TPG (8 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

He couldn’t believe it was
happening, but there it was, right on the computer screen in front of him.

Kyle was in his
office working on a research article when he checked the score of the Yankees
game, curious to see if Evan Hillier was going to bounce back from the poor
outing the week before. The afternoon game was already in the ninth inning when
he pulled up the box score, and the first thing he noticed was the zeroes. One
in every column. He quickly switched to a live feed, his nerves tingling with
excitement as he cursed the multicolored circle spinning around on his Macbook
taking its sweet time to load the feed.

He’d never seen
one live before.

But there it was,
happening before his eyes as the video finally streamed in.

A perfect game.

He watched Evan
Hillier wind up and deliver a first pitch fastball to the second batter in the
ninth, the Tigers’ hitter smoothly swinging through the strike zone, nailing the
pitch right on the barrel. The ball jumped off the bat and toward center field,
then nestled into the fielder’s waiting mitt right at the warning track as Kyle
held his breath.

Two more outs for
history.

Kyle checked the
text that had just come through. It was Eddie. “Holy crap!!! Are you
watching???”

He looked up and
felt the tension of the entire stadium as Hillier shook off the catcher. Twice.
Not good, Kyle thought. He wondered if the catcher was going to jog to the
mound, try to settle Hillier down. But he didn’t. He let him be.

The announcer’s
voice was electric as he called the windup. It was a curve, a nasty one, but
the hitter got enough to send a dribbler into the no-man’s land between home
and the mound, then made off like a bullet toward first. Other than a straight
hit, it may have been the worst possible placement. Hillier and the catcher
both ran toward the ball, but it had dribbled too far away for the catcher to
make a play. So Hillier grabbed it with his bare hand then spun around like a top
and threw a perfect strike to the first baseman, who was already fully
stretched out. The ball popped into the mitt just as the runner’s foot came
crashing down on the base.

All eyes were on
the ump.

The burly man
raised his hand emphatically.

Out!

The crowd erupted
and the twenty-nine-year-old journeyman feel good story of the year pumped his
fist into his mitt. The game was straight out of a Disney movie, Kyle thought.
Hillier had pitched with the Padres sporadically when he first came up,
fluctuating between the majors and Triple A, his high nineties fastball getting
him the repeated call-ups, but his lack of control unable to keep him there.
Then he blew out his shoulder when he was twenty-five and, after making it back
a year later, blew out his elbow in one of his first minor league rehab starts.
When he finally made it back to the minors after taking more than a year to
recuperate, his fastball only peaked at ninety and his control was still
lacking. But he kept at it, jumping around in the minors and independent
leagues until showing marked improvement in winter ball down in the Mexican
Pacific League, where Hillier impressed one of the Yankees’ scouts enough to be
invited to spring training. But even then, even though he pitched well, he
started the season in the minors, only getting the call when the second Yankees
starter went down early in the season. Since then he put together an amazing
string of starts, especially at home where he had a perfect record and an ERA
under one. His fastball was up in the mid-nineties again, and his control had
become impeccable. Many compared his maturation to what Randy Johnson had gone
through, taking years to learn to control his power pitches. They figured he
would have come around even sooner if not for the double surgeries. Whatever
the case, he had everyone rooting for him. But it was a feel-good story many
had predicted was about to end, as his last outing was pedestrian at best. Most
thought the run had ended, the bubble had burst.

But as Kyle
watched the third hitter foul off Hillier’s first pitch, it was clear the
bubble was well intact.

Kyle’s eyes were
glued to the screen as Hillier tossed the second pitch, the batter flailing at
the knee-buckling curve. His skin crawled with anticipation as the announcer
didn’t utter a word, letting the anxious din of the crowd take over until
Hillier entered his windup, bringing the ball to his chest, then reared back
for the pitch
—
another
curve, and another swing.

And another miss.

Perfection.

Absolutely
incredible.

Kyle’s phone rang
as Hillier threw his glove in the air and ran into his catcher’s waiting arms.

“Unbelievable,”
Kyle answered, not even bothering to let Eddie say a word.

But it wasn’t
Eddie on the other end.

“Guess you were
expecting someone else?”

The voice
surprised Kyle and snapped him back to the moment.

