by Clea Simon
Esmé. That kitten was a handful, but Dulcie had begun to recognize the inevitable. The little cat had her own personality. She had such personality, in fact, that when Dulcie heard a young woman’s voice, she started. Esmé had never sounded quite like that.
But, no, the voice was coming from her phone. A more recent message, from – she checked – an unknown number. Quickly, Dulcie hit ‘replay’ and, this time, paid attention.
‘Hi, I’m sorry,’ the message began, with no preamble. ‘I shouldn’t have run, but the library and everything – it’s just gotten so complicated. Look, I’m walking toward the Commons now. You know that statue of Lincoln? I’ll go there. I’ll hang out as long as I can. Just don’t bring that cop, OK?’
That was it. Not that Dulcie needed any more. The voice was female, and it sounded scared.
FORTY-FOUR
The Cambridge Common used to be the grazing ground for the city’s first inhabitants. Back when the settlement was called ‘New Town’, the common must have been all grass, Dulcie figured. Now, a scattering of trees shaded one end of what had become a city park. At the far end, a baseball diamond and an open field hosted what seemed to be overlapping games. But the bronze and marble edifice she was heading for stood somewhere in between, half in the lengthening shadows of the trees, but far enough back from the street to have a sense of privacy.
Dulcie hadn’t paused once she’d heard the call. It had come in more than ten minutes earlier, and if the blonde – and it had to be her – lost her nerve, Dulcie didn’t know if she’d get another chance.
Phone in hand, she half walked, half trotted back across the Yard, pausing only to dial Chris’s number. ‘Hi, sweetie. Guess what?’ She tried for nonchalance, even as her breathing became ragged. ‘That girl – the Trista lookalike? – she called,’ Dulcie said to his voicemail. ‘I’m meeting her on the Common.’ She owed him that much.
Rogovoy would probably want a call, too, she figured. But by the time she hung up from Chris, she was at Mass Ave, and the light was blinking. Racing across, she had no time to look at her phone. Besides, she told herself, it would probably all amount to nothing. She was meeting a young student, another woman, in a public place. If she got something from it, well, maybe it would help repair her reputation. Dulcie didn’t like the idea that she wanted to impress Rogovoy. Still, the idea was poking around her consciousness as she race-walked into the park.
And saw . . . nobody. ‘Just as well I didn’t call,’ said Dulcie, as much to herself as to the bronze Lincoln. ‘That would have made me really seem like an amateur.’
She looked over at the statue, standing in the middle of the ungainly marble edifice. Was this really the best the city could do? Dulcie was hit by the suspicion that the memorialized president was supposed to be bigger. Only after this life-size statue was delivered, she decided, had the city fathers decided to make a grander showing, surrounding the figure with all these marble pillars. City mothers would have left well enough alone.
Considering his dour expression, Lincoln seemed to agree. For a split second, she thought he was turning toward her. Then she realized, no, she was seeing through the memorial’s central arch. Someone was on the other side, almost hidden by the statue. Dulcie shook her head at her own foolishness. She’d forgotten how ornate the ridiculous monument was. As the shadows lengthened, it was easy to miss one slight figure on the other side.
‘Halloo!’ she shouted once and started to wave. She caught herself in time. This woman was scared; she would want Dulcie to be discreet. Luckily, Dulcie was still too near the busy street for her call to have been out of place. For all anyone knew, she was hailing a bus. Chastened, Dulcie started toward her at a quick but careful pace. Just another commuter cutting through the Common on her way home.
The statue, she realized, was larger than it looked, and it took her a good thirty seconds to get around to its other side. When she did, she was alone. Had her eyes played tricks on her? She peered back across the wrought-iron fence and through the encircling marble pillars. Lincoln was still there, but no slight female figure. Perhaps the girl had assumed Dulcie wasn’t coming. Maybe she’d simply had a change of heart.
‘Great,’ Dulcie said to no one but the sparrows. ‘She was the one lead I had.’
The sparrows didn’t answer, but just as Dulcie was about to give up, she heard a soft flutter. Two mourning doves, spooked by something, had begun their whirring ascent. Dulcie turned to watch, wondering what had caused them to take flight, when she saw it – another movement, back in a thicket of maples. Their wide leaves had shadowed the little copse, a precursor of the dusk to come. Only yards from the road – maybe twenty feet from the statue – it was an oasis of darkness.
