Never Look Away

by Linwood Barclay

  Jan.

  I spent pretty much all of the rest of that day trying to find out everything I could about Constance Tattinger. I didn’t have a lot to work with. There must have been a Tattinger family living in Rochester in the 1970s and 1980s, but after that, according to Gretchen Richler, they had moved away.

  I explained to Dad that I had some work to do, and he said he did as well. He was going to get started on repairing all the damage I’d done in the house.

  He phoned my mother and explained, quietly, what had happened, and that he was going to stay there for the rest of the day, if that was okay with her. It would mean she’d have to look after Ethan without any assistance.

  Mom said that was fine. She asked to speak to me.

  “Tell me how you are,” she said.

  “I’m losing my mind, but otherwise, okay,” I said.

  “Your father says you’ve ripped your house apart.”

  “Yeah. And I felt pretty stupid about it, until Dad found something I missed. I think I have a lead on Jan.”

  “You know where she is?”

  “No, but I think I know who she is. I could really use a computer. I need to search for people named Tattinger.”

  “Your father says he’s coming home for more tools. I’ll send him back with my laptop.”

  I thanked her for that, and said, “Something bad happened, something I feel responsible for.”

  Mom waited.

  “Horace Richler—he tried to kill himself. I stirred things up. And finding out that someone was out there—my wife—using his daughter’s name, it was too much for him.”

  “You’re doing what you have to do,” Mom said. “It’s not your fault, what happened to that man’s daughter. Whatever it is that Jan may or may not have done, that’s not your fault, either. You need to find out the truth, and that may be difficult for some people.”

  “I know. But they’re good people, the Richlers.”

  “Do what you have to do,” Mom said.

  I told Dad to make sure he came back with Mom’s laptop. He was already making a list of things he needed and added “laptop” to the bottom.

  “Be back in a jiff,” he said.

  I called Samantha Henry at the Standard. “Can you do me a favor?” I asked her.

  “Shoot,” she said.

  “I need you to check with the cops, whoever else you can, see what you can get on the name Constance Tattinger.”

  “Spell it.”

  I did.

  “And who’s this Constance Tattinger?”

  “I’d rather not say,” I said.

  “Oh, okay,” she said. “So you’re on suspension, the cops think you may have killed your wife, and we’re actually writing stories about you, one of our own employees, and you want me to start trying to dig up info for you without telling me why.”

  “Yeah, that’s about right,” I said.

  “Okay,” said Sam. “Can you give me any more than a name? D.O.B.?”

  “April 15, 1975.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Not really. Born in Rochester. I think her parents left there when she was just a kid.”

  “I’ll call you if I get anything.”

  “Thanks, Sam. I owe you.”

  “No shit,” she said. “If we had any journalistic ethics around here, I might be troubled by this.”

  “One more thing,” I said. “The story about Sebastian and Reeves I’ve been working on?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s yours. I’ve got something that’ll finally break this story wide open. A list of payouts to various councilors.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t sit on this. I don’t know when I’m coming back. This story needs to be told ASAP. You should do it. I’ll hang on to this list, give it to you next time I see you, see if you can find a way to confirm the numbers.”

  “Where’d you get this list?”

  “I can fill you in later, okay? I’ve got to go.”

  “Sure,” Sam said. “I really appreciate this. I’ll nail this thing for you.”

  “Right on,” I said and hung up.

  Dad was back within the hour. He dragged in his toolbox, a table saw, some scraps of baseboarding he must have been keeping in his garage since God invented trees, and went upstairs. It wasn’t long before I heard him banging around.

  I took Mom’s laptop, got it up and running, and started with the online phone directories. There weren’t all that many people with that name in the U.S.—about three dozen—and only five listings for an “M. Tattinger.” They were in Buffalo, Boise, Catalina, Pittsburgh, and Tampa.

  I started dialing.

  People answered at the Buffalo and Boise numbers. Not necessarily the actual people who had the phone listing, but the Buffalo Tattinger was a Mark, and the Boise Tattinger was a Miles.

  I was looking for a Martin.

  In both cases, I asked if they knew of a Martin Tattinger, who, with a woman named Thelma, had a daughter named Constance.

  No, and no.

  No one answered at the Catalina and Pittsburgh numbers, and the Tampa listing had been disconnected.

  I figured I might be able to raise someone later in the day at the other numbers, once people were home from work. In the meantime, I tried to figure out what school Jan Richler and Constance Tattinger might have attended—they must not have gotten any further than kindergarten or first grade together. I studied a Google map of where the Richlers lived, found the names of nearby elementary schools and scribbled down their numbers.

  As I began dialing, I realized it was August. The schools would be empty for a few more weeks. But I also knew, from friends who were teachers, that staff were often there in the month leading up to that first day, preparing.

  At the first school, I reached a vice principal, but her school, she explained, didn’t even exist in the 1980s. It had been built in the mid-’90s.

