Keeper of the Keys

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  A boyfriend, someone she had dated after Ray’s father left? After he died, when Ray was just two years old? It made Ray feel ashamed. He thought warmly of Esmé, who must have lived in great distress for many years. He would get her to share the story, and then they would put it away forever. Put the models away. Put the need to visit the houses away.

  He sat down to his drawing board. He was not going to lose his work over Leigh, over the past. The museum design needed tweaking. Then he would design Antoniou a mansion that would go straight into Architectural Digest or heck, even Granta. He would show all the bastards the true meaning of original.

  10

  D ownstairs at home that night, while studying blueprints, the cassette burning a hole in his workbench, Ray heard thumping on the door. Ray peered at the large LCD screen in the corner of the basement that showed his front door. Two uniformed police officers stood out there, starched, laden with radios and holsters and clipboards and God knew what else. Behind them he saw a police car, red light spinning.

  Walking toward the front door, Ray felt hot fear that flared through him like a sparkler, making his legs move slowly, painfully. Maybe everyone dreamed this moment, a moment when the jig was up. Didn’t everyone suffer from some guilty secrets and fear being found out? Had they talked with the kids, somehow identifying him as an intruder? Or was this about Leigh?

  Ray shook his head, wishing the mixed-up disarray in his mind would clear up enough so that he could see his way down the hallway, through the door, and beyond, into the future. “What is it?” he asked the two men.

  “Raymond Jackson?”

  “Yes.”

  “You work at Wilshire Associates?”

  “I’m a partner, yes.” He asked for their identification, which they provided: Walter Rappaport, police lieutenant, robbery/homicide, a big man with bags flowery as broccoli under his eyes and a leery attitude; and Rick Buzas, police officer II, field training office, unlined and complacent.

  “Nice house,” said Officer Buzas, younger, smaller, standing slightly behind the lieutenant. His fresh skin shone in the porch light. “Big. Bet you have a great view.” On this soft moonless night he was looking around at the landscaping, sniffing at the jasmine along the steps.

  “What can I do for you?”

  The big guy in front butted in. “Can we come in? We have a few questions.”

  Ray closed the front door behind him and stepped outside to face them. “No. Sorry.” Ray didn’t want them in his house. He didn’t want them on his porch, either. He recalled a salient fact. The police had no obligation to tell the truth while discovering the truth. What a skewed world. He should be very careful. He didn’t want to get them interested in his business any more than they already were. “Now, could you please tell me why you are here?”

  “You know a man named James Hubbel? A deputy sheriff for the County of Los Angeles.”

  “Mr. Hubbel is my father-in-law.”

  “He’s concerned about his daughter. He got in touch with my sergeant. Thought I’d come out and make sure she’s okay. Is she here?”

  “No.”

  “No? Where is your wife, Mr. Jackson?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You can’t? Why can’t you?”

  “I don’t know where she is. She left me. Never said where she was going. Has Mr. Hubbel filed some kind of complaint against me? Is there a missing persons case?”

  Rappaport’s big ears seemed to move back like a dog’s.

  “How long ago?” he asked.

  “Five days now.”

  “So you’re all choked up about this, huh?” asked Officer Buzas.

  Ray stared at him. Rappaport coughed, eyeing Ray almost apologetically, as if he too was disturbed by Buzas’s bluntness.

  If they had a warrant, they would have pushed him aside and would be searching his home right now. Ergo, this was an exploratory visit, the first aside from that unofficial one from Leigh’s father, and not entirely unexpected.

  He said, “I understand Mr. Hubbel’s concern, and I wish my wife would call her folks and say she’s okay. But isn’t it fairly common, spouses separating? One leaving the home? Not telling her husband where she’s gone to get her life together or whatever? I mean, she’s a grown woman. She can go where she wants, can’t she?” He couldn’t keep anxiety from creeping into his voice.

  “Where would she go?” asked Rappaport.

  The ultimate question they had come to ask. Ray scratched beside his mouth with a sharp fingernail. “No idea.”

  “When did you last see her?” asked Buzas.

  “Late Friday night, as I said. We had some painful things to discuss. She”-he thought back to that night, struggling against emotion-“walked out. She didn’t tell me where she would go.”

  “What time was this?” Only now did Ray realize that Officer Buzas was taking notes.

  “About nine. I don’t know. Maybe ten.”

  “What did she take with her?”

  He thought. “A flowered carpetbag she uses for overnight trips. She must have packed that. Some jewelry, I noticed later. Underwear, I assume. Some of her toiletries are missing from the bathroom.”

  “I would have tried to stop her,” Officer Buzas said, looking at his partner.

  Ray said nothing.

  “What was the subject of this fight?” Rappaport asked.

  “I didn’t say we fought.”

  “Okay. What painful things did you discuss?”

  “Obviously, it was about problems in our marriage.”

  “You seeing someone else, Mr. Jackson?”

  “No, no.”

  “What about her?”

  “We were just-I’ve been working hard, and she was upset.”

  “What have you done to try to make contact with her?”

  “Nothing. I think she just wants to have a few days to herself, to cool off.”

