He had never called her at work before. He sounded pressured, she thought. “Is everything okay?”
“I went to the funeral yesterday,” Mo said abruptly.
“I know it hit you really hard. Are you doing alright?”
“It’s . . . strange. It’s not like I saw her a lot anymore. But she was so much a part of my past . . . I feel like my past died with her. That sounds crazy, I know.”
“You two were so close,” Grace said. “It’s natural you’d feel like that.” She could hear the pain in his voice. She wondered why he was calling her. Marla had known Angie so much better than she had. “Did you talk to Marla after you got back?”
“I called, and Karl told me about the bed rest. I didn’t want to upset her more.” There was a pause, and then, “Something came up that I want to ask you about. I can’t get it out of my head. Something odd.”
“Odd how?” Grace felt her anxiety return. Had Mortensen told him about the phone call? She should have said something to him. “Something to do with Angie?”
“Well, after the funeral, there was a gathering at her parents’ place in Houston . . . Katherine, her mom, wasn’t holding up too well. I hadn’t seen her for years, but she remembered me pretty well. From when Angie and I were going out.” Grace heard his voice quaver a little. Poor Mo. Maybe he had never really got over Angie. “We were talking about the old days, and she took me upstairs to Angie’s room. Apparently Angie had visited just three days before she died. A belated birthday celebration. Katherine blames herself. Angie had heartburn the night she left, after dinner, and Katherine had just given her Tums. Now Katherine thinks maybe it wasn’t heartburn. A prelude to this heart attack, she thinks.”
“How awful. But how could she have known?”
“That’s what I said,” Mo said. “Angie had heartburn, even in the old days. Spicy food did that to her. I told Katherine, but she kept going on about it. She blames herself for not remembering about the heart attack risk after the hysterectomy.”
“But I wouldn’t say that was odd, Mo. I can see how her mom would feel that way.” Why would he call to tell her about this? She didn’t even know Katherine.
“That’s not what was odd. I was getting to that. Katherine was showing me stuff in Angie’s room: KIS knickknacks, a box full of devil masks from Sri Lanka, old articles she had written. Damn sad, the way they still had her room for whenever she came to visit. I wanted some pictures of her. We were looking through a pile of photos in there. I think she had taken them with her phone and printed them out right there.” Again his voice wavered. “There was a selfie Angie had taken with some other woman. You could tell it was inside the Cinasat building lobby because of the logo in the background. I took it and a few others. Later on, when Katherine and I were talking to Bent, I showed the picture to him—the one with Angie and the other woman in the Cinasat building. He said it must have been taken the last time she came to see him in Jersey. He couldn’t remember when, he said. I said it looked really recent, but he insisted it was from months ago. He thought at least six months. He hadn’t seen her for months before the reunion, he said.”
Grace waited for him to go on, but when the silence lengthened, she said, “And so, what was the odd thing that happened?”
“Well, the thing is, I could tell the picture had been taken less than a week before she died.”
“How could you tell that? Haircut?”
“She’s had the same hairstyle for years. But in the picture she’s wearing a pendant that I sent her. For her birthday. That was six days before she died.”
“Hmm.” It didn’t have to be anything more than dedication to an old friendship, Grace thought. If she were a better friend, she would be sending Marla a little birthday present every year. “So the odd thing . . . ?”
“Just that he would say that.”
He really was having a hard time, Grace thought. “Maybe Bent just forgot to mention the last time he saw her. Or maybe she went to Cinasat for something else, not to see Bent, and he didn’t know she had been there.”
“There is no damn way he forgot to mention. I pressed him. He was dead certain he hadn’t seen her for at least six months. So the obvious answer would be that she didn’t meet him when she went there, right? But the weird thing was his reaction. Shock. I thought he was just upset at seeing her face, you know, but it was almost like he was horrified. And it was odd . . . how vehement he was about her not being there recently. He brought up a mask that was in the picture. It looked like a Sri Lankan devil mask. Not one of the typical tourist ones, bigger. But similar, you know, with the bared teeth and all. Damn strange thing to put in a lobby. He said a workman had accidentally knocked it down and broken it months ago. He said it had been replaced with a different mask. That was how he could tell the picture wasn’t recent, he said.”
“Okay, then maybe it wasn’t. It’s probably an older picture, Mo. Lots of pendants might have looked like the one you sent her.”
“Not this pendant, Grace.” There was a pause, and then he cleared his throat. “Look, let me scan the picture and email it to you, okay? It’ll just take a second.”
Grace set down the phone and opened her email. She saw that a message from Gigi had just arrived, with an attachment showing the new analysis. She skimmed the message and was about to write back when a ding alerted her to the arrival of Mo’s email.
In the picture Mo had sent, Angie was staring into the camera, unsmiling, her face close to that of another, younger, plumper woman. The Cinasat logo was partially visible on the wall in the background. Grace could see the faint sagging of the skin on Angie’s cheeks, the crookedness of one eyebrow, the folds of her neck. Seeing her up close, even in partial view, made Grace shudder. How tangible she seemed. And now she was gone. The hollow of her neck, clearly visible there, would have had a pulse. Then, just like that, it had stopped, her hopes stalled, her work unfinished. The nagging question rose again at the back of Grace’s mind. Why had Angie wanted to talk about what had happened, so out of the blue? She would have to get used to the idea that she would never know. She pushed the thought away and took a closer look at the picture.
A pendant was dangling from a thin silver chain around Angie’s neck. It was an araliya leaf, its outline and veins intricately wrought in silver. At the top, where the stem might have oozed a drop of milky fluid, was a small infinity symbol enclosing two white stones that could have been diamonds. A beautiful piece, though a little off-kilter, Grace thought as she picked up the phone.