  While I waited for someone to pick up at the next school, I tried to replay in my head the conversation I’d had with the Richlers when I was in their house. Gretchen had been talking about how devastated everyone had been by their daughter’s death, including her kindergarten teacher.

  She’d mentioned a name. Stevenson? Something like that.

  An older woman picked up. “Diane Johnson, secretary’s office.”

  I told her, first, that I was relieved to find someone at the school, then launched into my story about looking for information about a Constance Tattinger who had attended the school—briefly—back in 1980.

  “Who’s calling?” she asked.

  I was reluctant to say, considering that even CNN had carried an item on Jan’s disappearance, and my face and name had been plastered across the tube. But my name and number were very likely displayed on Diane Johnson’s phone.

  “David Harwood,” I said. “I didn’t go to school in the Rochester area, but I’m trying to track down Constance, or her parents, because of a family emergency.” I put a special emphasis on the last two words, hoping they sounded grave enough that Diane Johnson would help me, and not ask a lot of questions.

  She said, “Well, that was the year before I started here, so I can’t honestly say I remember the name.”

  “I think she only attended kindergarten there,” I said. “Her parents took her out of school and moved away. She was friends with a girl named Jan Richler.”

  “Oh now, hang on,” said Diane Johnson. “That name I know. We have a plaque dedicated to her memory in the hall right outside the office. She was the child who got run over by a car.”

  “That’s right.”

  “It was her father driving. I think he was backing out of the driveway.”

  “Yes, you’ve got it.”

  “What a terrible thing. Even though I wasn’t here yet, I remember a bit about that. There was talk that she got pushed into the car’s path.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s the girl I’m calling about. Constance Tattinger.”
/>   “Oh my, that was so long ago.”

  “As you can guess, it can be hard to find someone when you lose track of someone that far back.”

  “I don’t really know how I can help you.”

  “Would you have any school records? That might have any information about Constance? Where she might have moved to?”

  A bell rang in the background for several seconds. When it finished, Diane Johnson said, “They’re just trying them out today.” Then, “We don’t have records that old here. They might be with the central office, but I’m not sure they’d release them to you.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Do you remember her teacher’s name?”

  I struggled. “I want to say Stevenson.”

  “Oh. Could it have been Stephens? With a P-H?”

  “That’s possible.”

  “Tina Stephens was the kindergarten teacher here when I arrived. She was here for a couple of years and then transferred to another school.”

  “Do you have the name of that school?”

  “I don’t remember offhand, but there’s a good chance she’s taught in half a dozen places since then. Teachers move around a lot.”

  “Maybe if I called your central office.”

  “I can tell you this. She got married. Let me think … she met the nicest man. He worked for Kodak, I think. But then, who hasn’t at some time or other?”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “Hang on a minute, there’s someone else in the office here who might know.” I heard her put down the receiver. I clung to the phone, kept it pressed to my year, while Dad hammered and sawed upstairs.

  Diane Johnson got back on and said, “Pirelli.” She spelled it for me. “Like the tires? I never heard of tires called that. The only kind of tires I’ve ever heard of are Goodyear, but that’s what they said it’s like. Frank Pirelli.”

  I wrote it down. “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  I quickly found a listing for an “F. Pirelli” in Rochester and dialed. The phone rang three times before it went to message: “Hi. You’ve reached the voicemail of Frank and Tina Pirelli. We can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave a message.”

  I didn’t leave one. I was starting to feel like I was spinning my wheels.

  The day dragged on.

  At one point, Dad said he needed something to eat, so he went out and bought us a couple of submarine sandwiches stuffed with meatballs and provolone. We took a break and ate them sitting at the kitchen table.

  I said, “Thanks.”

  “No big deal,” Dad said. “Just a couple of sandwiches.”

  “I’m not talking about the sandwiches.”

  Dad looked embarrassed and opened the fridge to see whether there was any more beer.

  Late afternoon, not long after I’d tried the Catalina listing a second time with no luck, the phone rang. Mom said, “Ethan wants to talk to you.” Some receiver fumbling, then, “Dad?”

  “Hey, sport, how’s it going?”

  “I wanna come home.”

  “Soon,” I said.

  “Nana says I have to stay here all day.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve been here for days and days.”

  “Ethan, it’s only been a couple.”

  “When’s Mommy coming home?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Are you being a good boy for Nana?”

  A hesitation. “Yes.”

  “What did you do?”

  “She yelled at me about jumping on the stairs.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes. Now I’m playing with the bat.”

  “Bat?”

  “The okay bat.”

  I smiled. “Are you playing croquet with Nana?”

  “No. She says it makes her back hurt to hit the ball.”

  “So how do you play by yourself?”

  “I hit the wood ball through the wires. I can make it go really far.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Is Nana making anything for dinner?”

  “I think so. I smell something. Nana! What’s for dinner?” I heard Mom talking. Then Ethan said, “Pot roast.” He whispered, “It’s got carrots in it.”