“Tom?”

“Yes. Now tell me,
what the hell did you do to get those stroke victims’ records requisitioned?”

The excitement of
Hillier’s perfect game quickly vanished as Kyle digested the question. “The
records were pulled?”

“That’s what it
says on the database.”

“By who?”

“Doesn’t say, but
I’m assuming the usual suspect.”

“Police?”

“That’s my guess.”

Kyle straightened
himself in his chair. “So they’re looking into it?”

“They’re doing
more than that,” Tom said. “Taking the files after someone reports suspicious
activity isn’t much of a big deal alone. But that’s not all that happened
here.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” Tom said,
“not only did they requisition the original files, but they’ve now classified
them as ‘sensitive,’ and once they’re deemed sensitive they’re blocked from
FOIL requests. To get hold of them you’d have to fight it out with a subpoena.”

“And that isn’t
normal procedure?”

“It’s done for
certain cases, but only for those where there’s really something going on.” Tom
paused. “Is there something more going on here?”

Kyle felt his face
freeze. “I … I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, you saw the same stats I
saw. It’s weird, right?”

“Weirder than you
can even imagine.”

Kyle’s brow
knotted as he muted the volume on the computer. “How’s that?”

“You know those
two kids they found this morning?”

“Of course,” he
said. Everyone knew about it. It was all over the news. Two twenty-year-olds
murdered on the Lower East Side, not too far from where Allie had collapsed. Both
had their necks snapped. It had the entire city on edge, especially parents. He
was glad Bree had left for sleepaway camp and was out of the city. The photos
of the two victims were splashed everywhere. The young man was a sophomore at
Cornell. The young woman a freshman at NYU.

“Well,” Tom said,
“I looked at what was posted on the OCME’s site after the preliminary
examinations were performed, and there was something odd about the guy.”

“What?”

There was a
hesitation.

“What was it? What
was odd?” Kyle asked.

“You’ve got to
promise me you won’t say anything to anyone,” Tom said. “Not to
anyone.
”

“I promise.”

“I can get in a
lot of trouble for this, especially since the other reports are now marked
sensitive.”

“I promise,” Kyle
said, standing up now and looking out his small window, focusing for no reason
at all on the fleet of cabs weaving their way in and out of traffic down
Lexington Avenue. “What was so odd about the guy? And how does it have anything
to do with the hemorrhage deaths?”

“Surprised you haven’t
figured it out already,” Tom said.

And just as the
words came out of Tom’s mouth, Kyle did figure it out.

“Holy shit,” he
said. “The guy had a ruptured aneurysm, didn’t he?”

“He did according
to the preliminary report.”

“The girl, too?”

“No,” Tom said.
“Just the broken neck. But after I saw that the guy had the brain hemorrhage I
was curious, so I went back to the other reports, the ones I told you about
before. And that’s when I found out they’d been marked sensitive and I couldn’t
get access to them.”

“Jesus,” Kyle
said, sitting back down. “What do you think it is?”

“No clue.”

“Is there any way
you can find out why they requisitioned the files? What they’re investigating?”

“No,” Tom said.
“I’m not even sure they are investigating. I’m just assuming they are because
the files were marked sensitive. But it might not have even been the NYPD who
did that.”

“Who else could it
be?”

“Any number of
agencies. And it doesn’t just have to be at the city level. Could be at the
state level, or maybe the Feds. Any one of them.”

“Are you going to
talk to the police about it?” Kyle asked.

“Me? Why would I?
Are you?”

“You think I
should?”

“I don’t see why
you would. She passed out, right? You didn’t see anything happen, did you?”

Kyle hadn’t told
Tom about the man in the alley, or the texts. “No, I didn’t.”

“So what would you
say?”

“Nothing, I
guess.”

There was silence
between them, some undefined level of discomfort. Kyle felt it, but couldn’t
quite put his finger on it. It was as if Tom knew he was holding something back.

“Can you let me
know if you hear anything?” Kyle asked.

“Sure,” Tom said.
“And you do the same.”

Kyle said he
would, then hung up. He’d barely ended the call when his BlackBerry started
ringing again. He looked at the caller ID.

Liam.