So the girl had stayed, retreating into the shadows. Did she not trust Dulcie? Or was someone else waiting for her, too? Slowly, all senses on alert, Dulcie walked toward the trees.
‘Hello?’ she called, more softly this time. In response, the slight figure stepped forward. It was the blonde, and she raised one hand in a tentative greeting as she took a step out of the shadows.
But before she could proceed further, another figure appeared, cutting her off. As Dulcie watched, the second person – a man – threw the slight girl against a tree. Dulcie froze, aghast, and reached for her phone.
‘I don’t have it,’ the girl shouted, while Dulcie punched in numbers. ‘I never did.’
Dulcie looked up to see the girl being grabbed, being shaken.
‘Rogovoy.’ The detective sounded tired, but Dulcie had no time to explain.
‘Detective, it’s Dulcie. I’m in the Common. There’s something happening. Please come quickly.’ She snapped the phone shut before the cop could tell her to leave it to him and crept forward, determined to intercede if she could.
‘—don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The man was going on about something. ‘You’re talking nonsense.’
Could this be a domestic dispute? A private matter? Dulcie toyed with the phone, and with the idea of calling Rogovoy back, then decided against it. Whatever was going on, it didn’t call for a large man to grab a woman by the arm and shake her.
‘Hey, stop it!’ Dulcie stepped forward. Rogovoy had to be on his way, but she couldn’t just stand here and watch this. ‘You – over there – cut it out!’
The girl turned, pulling away from the man, and stepped into a gap between the trees. Her face, suddenly in the sunlight, looked so much like Trista’s that Dulcie gasped. Her gasp turned to a small cry as the man reached forward to grab his victim – and Dulcie recognized him as one of the two who had interrogated her. Harris. The bigger one.
‘Dulcinea Schwartz.’ The sound of her name made her jump, but the voice was coming from deep in the copse. As she watched, Harris and the girl turned. It was Read, coming forward with an evil smirk that made Dulcie remember those oversized, fang-like teeth. And what he said made Dulcie’s head spin.
‘When will you quit talking nonsense and save yourself? We don’t care about some old rag. We want our money, Schwartz. And we know where you live.’
Dulcie stood frozen to the spot. Read wasn’t talking to her. He was talking to the blonde girl, and Dulcie watched, mouth gaping, as he advanced toward her, a large knife in his hand.
FORTY-FIVE
‘At least you helped her get away.’ Chris was trying to cheer her up, Dulcie knew that. But all she could conjure was a faint smile as she squeezed his hand. They were sitting in the back of a university police cruiser, one of two that had shown up, sirens wailing, causing the two men to flee in one direction – and the young blonde in another. ‘You might have saved her life.’
‘Maybe.’ Dulcie couldn’t get that last scene out of her mind. She had been so sure she was about to witness something horrible. Something that somehow or other involved her. ‘I just don’t understand it, any of it,’ she said as she kept replaying it. ‘He called her by my name, and I don’t even know who she is.’
‘Jes
sica Wachovsky.’ Rogovoy climbed into the front seat. ‘She’s a junior. I’ve sent someone to her room, though who knows if she’ll be going back there.’ He looked up from his notes. ‘I have been looking into this, you know.’
‘And I appreciate it.’ Dulcie tried to summon more enthusiasm. ‘If your guys hadn’t shown up then . . .’
‘You could have called earlier, you know. Like when she first got in touch.’ Rogovoy had already taken her statement, but had asked her to stay while he spoke with the two uniformed cops who had been first on that scene. He’d already sent one car racing up Garden Street, following the direction the two men had taken. The other cop was now talking to some passers-by, probably trying to pick up a trail. ‘Lucky for us, you found time to call your boyfriend and he had the common sense to contact us.’
‘It wasn’t luck.’ She ducked her head. ‘I just didn’t want to be crying wolf.’
‘Huh.’ The detective had a laugh that sounded like a cough. ‘Ms Schwartz, I don’t think Little Red Riding Hood had anything on you.’