  “She hasn’t contacted her workplace for three days running,” Rappaport said. “Mr. Jackson, do you want us to find your wife? Because you’re acting mighty strange, if you do.”

  “Look, check me out. I’ve never been arrested, never done anything. I’m not a drug addict or alcoholic. I’m just a man whose wife left him.”

  “After a violent fight.”

  “I never said we were violent.”

  “How long did this fight go on? You have these fights often?”

  “It wasn’t a fight! It was just-” He stopped, his mouth open, then said, “Look, is this a missing persons case?”

  “Like I said, we’re doing a welfare check.”

  “An informal welfare check because her father’s a cop. I understand.” Informal because this isn’t your case yet, Ray thought.

  “You could make it a missing persons case. The father, he knows she’s an adult; it’s been a few days, he’s worried, but we can’t open a case based on that. But if you come down to the Topanga station and say your wife has disappeared, we’ll find her for you.”

  “I’m not sure I want to do that. She said she was leaving me and she left. She doesn’t want to talk to me right now; that’s clear.”

  “You want her back?” Officer Buzas said. Ray didn’t like the way he leaned against the door frame, looking like he didn’t believe a word Ray was saying.

  “I love her, if that’s what you want to know,” Ray said. “I hope when she comes back, that we will be able to work through our problems. I’m afraid to track her down and drag her back when that’s not what she wants right now. I’m not sure what to do.”

  “You don’t want us even to check on her welfare?”

  “I didn’t say that. Look, I just don’t feel I can help right now, but I will definitely ask for your help if she is gone much longer.”

  “Deputy Hubbel doesn’t believe his daughter would leave of her own free will and not contact her mother even once.”

  “It’s only been five days, detectives.” Ray felt very tired. He wanted to be cooperative, but w
hat could he tell them? That they had been fighting over Martin? Wouldn’t that make them even more suspicious?

  Suddenly he felt the full enormity of his situation. It was like getting knocked down into a dark well, nobody else there, just him, the deep cold water, and slick, black walls he could never climb. These men weren’t here to conduct a little question-and-answer session. They suspected him of hurting his wife.

  “We’d like to come inside and look around the place. You don’t have anything to hide, right? And it might help us locate Leigh.”

  “No,” Ray said.

  The younger cop seemed about to knock against Ray with a shoulder and go in, but Detective Rappaport put a hand on his arm.

  “You have no idea where your wife might have gone?” he asked. He was driving Ray crazy with these repeated questions but Ray didn’t dare send them away. He could hear the radio static and the flat-sounding dispatcher’s voice on the loud radio inside their vehicle, and the red light seemed like a little sun that must be attracting the interest of his neighbors on the right.

  Without thinking, Ray answered the first thing that came to mind, so innocent-sounding. “She didn’t have many close friends. Maybe my mother’s?” As soon as he said these words, Ray realized his blunder. He had needlessly involved Esmé. “Earlier in the day, Leigh had mentioned speaking with my mother on the phone, so when she left, and we both had had some time to cool off, I thought maybe she had just gone there. I went to my mother’s house just in case she had gone over there.” Lies got so deep so fast.

  “Your wife wasn’t there?”

  “She hadn’t gone there after all. I stayed-ate something-and when I came home I went to bed. Leigh didn’t come home and she hasn’t come home since.”

  When they asked, he gave them Esmé’s address, saying he would call them later with her phone number. He didn’t have it on him. They could probably find out all this information in five minutes, even though her number was unlisted. Why not appear to cooperate while obstructing? He needed to slow them down a bit. He needed to speak to Esmé first.

  No doubt they realized that.

  “You don’t know your own mother’s phone number?”

  “Not offhand.” He didn’t believe himself, either. “Look. Put it on the record. I didn’t hurt my wife, period,” Ray said. “I was bitterly disappointed in how things were going with our marriage, okay? I admit that. Now, I have to go. Good night.” Ray went into his house and shut the door. It took all his strength to do that, and every moment he expected a hand to come out to smack the door open.

  Ray observed the detectives on his monitor. They talked to each other. Finally they got into their loud bright police car and drove away. He sank down to the floor and didn’t move for a minute. He spent the next several minutes berating himself, profanely and out loud.

  Then he called Esmé. “Mom, two police detectives just left here.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Jim Hubbel asked them to check on Leigh.”

  “Oh, no. The police. This is terrible, Ray. She still hasn’t gone in to work?”

  “No, and an old friend of hers showed up today looking for her, too.”

  “Well, Leigh’s a grown woman. She’s causing you so much trouble. It’s terrible. Are you okay?”

  “I made some mistakes talking to them. I got rattled, confused, and-I didn’t tell them about Martin, and they’re going to find out if they keep looking, and they’ll think I lied to them deliberately, and-”

  “Martin Horner? Your partner? What about Martin?”

  Ray said slowly, “He had an affair with Leigh.”

  Long, astonished pause. “I don’t believe it. An affair?”

  “People know at the office.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

  He wanted to shrug, but he knew she wouldn’t hear that. “Yes. It’s ridiculous and sordid. But to compound it, Martin and I had an argument. We were overheard.”

  “You lost your temper, didn’t you, honey?”