It was almost as
if the man had a sixth sense and knew about the conversation he’d just had.
Kyle let his voicemail pick it up. He needed to think, to sort things out and
figure out what the hell was going on. The coincidence was too much. Should he
go to the police? And if he did, what could he say that they didn’t already
know?

But he already
knew the answer to that question.

The man.

They didn’t know
about the man in the alley. His being there had to be more than a coincidence.

He leaned back in
his chair, wondering how to attack the problem as he watched the Yankees
silently continue to celebrate Hillier’s perfect game. He heard a slight knock
on his door, and looked up to find standing in the doorway one of the last
people he expected to see. Someone he’d never met before in his life, but still
knew who she was instantly. It was as if he were staring at Allie twenty years
in the future. The resemblance was uncanny.

But it wasn’t
Allie standing there, it was the woman he’d hoped and prayed he’d never have to
meet.

Her mother.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The woman’s long hair was pulled
back, revealing a perfectly smooth forehead, something Kyle assumed was the
handiwork of a Botox treatment. Not that she needed it. Just like Allie, she
had bright, captivating green eyes that sparkled, and soft skin that had
probably gone through every top-of-the-line moisturizer on the market.

“Kyle Vine?” she
hesitantly asked as she stood in the doorway.

Kyle nodded.

“I’m Nicki
Shelton,” she said, holding the door slightly open but not having entered.
“Allie Shelton’s mother.”

Kyle stood up.
“Yes. Of course,” he said. “The resemblance is hard to miss.”

She smiled, but it
was a strained and tired effort, and it was then Kyle noticed the slight bags
under her eyes the makeup couldn’t hide. She probably hadn’t slept much since
Allie had slipped into a coma. Probably barely even left the hospital.

“Hope you don’t
mind me coming here like this,” she said. “But when I realized how close I was
to the school, I felt I had to come by.” She quickly scanned the small office,
her eyes catching the photos of Bree before lingering on the crooked
What About Bob?
poster hanging on the
far wall.

All Kyle could
think of was the texts. That she knew about them. That she probably wanted to
rip his heart out.

“I thought it
better to thank you for what you’re doing in person.”

Thank him
?

“And since I was
over at the temple anyway,” she nodded toward the window in the direction of
the iconic Park East Synagogue just around the block, “I thought I’d stop by.”

Kyle arched his
brow. “Thank me?” he asked, still standing in front of his desk, not even
having shown the good manners to ask her in.

“Right. For
helping us,” she said. “Liam told me how the two of you have been trying to get
to the bottom of what happened to Allie.”

Kyle didn’t know
where to start. Didn’t know whether to tell her he wasn’t even sure what the
hell her brother was talking about, or that the man’s quirky behavior and
bizarre theories seemed borderline delusional.

“Please,” he said,
motioning for her to enter his office, “have a seat.”

She sat in the
same wobbly chair her brother had a few days earlier.

“How’s Allie
doing?” The question was a reflexive one, an icebreaker. The type one feels
compelled to start off with even when they already know the answer.

“No change,” she
said.

“And how are you
holding up?”

“Praying for the
best,” she said, pursing her lips and swallowing back her emotions as her eyes
became glassy, “and not thinking about the worst.”

He gave her a
soft, comforting gaze, letting her know without words that he felt her pain.
Then he eased her back toward more comfortable ground, away from the discussion
that had her on the verge of breaking down in front of him. “I take it you’re a
member of the synagogue?”

She nodded. “It
was a prerequisite of my engagement to Allie’s father, my ex-husband,” she
said, dabbing the corner of her eye. “His parents wouldn’t approve of the
wedding unless I converted. So I did. I kept with it after our divorce, mainly
for the kids. It’s a nice community, and Rabbi Kleinman’s been great in helping
me through this. My free therapist, I guess. Although,” she paused and slightly
grinned, “I suppose ‘free’ is a relative term when you consider the amount of
the donations we’ve made over the years.”

Kyle flashed a
warm smile. He didn’t know Allie’s financial situation for certain, but had
already assumed her family was well-off. Her records listed her as having an
Upper East Side address, somewhere in the 70s he recalled. So when you added
the surface parts together—University of Michigan, Upper East
Side—it wasn’t hard to figure out there was some money there. The
revelation that her parents were divorced was a bit of a surprise, but not
completely unexpected.