Beside her, Chris opened his mouth to complain, but Dulcie squeezed his hand. The detective might have his parables confused, but he did have a point.
‘OK, then.’ The detective closed his pad. ‘I’m going to ask Officer Denny to drive you two home. Where I hope you will have a very quiet evening.’ From the emphasis he put on the last three words, Dulcie knew this was more than a suggestion.
‘It has been a day, Dulce.’ Chris pulled her close, and she allowed herself to collapse against him.
‘Were you able to get any work done?’ She looked up at him.
He shrugged. ‘I was kind of useless during the tutorial and then, well, my concentration hasn’t been the best.’ He touched her cheek. ‘You’ve kind of shaken me up, you know?’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ She leaned against his hand, thinking. When she looked up again, she sounded determined. ‘You should go back to work tonight.’
He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything.
‘You took last night off. Jerry is probably a wreck, right? And I’ll be home. I’ll be OK. In fact, I’ll feel better about everything if I know that I’m not destroying your entire schedule.’
‘If you’re sure . . .’
‘I am.’ She settled into his arms. ‘But you can go out for dumplings first. I think this week merits another round.’
During the ride home, Chris filled her in on Jerry’s dilemma. Thanks to Rogovoy’s urging, he said, the police had been willing finally to take a report about Trista’s disappearance. But because Trista was an adult, it didn’t sound like they could do anything, besides keep an eye out.
‘One more day,’ Chris told her. ‘So, yeah, he is climbing the walls.’
She digested this in silence and found her eyes closing.
‘Come on, dream girl,’ she heard Chris say and realized the cruiser had pulled up in front of the apartment. ‘I’d carry you if I could.’
‘I’m awake.’ Dulcie sat up with a start, in time to hear the cop in the front seat chuckle. She thanked him anyway and let Chris help her out.
‘I can’t believe I conked out like that,’ she said as they climbed the stairs.
He gave her a look. ‘Dulcie, if this wasn’t the longest day of your life, I wouldn’t want to see what is.’
She nodded. ‘That reminds me, I should call Lucy. She was hoping we’d be out for the solstice.’
‘Maybe you should give yourself the night off?’ He unlocked the door. ‘Deal with your mother tomorrow?’
‘Maybe.’ As she stepped in, she felt something smash into her ankles. Esmé, who must have made a running start, was butting her head against Dulcie and purring like an engine. ‘After all, it seems like someone else has put in a claim on me.’
She scooped the purring cat up and buried her face in the warm, soft fur. Up close, the purr came in waves, rising and falling like a ship far out to sea. ‘You’re a wonderful creature, do you know that?’
In response, Esmé threw her paws around Dulcie’s hand and bit her.
‘Ow! Bad—’ She stopped herself and kept petting the small cat even as she placed her back on the floor. ‘I’m sorry. I left you alone all day, didn’t I?’
‘Why don’t you two make up?’ Chris called from the closet, where he was donning a light jacket. ‘And I’ll go get us some dinner. And Dulcie?’
She looked up.
‘Please make sure you lock the door behind me.’
‘As if we’d let anyone get to her.’ The voice, like the memory of a dream, was lost in the closing of the door.
‘Mr Grey?’ She paused, mid-pet, and scanned the hall. Nothing. Nothing except one small cat, who looked up and bit her once again, before scampering away.
FORTY-SIX
By rights, she should have been asleep before Chris left for work. The stress of the day, the warm Chinese buns filling her belly. The presence of Esmé, once again purring by her side. But even though Chris had tucked her in before he left, Dulcie found herself wide awake and wondering.
‘Maybe it was that nap I had in the cop car,’ she remarked to her feline companion. ‘Is that how it works for you guys?’
Esmé said nothing, only tucking her nose into her tail as Dulcie got out of bed and walked over to her desk. It took her laptop only a moment to boot up. In that moment, she remembered Rogovoy’s warning. He and Jerry had seemed appalled that she hadn’t changed her passwords, even though Chris had given her system a clean bill of health. In fact, from what Rollie had told her over lunch, a much lower-tech form of identity theft had been to blame. Lunch – she thought of the bagel and lox. Had that all been today?
