Fall from Grace (20 page)

“What did you think he meant?”

“I guess somebody died, and he felt responsible, even though he probably wasn't.” She picked up the scissors and opened and closed them, studying them closely, as if she'd forgotten their purpose.

“Did you talk about this again?”

Natalie shook her head. “I didn't really want to.” She looked up at Alberg. “I wish I had, though. I really wish I had.”

Steven Grayson had lived in a small apartment in Kitsilano, two blocks from the beach. There was an elementary school across the street and more apartment buildings on either side. From the living room, sliding doors led onto a balcony barely big enough for one chair.

Alberg stood in the middle of the living room and looked around. It was very quiet, and very hot. The sun poured into the room in streaks, between the slats in Levolor blinds that had been left partly open.

He felt a personal responsibility for Steven Grayson's death, because he'd almost witnessed it. Some son of a bitch had been stumbling down the backside of that goddamn cliff, fleeing a murder scene, while he, Alberg, sat on the sand babysitting the corpse.

Steven had been an orderly person, he thought, looking around. The coffee table held a dozen magazines, stacked neatly by category: news magazines, photography magazines, travel magazines. The paperback books filling the shelves against one wall were all fiction, arranged alphabetically, by author. Steven had had a high-quality sound system, and the compact discs, too, were organized—jazz in one box, rock in another, some classical music in a third. The sound-system components were the only things in the room that would have cost him serious money.

On the walls of Steven's apartment hung framed photographs which Alberg assumed Grayson had taken himself. Some of them Alberg liked a lot. Pewter driftwood, on a beach drenched by a silver tide. A full white moon in a navy sky, peeking over a snowy hillside. A sheet of still water bordered by leafless trees; Alberg craned his neck to look at it upside down; the reflection was only marginally less defined than the trees themselves.

He went into the kitchen and opened cupboards and drawers, but didn't find anything interesting. The fridge had been cleaned out but not turned off.

The apartment had two bedrooms, the smaller of which Steven Grayson had used as an office. Here Alberg found cameras and equipment in a closet, and a filing cabinet next to a small desk. A glass-fronted bookcase held hardcover photography books. On the desk were containers of pens, pencils, paper clips; an in-and-out tray; a telephone with a Rolodex beside it; and drawers containing supplies.

Alberg put on his reading glasses, opened the top drawer of Steven Grayson's filing cabinet, and began to examine the contents.

The sunlight gradually withdrew, and Alberg, squinting, turned on the overhead light, and the desk lamp.

He went through everything in the filing cabinet, and everything in the desk. He became aware of hunger, but ignored it.

He heard himself humming, slowly, under his breath. He did this a lot; he assumed it helped him concentrate. But he wished it weren't the theme from
The Mickey Mouse Club
that he hummed.

Eventually, he was finished. He sat back in Steven's desk chair, took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was tired, but he was also engrossed. Intent upon the puzzle that was Steven Grayson; because in the understanding of his life lay the solution of his death.

A
LBERG WAS AT his desk early the next morning. He made several calls, then went down the hall to see Sid Sokolowski, who was talking on the phone at his desk in the main office, behind Isabella's counter.

Sokolowski hung up as Alberg poured himself some coffee. “I was talking to the guy about getting your list,” said the sergeant. “Of the property owners on the Thormanbys.”

“And?”

“He says we'll have it by noon, but I wouldn't count on it.”

“Why not?” said Alberg, stirring sugar and cream into his coffee; Isabella hadn't yet arrived, so he was free to do this openly.

“His name's O'Hara,” Sokolowski said meaningfully.

“So?”

“When a guy's Irish,” Sokolowski pronounced, “you know you can't rely on him.” Sokolowski believed that certain character traits, both positive and negative, were part of a nation's DNA. He would not have agreed that this made him a bigot.

“If you go down there at noon and scowl at him, Sid, I bet you'll get some action.”

“Maybe,” said the sergeant grudgingly. “What did you learn in Vancouver?”

Alberg sat on the edge of Sokolowski's table, which was positioned right up against his desk. The sergeant used his table as a place to sort things; there were many piles of paper on it. “His friend Natalie says he was going to give the money to somebody. It was supposed to be—a reparation, I guess.”

The sergeant looked skeptical. “What did he do?”

Alberg shrugged. “I don't know. But I'd like to find out. Meanwhile, check this out, will you, Sid?” He gave Sokolowski a warranty registration form. “It was in his office. But the camera itself is gone. I think he had it with him when he was killed. When we get the description we can contact pawnshops, secondhand stores—”

“Et cetera, et cetera. Will do.”

Alberg stood up and put his mug down next to the coffeepot. “I've got a couple of people to talk to. I'll check with you when I get back.”

“Wow,” he said fifteen minutes later, looking out through the glass doors in the high school principal's living room.