“Anyway, I
appreciate that you’re helping out,” she said, letting her eyes trail down to
the dingy carpet, breaking eye contact for this first time. “As I’m sure you’ve
probably realized by now, my brother can have an interesting way about him.”
She looked up again. “He’s not always the easiest to get along with, so I
really do appreciate you taking the time to speak to him.”

“Not at all,” Kyle
said. “I just wish I had a better grasp of what he’s talking about.”

“Don’t you,
though?” Nicki crossed her slender legs as she became more comfortable in her
seat. “He said you’re an expert.”

Kyle smiled.
“While I appreciate the compliment, I’m still struggling to even understand
what he thinks happened, let alone consider myself any type of expert on the
subject.”

The few thin
creases on her face deepened. “Really? Liam’s been telling me the opposite. He
even said you texted Allie about it before it happened.”

Kyle squirmed. “We
did text about energy transfers, yes,” he said. “And I know about them. But I
definitely don’t have any expertise on the subject, and I honestly can’t see
how they’re connected to what happened to your daughter.”

The natural glow
of her green eyes dampened.

“Did Liam actually
explain his theories to you?” he asked.

“He did,” she
said. “But I’m a hopeless case there. Science was never my strong suit.”

“What you said
about your brother before, that he has an interesting way about him. I agree,
and I get the impression that he hears what he wants to hear and shuts out
certain realities at times and … how do I say this? Seems to be a bit …
unaware sometimes.”

“A
bit
unaware?” she laughed. “That’s
putting it mildly. He’s one of the most unaware people you’ll ever meet. Even
though he’s a few years older than me, all throughout high school I tried my
best to get him to stop wearing shirts that were five sizes too small and pants
that didn’t crawl up to his ankles. I tried to give him at least a fighting
chance to move up the social chain of popularity. But he didn’t care then, and
doesn’t care now. People are always amazed at how different the two of us are, but
he’s still probably the most caring man I know.”

Kyle paused, the
lines in his brow betraying the curiosity underneath. “Was Liam ever diagnosed
with anything?”

“Like a mental
disorder?”

“Yes.”

“No,” she said,
shaking her head. “Never. He was a nerd and social outcast, but that’s it. He
never had any mental issues at all. In fact, because he was so oblivious he was
less depressed than the rest of us. He was perfectly happy with just his core
group of nerdy friends, his comic books, fantasy books, video games and
obsession with the Yankees. That’s all he needed. His only real vice, if you
could even call it a vice, was that he didn’t push himself. He never put his
talents to use.”

“How so?”

“Well, he’s smart.
Really smart. Aced every one of the standardized tests he took and even had a
near-perfect score on his SAT. Fifteen-twenty.”

“Impressive,” Kyle
said.

“Right.
Impressive. And he did it without any tutors or prep classes. Yet his GPA was
barely a C average. Not because he wasn’t smart, he just didn’t care. Didn’t
study, skipped class constantly, didn’t turn in assignments. So instead of
going to an Ivy League school, where he should’ve been, he received an
associate degree from the local community college and never finished up to get
his bachelor’s.” She fixed her gaze on Kyle. “But why do you ask? Do
you
think he has mental issues?”

“Well, I haven’t
spent enough time with him to diagnose anything, but he’s—”

“Odd. Eccentric.
Unaware,” she interrupted a bit harshly. “Yes. Like I said, he’s those things.
But that’s it. And maybe he’s acting even stranger because of Allie’s
condition, maybe he’s bottling up his feelings or something, but that type of
odd behavior is somewhat expected, right? I mean, I’m doing the same thing.
That’s what everyone keeps telling me. But no, Liam doesn’t have any mental
health issues. If he’d been born in the past decade, would he have been
diagnosed with Aspergers or some other form of autism that they come up with
now to find a reason why some people are just a little different, or just plain
weird? Yes. Perhaps. So maybe he’d be diagnosed with a touch of this or that,
but he hasn’t been. And I really don’t think there’s anything wrong with him.
Not on that level.”

Kyle silently let
the terse response linger.

