsay Caldwell.’

Paget nodded. He finished his coffee, asked Robert to call a cab for Terri, and paid the bill.

It was drizzling outside, a cool wetness that felt good on Terri’s face, a pleasant complement to the glow of wine and port. Standing next to Paget, it occurred to her, suddenly and by surprise, that she had liked the last few hours of her life.

From the row of headlights cruising up Market Street, a battered yellow cab peeled off, heading down the side street where they waited.

‘Your limousine,’ Paget said, ‘has arrived.’

She turned to him. ‘Thanks for dinner.’

‘The least I could do.’ He smiled. ‘Short of a raise, which is coming.’

There was mist in his hair, she saw. Suddenly, impulsively, Terri stretched to kiss him on the cheek, and then stepped back again. She felt like a kid.

Paget was giving her a quizzical smile. ‘What did I do,’ he asked, ‘to deserve that?’

Terri felt herself grin. ‘It was the wine,’ she answered, and got into the cab.

The next morning, while Paget was still at home, McKinley Brooks called.

It caught Paget by surprise. ‘’Lo, Mac,’ Paget said. ‘What’s up?’

‘Any number of things.’ Brooks paused. ‘You’ll want to see me, I think.’

His voice was somber, almost hesitant. ‘Can you give me a preview?’ Paget asked.

‘Yup. We found another tape.’

For a moment, Paget thought of Lindsay Caldwell. ‘What’s on it?’

‘She starts out talking about you taking Carlo. But then she changes the subject, it seems. To the Lasko case.’

Paget stiffened. ‘What in hell are you talking about?’

‘You really don’t know?’ There was another, longer silence. ‘Mary Carelli was a patient of Dr Steinhardt.’

Mary had started, Brooks said, with Paget taking Carlo.

It made what had happened sound almost brutal, as if Paget had coldly planned to deprive Mary of her son. But on the warm spring afternoon that Paget had come to the Carellis’, he had intended to stay for an hour or so and then resume his life.

Mary’s parents lived in the North End of Boston, just off Hanover Street, in a brick walk-up distinguished from its neighbors by green shutters that needed paint. John Carelli had run a corner grocery store, while his wife, Francesca, raised seven children, of whom Mary was the last. They were both in their seventies, the store had long since been sold, and, at least to Paget, any life in the house had decamped with their last daughter, so different from the others.

Now Carlo lived in the home that his mother could not wait to leave, while Mary traveled incessantly. In two or three more years, she had told Paget, her new career as a journalist would be stable enough to let her stay in one city, pay for a live-in person to help her raise Carlo. Meanwhile, she said, her parents were at least better than her older brothers and sisters. Paget knew only that two of Mary’s brothers drank too much; that an older sister had refused to raise Carlo; and that the distance Mary had traveled made relations with her siblings as bad as with her parents. Some of that, Paget guessed, was the result of her relentless drive. But it was as hard for Paget to imagine Mary bounded by this world of parochial schools, male dominance, and rigid structure as it was for him to realize that her oldest sister still referred to Carlo as ‘Mary’s bastard.’

When John Carelli opened the door, he stared at Paget as if he were a derelict. He was a short man with a face like a walnut, all knots and crevices, a stooped body, and sharp, suspicious eyes. Nothing about him suggested warmth or laughter; Paget sensed a soul in life’s harness, living so fiercely by the rules of his church and culture that it had killed something inside him. Whoever remained, Paget guessed, had just enough life to despise Paget for being like his daughter.

They stood in a cramped alcove. Behind John Carelli, a dark hallway stretched past a series of doors; like a ghost, Francesca Carelli appeared in the hallway, opened one of the doors, and closed it behind her. In three prior visits, Paget had not met her; he could only sense that once she might have looked like Mary.

John Carelli ignored his outstretched hand. ‘She said you were coming.’

Paget nodded. ‘To see Carlo.’

Carelli did not move; everything in his posture said that were he younger, he would throw Paget out. Finally, he grunted, ‘He’s in here,’ and led Paget to the living room.

Its only adornments were heavy drapes that were completely drawn, a crucified Jesus, a still life of a pear and apples, and family pictures from which Mary was missing. The dark room smelled stale, as if no one had opened the windows for some time. There was nothing of Mary, save for the slim, dark-haired boy in front of the television, eyes vacant, watching reruns of a cop show. In profile, the boy had long eyelashes, delicate features.

‘Carlo?’ Paget called.

The boy did not look up. Paget knelt beside him. ‘I’m Christopher,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to see you.’

Hesitant, the boy turned to him; as before, Paget was startled by the clear blue eyes. But they held neither recognition nor interest: two years was a long time in the life of a seven-year-old, and the boy did not remember him.

‘Would you like to go outside and play?’ Paget asked.

The boy did not answer. Paget touched his shoulder. ‘Maybe we can go to a park.’

Quickly, the boy shook his head. ‘I want to watch this.’

Paget looked up at John Carelli. ‘Do you have a baseball or anything?’

Carelli scowled. ‘This is what he likes to do.’

Paget glanced at the boy, still intent on the television, and then back to Mary’s father. ‘I’ll just be here, then. Don’t let me keep you from whatever you were doing.’