The weight of the day seemed to collapse on to her. No wonder she’d been so famished when Chris had finally returned, two bags full of goodies in his arms. Then again, maybe it was that second helping of spicy moo shi that was keeping her awake now.
Since she was . . . She typed in the girl’s name and her class. Two entries came up. The first had a photo, and it took Dulcie a moment to recognize the girl. An undated photo showed an Ultimate Frisbee team. J. Wachovsky was clearly identified, but the girl Dulcie saw looked worlds apart. Her hair was long instead of feathered short, drawn back in a pony tail. The only piercings Dulcie could see were two studs in her ears. This girl looked like a rough draft of Trista, or her younger sister.
She clicked on the second entry. It was a ‘Work in Progress’ feature, a regular in the student newspaper. ‘Jessica Wachovsky, sophomore,’ it read. ‘Learning to preserve fragile documents in the Prints and Paper Conservation program.’
Dulcie was too tired to think it through. She’d eaten too much, and the Szechuan peppers were burning a hole in her belly. ‘Is this just déjà vu, kitty?’
Esmé yawned and stretched, showing the pink cuticles of her extended claws. ‘Am I just imagining things? Seeing connections?’
The cat rolled over, placing one of her paws on Dulcie’s thigh before she stretched again. The little claws didn’t need to do much to sink through Dulcie’s nightshirt, and she gingerly removed Esmé’s paw. ‘Is this your way of claiming me, kitty? Is that it?’
That’s when it hit her, and she turned toward the cat. ‘Rollie worked in the paper lab. That’s where he made the fake ID. And that’s why those thugs were using my name.’
It was coming together so fast, Dulcie had to say it out loud. ‘They wanted Rollie to steal Trista’s ID because they had a Trista. A fake Trista – or someone who they could make look like her. But Rollie wouldn’t, so he gave them my name and ID number to use with her photo. That’s why the blue ticket had my name – and why Rollie planted it on Trista.’
She looked at the cat. ‘Trista probably found it and couldn’t make head or tails out of it. But those bullies thought Jessica was me. They didn’t know about Rollie’s switch – or about the fake ID.’
But if they didn’t know, then what was going on? From what Rollie had told her, it seemed Pro
fessor Coffin had been involved with the theft. Rogovoy, she knew, was less likely to take the fugitive student’s word for anything, especially once they confirmed that not only had his phone been disconnected, but also that his apartment had been emptied out of most of his clothes and toiletries – seemingly in a hurry. Now Coffin was dead, and Rollie was on the lam. Trista was missing, and this girl – this Jessica – was in danger. But why?
It was hopeless. Even if Rollie was to be trusted, he hadn’t had a clue about why Coffin had needed a fake ID – or might have wanted to steal a book he already owned. And the girl herself had fled. Those two men – Harris and Read – had meant business. Dulcie thought of the knife with a shudder. Maybe memory and fatigue were coming into play, but in her memory it loomed both large and lethal.
‘We want our money,’ the smaller one, Read, had said. She thought of him as the mean one. The brains to Harris’s brawn. And then it hit her. He’d said he knew the girl. He knew where she lived. But he didn’t mean Jessica Wachovsky, or even Trista Dunlop.
He was hunting Dulcie. Dulcinea Schwartz. She could still hear his words. ‘We know where you live.’
FORTY-SEVEN
‘Yeah, you told us.’ Rogovoy had to be off duty. It was after eleven. But he’d given her his cell number, and she’d called it, spooked. ‘No, I’m glad you called. Shows you’re developing some smarts of the other kind, too.’
Now that he was on the phone, she felt a little silly. Those two men were hunting for a little blonde, not for her. Still, the detective’s next words were comforting.
‘I’ve got a patrol going by your place. Talked to your boyfriend about it. He’s a good kid, too.’
Dulcie wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about being called a ‘kid’. Lucy, she knew, would get all bent out of shape, start fuming about the paternalistic patriarchy and all that. Then again, she recalled with a pang, Lucy had rescinded her own warning. Even after she’d called to tell her mother about Coffin – about all the blood – Lucy had gone on about birth and new beginnings.