  “Try to eat just one carrot. It’s good for you. Do it for Nana.”

  “Okay.”

  “What time’s Nana serving dinner?”

  Ethan shouted out another question. “Seven,” he said.

  “Okay, I’ll see you then, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you,” I said.

  “I love you, too,” he said.

  “Okay. Bye, sport.”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  And he hung up.

  • • •

  I tried the Rochester Pirelli number again.

  “Hello?” A woman.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m trying to find Tina Pirelli.”

  “Speaking.”

  I tried to hide the excitement in my voice. “Would this be the Tina Pirelli who once taught kindergarten in Rochester?”

  “That’s right.” A suspicious tone in her voice. “Who’s calling?”

  “My name is David Harwood. I’m trying to find someone who I think was a student of yours, very briefly, back then.”

  “David who?”

  “Harwood. I’m calling from Promise Falls.”

  “How did you get my number?”

  I told her, briefly, about the steps I’d taken to find her.

  “And who are you trying to find?” she asked.

  “Constance Tattinger.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line for a moment. “I remember her,” Tina Pirelli said quietly. “Why are you trying to find her?”

  I’d thought about whether to make up a story, but decided it was better to play it straight. “She grew up to become my wife,” I said. “And she’s missing.”

  I could hear Tina draw in her breath. “And you think I’d know where she is? I haven’t seen her in probably thirty years, when she was just a little girl.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But when her parents moved away from Rochester, did they say where they were moving to?” Having had no luck so far tracking down a Martin Tattinger in the United States, I wondered whether they could have moved to Canada or overseas.

  “Considering the circumstances,” Tina Pirelli said, “they didn’t really have much to say to anyone. They just moved away.”

  “The circumstances being … the accident?”

  “So your wife has told you about that,” she said.

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Poor Constance, everyone blamed her. Even though she was just a child. Her parents pulled her out of school, and eventually moved away. I don’t have any idea where. I’m sorry. You say she’s missing?”

  “She just disappeared,” I said.

  “That must be terrible for you,” she said.

  “It is.”

  “I only had Constance for a couple of weeks. The accident was in September. But she was a good girl. Quiet. And I saw her only once after the accident.”

  “How was she then?” I asked.

  Tina Pirelli took so long to answer, I thought the connection had been broken. “It was like,” she said, “she’d stopped feeling.”

  I called the Pittsburgh listing for M. Tattinger.

  “Hello?” A man. Sounded like he could be in his sixties or older.

  “Is this Martin Tattinger?” I asked.

  When the man didn’t respond right away, I asked again.

  “No,” the man said. “This is Mick Tattinger.”

  “Is there a Martin Tattinger there?”

  “No, there isn’t. I think you must have the wrong number.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But maybe you can help me. My name is David Harwood. I’m calling from Promise Falls, north of Albany. I’m trying to find a Martin Tattinger, who’s married to Thelma. They have a daughter Constance, and last I heard, they were
living in Rochester, but that was some time ago. You wouldn’t by any chance be a relative, know anything about how I might find Martin?”

  “The Martin Tattinger you’re looking for is my brother,” he said flatly.

  “Oh,” I said, suddenly encouraged.

  “He and Thelma, they moved around a lot, ending up in El Paso.”

  I’d seen no Tattinger listing for El Paso. “Do you have a number for him there?” I asked.

  “Why you trying to get in touch with him?” Mick Tattinger asked.

  “It’s about their daughter, Constance,” I said, not disclosing, this time, my relationship to her. “There’s reason to believe she might be in trouble, and we’re trying to contact her parents.”

  “That’s going to be hard,” Mick said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’re dead.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize they’d passed on.”

  Mick snorted. “Yeah, passed on. That’s a nice way to put it.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “They were murdered.”

  “What?”

  “Throats slit. Both of them. While they were tied to the kitchen chairs.”

  “When was this?”

  “Four, five years ago? It’s not like I circle the date on my calendar, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did they catch who did it?” I asked.

  “No,” Mick Tattinger said. “What’s this about Connie?”

  “Constance—Connie is missing,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, there’s nothing exactly new about that. She’s been missing for years. Martin and Thelma, when they died, they hadn’t heard from her for ages, had no idea what happened to her. She took off when she was sixteen or seventeen. Not that I could blame her. You telling me she’s turned up?”

  “It looks that way,” I said.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. “Where the hell is she? She probably doesn’t even know her parents are dead.”

  “I think you might be right,” I said.

  “She might get some satisfaction from knowing,” Mick Tattinger said. “Martin was my brother and all, but he was an ornery son of a bitch. We hadn’t been close for years. Him and Thelma wouldn’t ever have won any Parent of the Year awards. His bitchin’ and her drinkin’ and mopin’ about, they were a pair. But still, that doesn’t mean they deserved what they got. Martin was fixing cars, running a garage in El Paso. Far as I know, he was keeping his nose clean. So why does someone come and kill them? Nothing was stolen.”