“I’m sorry,” she
said, taking a deep breath. “It’s just a sensitive topic. Even though Liam’s
older, I was always his protector, his defender.”

“I didn’t mean to
be critical of him,” Kyle explained. “It’s just that on the surface, without
knowing him … his theories, and some of his mannerisms, they … they
tend to—”

“That’s okay,” she
said. “I understand. Really. It’s just a reflexive role I’ve played since high
school. My mother wasn’t around much then, she worked. So I guess I dealt with
it a lot.”

“What about your
father?”

“He passed away
when we were young. Liam was six. I was four. Vietnam. He’d been there for only
a few months.”

“Did your mother
ever remarry?”

“Never. We moved
in with her parents until I was about seven.”

“Are they still
alive?”

She shook her
head. “My grandfather died about twenty-five years ago. Heart attack. Liam was
devastated. The two of them were inseparable.”

“And your
grandmother passed away as well?”

She nodded. “About
six years ago. Alzheimers.”

“What was your
grandfather’s personality like?”

Nicki smirked. “Do
you mean was he weird like Liam?”

“No. I
just—”

“It’s okay,” she
said. “Like I said, I know Liam’s weird. I just don’t think he’s crazy. There’s
a difference in my book. A huge one. But no, my grandfather wasn’t weird. But
he wasn’t a disciplinarian either. He spoiled us. He was a big kid himself.
Sometimes I think he just enjoyed having us around to give him an excuse to
play video games and see movies. He was an accountant, and I think he liked the
creative outlet games and movies offered. He never took over the role of our
father though, never came down on Liam for bad grades or helped out in that
way. In fact, he used to go in the opposite direction. He’d tell my mother to
go easy on Liam. Said that school wasn’t for everyone, and to let Liam choose
what he liked. Looking back on it, he was probably projecting. He probably
didn’t want Liam to end up like him, pigeonholed in an unsatisfying career.”

“Was there any
other male figure in Liam’s life? Anyone other than your grandfather?”

She crinkled her
brow a bit. “Not really,” she said. “My ex used to try to talk to him, but they
really didn’t connect on anything other than the Yankees.” She paused and
forced an awkward smile. “I’m guessing the point here is that you’re trying to
tell me you think Liam’s chasing a dead-end?”

“Well,” Kyle said,
careful to be delicate in his response, “what’s happening with the strokes is
without a doubt odd. But I just don’t see the connection like your brother
does.”

Nicki lowered her
eyes and stayed silent for a while, letting the response sink in. She stared at
Kyle’s sparse desk, focusing on his copy of the Late Edition of
The Times
, on the headline that
discussed the two deaths from the night before. Kyle looked at the paper as
well, remembering what Tom had said about the young man. That he’d had a
hemorrhage.

“Would you mind if
Liam still continued to bounce ideas off you?” she asked, once again meeting
Kyle’s eyes. “I think it helps him cope.”

“It’s the least I
could do.”

“Thank you,” she
said as she stood and extended her hand.

Kyle came around
the desk to take it, feeling her smooth fingers wrap around his own as they
shook.

“You know,” she
said, looking into his eyes as she held his hand, “there aren’t many people
Liam takes to, but when he does they’re usually good souls.”

“He seems like a
good one himself,” Kyle said, a slew of emotions grabbing hold of him: sorrow
for her pain, amazement as to how she and Allie looked so much alike, and guilt
for the attraction he felt.

She slowly let go
of his hand and walked toward the door, then turned to him again. “Do you
really think Liam’s theories are that far out there?”

He felt bad having
to be the one to say it, but he couldn’t lie to her. He couldn’t give her that
false hope. So he said nothing.

She looked down.
“I do appreciate you talking to him.”

“He’s an
entertaining man,” Kyle said, feeling the need to say something.

She took a deep
breath and smiled. “He most definitely is,” she said, then turned and made her
way down the corridor.

After he closed
the door, Kyle slipped out his BlackBerry, having heard the ping of a few texts
during their conversation.

Each one was from
Liam.

“Look at your
email,” the first one read.

“Did u look yet?”
read the next.

The third one
said, “See it yet?”

But it was the
last one that made his stomach turn.

“I know who the
killer is.”