“Sit down,” said the principal, whose name was Hugh McMurtry. “How about a cup of coffee? Or would you like something cold?”

“Coffee's fine,” said Alberg.

The doors were open to a small brick patio, in the center of which was a plot of earth, home to two red rosebushes. A few steps led down from the patio to a walk that stretched along the beach. Beyond that, Trail Bay lay still and gleaming in the sun. Alberg heard sea gulls, and some children, laughing and shrieking. He stepped out onto the patio and saw them splashing in the shallow water near the shore, watched by two women in shorts and T-shirts who were sitting on beach towels nearby.

“It'll just be a second,” McMurtry called from his kitchen, which was separated from the large living room by a counter.

“This is quite a view,” said Alberg, as McMurtry joined him on the patio.

“It is, isn't it,” the principal agreed.

He was older than Alberg, probably almost retirement age. He wore light pants and a polo shirt. His hair was gray and thinning, and he was about fifteen pounds overweight. But he was tanned, which Alberg envied. People who tanned, he thought, always looked slimmer and healthier than people who didn't.

McMurtry gazed out at the ocean. “I look at that bay and I think of Hong Kong,” he said. “Look how empty it is. We've got so much space, in this country. Sometimes it doesn't seem fair.”

Alberg in his mind's eye saw Trail Bay thick with houseboats, and decided he'd like to put that off as long as possible.

They moved inside, and McMurtry slid the door closed. “Do you want cream? Sugar?” he said, going to the kitchen.

Alberg hesitated. “No, thanks. Black is fine.”

The principal set the mugs on the coffee table. “I went to the office,” he said, “after you called, and looked up Steven's file.” He looked unhappily at Alberg. “I still can't believe you think he was murdered.”

“We don't think anything yet, Mr. McMurtry.” Alberg took out his notebook. “Do you remember him pretty well?”

“I remember them all pretty well,” said McMurtry with a smile.

“Was he a good student?”

“Average, I'd say. Except for photography, of course.”

“He was good with a camera, was he?”

“Oh yes. He took all the pictures for the school newspaper, and for the yearbook, from grade ten on.”

“What can you tell me about his friends?”

“Well, everybody knew Steven, because of the photography. But I don't remember him having any close friends. He always seemed to me to be pretty much on his own.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you think he was homosexual?”

The principal looked surprised. He shook his head. “No. Sometimes you have a hunch. But it's seldom that kids that age are open about it. Most of the time they're fighting it, if it's there. It scares the hell out of them. They don't want to be different. Not in a town this size.”

“Probably not in any town,” said Alberg.

“In some of the bigger schools there's a constituency. So they can acknowledge each other. And that makes it easier.”

“In Steven's case, you didn't even have a hunch?”

“No.”

“Did he do drugs?”

“I never had any reason to think so.”

Alberg closed his notebook. “Any of his photographs still lying around?”

“As it happens,” said the principal, “we had a reunion in the spring. A ten-year reunion. So we pulled the yearbook, of course, and some of the newspapers from that year. And that was Steven's year.”

“Did he show up for the reunion?”

McMurtry shook his head.

“Can I have a look?”

“Sure you can.” McMurtry stood up. “We can go over to the school now, if you like.”

“Great.”

McMurtry went down the hall into what Alberg assumed was a bedroom. Alberg heard murmurings; McMurtry's wife, he'd been told, was an invalid.

“Okay, let's go,” said the principal, returning to the living room. Alberg thought he looked guilty; Alberg would have liked to meet his wife.

Annabelle wandered, restless, through her house, aware of its emptiness and quiet. In the room with the window wall the heat was overpowering; she'd had to move some of the tenderer plants out of there, and now her family complained about the four-foot hibiscus taking up space in the living room, and the seven-foot weeping fig that was crammed into the girls' bedroom, and the five azaleas in the kitchen. And Herman hated the miniature rose in their bedroom; he said it stuck him with its thorns whenever he had to get up in the night.

Herman got up a lot in the night. He had taken to prowling around the yard every hour or so, checking on the animals in their cages. Protecting his investment, he said. Since the cops wouldn't do their job.

The phone rang.

“Where the hell were you last night?”

“Oh Bobby, I'm sorry.” Annabelle twisted the telephone cord around her hand. “I couldn't come. I had an accident.”

“Did you get hurt?”

“No no. Oh no. Only my dress. I'm fine.”

She almost smiled, to hear him thinking so busily.

“What kind of an accident was it?”

“Oh heavens.” Annabelle's laugh sounded artificial, even to her. “I told you, it was nothing.” She pretended that she saw her children running toward the house. “Oh Bobby, I have to go. I'll see you—oh, tomorrow, okay? Okay? Bye.” Annabelle hung up, trembling, before he could protest.