  “As a matter of fact, I hit him.”

  Silence while his mother probably rued the day he was born. “That’s not good.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wish you didn’t have my temper.”

  “I was provoked; that’s fair to say. He said I drove her to him.”

  He heard his mother breathing on the line. “Don’t you dare allow yourself to take a single bit of blame for their despicable behavior!”

  He hated telling her these things, intimacies, but she should know. After all this time, he had to admit to himself, he tried to stay as closed off as she was, tight as a microwave oven, keeping the toxic energy inside.

  “You never mentioned you had…issues with Martin.”

  “I didn’t have issues with Martin until he slept with my wife.” He imagined he could hear the clicking of her brain. Unlike him, she thought things through in advance, even when she was upset.

  “I think we should consult with an attorney, Ray.”

  “No need yet. Let’s see if they come back with a warrant. Anyway, what’s to find? There’s nothing here.”

  “A search warrant! My God, the papers!”

  “Mom, take it easy.”

  “Listen, here’s what we’re going to say. Anytime they question your absence, you were here with me. What would be good for us to be eating? Hmm. It might depend on the time of day.”

  “I did mention you.”

  “In what way?”

  “I said that Leigh might have gone to see you sometime after she left the house.”

  “Oh. You said that? Why, Ray?”

  “She told me you spoke in the morning.”

  “Oh, I did call that morning. I gave her a message for you to call me, that’s all. I have been thinking about how long it has been since I saw Leigh. I haven’t seen her since July Fourth. You remember?”

  “Ah, yeah.” They had eaten, then walked to the nearby park to hear one of those Dixieland bands play for free on the bandstand. Remembering that night, Ray was gripped by the memory. Even then, he had a chance to change things with Leigh, make them right. He remembered how much they laughed, how they sang along with the music. Leigh couldn’t carry a tune, but she loved singing anyway and she didn’t care when people laughed at her, either.

  “If they come here, I can only explain to them I haven’t seen her since then,” Esmé said.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “I don’t know why, but I told them I went to your house right after Leigh left on Friday night, looking for her.”

  “You did?”

  “I lied. Maybe I was embarrassed that I didn’t chase after her.”

  “Okay. Fine. What time were you here?”

  “About eleven.”

  “You didn’t call first?”

  Ray laughed a little. “Obviously not.”

  “You didn’t call first, because you were so upset, and you wanted to be with me even if she wasn’t here,” his mother said. “You got here-just before eleven?”

  “Why not?” Ray said. “Sure.”

  “You asked if Leigh had stopped by, and I said no.”

  “That’s what I told them.”

  “That’s what happened then.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have mentioned you at all. But I count on you so much. Too much.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re your own man.”

  “You’re too damn supportive.”

  “Hush, Ray. This is serious.”

  “I should never have involved you.”

  “Well, you just did. You were very upset-no, concerned. We talked it over. You weren’t feeling well. You lay down for a few minutes. We had some tea. We ate crème brûlée.”

  “You make a great crème brûlée. This time the caramel was ever so slightly burnt. How’d you whip up all that when you weren’t even expecting company?”

  “Don’t joke, Ray.”

  “Leigh’s absence is my problem, not
yours. I hate asking you to lie for me.”

  “It’s not like you did anything to hurt Leigh.”

  He saw the cassette on the table.

  “I have another tape, Mom. I went back to Stokes Avenue. Remember? Third grade. Or was it fourth grade? The molding? In your old bedroom?”

  She gave a little shriek. “Do you realize what you’re doing? Ray, I-I’m beginning to think you have lost your mind! You’re breaking the law! Now you listen to me, Ray. You already have the police interested in you. You’ve got to stop this!”

  “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on, except that you’re ruining your life! Please tell me you aren’t going to do that again, go use those old keys and invade people’s houses. Especially now. Please, honey.”

  Understanding she would never explain, fighting down another wave of fatigue, he gave her what she wanted. He told her that he wouldn’t do it again.

  But before he fell into uneasy dreams, he put on his headphones and listened to the remainder of the tape fragment.

  “The phone number was easy,” said the now familiar male voice.

  “Oh, God. Stop. Please stop!”

  “I’ll stop when you stop hurting me, punishing me.”

  “This can’t go on.”

  “You think you can do whatever you want,” the voice said. “I will find you. I’ll always find you. I will never give up.”

  “Bastard!” Ray’s young mother cried.

  11

  A fter work on Wednesday, a day that started dull but ended in an exhilarating courtroom scene between warring business partners in commercial real estate who kissed and made up, Kat met Zak Greenfield at the boardwalk in Venice. He handed her a bouquet of lilies, such fine perfume, but so useless, given that she had only two hands. She walked back to her car, slightly miffed at the delay, stuffed them into the back seat, and hoped they had enough water in the little tubes to survive what she hoped would be a tough, sexy night. Then met him as the sun was nodding off into the ocean like a tired baby.

  He rented Rollerblades for them both, and she went along with it, though she had a bad ankle and a worse attitude about cruising clumsily up and down the crowded beach walk on unstable tiny wheels. Lashing the laces, she cast glances at him. He looked happy and even knew how to thread the laces without consulting directions.