“It’s gorgeous, that pendant,” she said. “Where did you get it?”
“I had it custom made,” Mo said. Grace heard embarrassment in his voice. “Remember that araliya tree in Kandy—the one at the far end of the field, near the pond? It was where we hung out. This was to remind her of the things we talked about back then.”
This couldn’t just be friendship. What about his marital situation? Grace knew his wife, Mariam. She worked for a nonprofit. Mariam was a staunch feminist. A forceful woman with very definite ideas. Surely she didn’t know about Mo giving an old school friend a custom-made, and possibly very expensive, piece of jewelry. What would she have said to that, especially when they had financial troubles? At the reunion, the night before Angie died, Mo had been depressed about some property lease of his company’s that was going to be discontinued. He’d said he was expecting a big financial loss.
“I know what you’re probably thinking,” Mo said. “But there was nothing going on between us. Not anymore.”
Grace wanted to believe him, but something didn’t seem right. There was something in his tone. Had something been going on during his marriage?
“The pendant—I told her to keep it between the two of us,” Mo said. “Otherwise everyone would have thought something was still going on. That’s why I couldn’t just tell Bent that I knew the photo was recent.”
Did Mo know Angie had been seeing Bent twelve years ago? She tried to remember when Mo had got ma
rried. At least sixteen years must have passed since his wedding. She’d been at it. His hair had still been thick then. “Bent was probably just remembering another time she came by,” Grace said. “Why would he lie about it? There must be a good explanation. Probably she was there recently and he didn’t know?”
“Why would she have gone there and not met up with him? And why would he say the thing about the mask? He was so vehement about it, Grace. Protesting too much. It was odd.”
How many times he’d said it was odd, Grace thought. He was making such a big deal out of this. She looked again at the photo. In the background, part of a sign was visible, cut off in midword: OUR MUL. Underneath it, she could see the devil mask Mo had mentioned. It was large enough to be a real mask, not one of the small gaudily painted curios that were sold to tourists all over Sri Lanka. Even from a distance, she could tell it was intricately carved. Huge black eyes bulged in a green-painted face. Thick crimson lips surrounded bared, pointed white teeth and two downward-pointing tusks. A bright-red tongue hung out of its mouth. A cobra hood, gold and green, reared above its eyes, and two coiled cobras formed menacing ears on either side. Certainly an odd thing to put in a lobby, but to Hammond or Bent, whoever had had it put up, it was obviously just a decoration. “He was probably just trying to help, Mo,” she said.
“But I’m telling you, Grace. This picture was taken recently. So why did he keep saying this mask was destroyed months ago? It doesn’t make sense.” There was a long breath, and then, “Look, I’m sorry. I know I’m going on about this. But I can’t get it out of my mind.”
“I think,” Grace said gently, “that Angie probably went to Cinasat recently, but she didn’t meet up with Bent. It’s a huge building.” She had been there only once, with Duncan. They had driven there when he had got the call from the recruiter, to see the location, to try to get a sense of the company. She had not gone inside the building yet. “There are three wings and lots of divisions. Maybe she went to see someone else. Bent probably didn’t know she was there. He’s probably misremembering about the mask. Maybe the new one looks similar, and he got confused. Who remembers things in a lobby anyway? I can’t remember the decor in the lobby of my own building.”
“Well, that’s actually why I called you. I thought you could show Duncan the picture and ask him if he recognizes that mask. Didn’t he just start this week at Cinasat? If he recognizes it, then it’s a recent picture.”
“He said there was a Sri Lankan mask in the lobby, but he said it was an unusual one. He may not remember which one he saw. We are talking about a guy who can’t remember where he put his keys. It’s worse when he’s in the thick of work. Anyway, I don’t know what it would prove if he remembers it. Or if he doesn’t. Why does it matter exactly?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just for my own peace of mind. Could you please just ask him?”
“Fine. And I’m sorry, Mo,” Grace said. “I can see how hard this has been for you.” She wondered if she should tell him that the police had been asking about him and his guns. But he was too distressed already. He didn’t need more to worry about.
“I’m coming to Jersey tomorrow. A meeting in Hoboken,” Mo said. “Staying overnight. Can you meet up for dinner?”
“You can stay with us,” Grace said. “It’s been so long since you’ve come.”
17
DUNCAN
Thursday
On the extra-large screen that had been installed for watching the videos, an adura was chanting, his voice high pitched, as he flourished a flaming taper over a clay pot of offerings. Sparks shot from a brazier of burning incense near him. A man was beating a drum feverishly in a corner, his eyes glazed and his muscles rippling. Four dancers, their bodies swathed in ornate crimson-and-white costumes, were leaping around, clearly entranced, their bangles and ankle bells jingling to the rhythm of the drum. Another man was thrusting lighted tapers into holders on a small hut made of coconut leaves, his elaborate headdress bright in the light of the flames. Duncan had watched this particular segment of the video so many times that he almost had the adura’s chant memorized.
Watching the film, he could almost smell the musky sweetness of the incense. Almost feel the fire’s heat. He clicked on the pause button, and the adura froze, his mask turned toward the camera. The mask, representing the demon Mahasona, was made of intricately woven coconut leaves, with protruding red lips and flaming torches forming tusks. In the background were several structures made of yellow coconut leaves. One structure bore a painting depicting the demon in his horrific power: blue-black, with a bear’s head, carrying, implausibly, an elephant across his shoulders.
Duncan gulped the last of his coffee, grown cold. He took off his glasses, sighing, and rolled his head around his shoulders. His neck was stiff from craning too long at the screen. Moving around a little would help, he thought.
Pacing by the window, he saw that the cherry trees bordering the road beyond the lawn had already shed their blooms, carpeting the pavement in faded pink. The sun was lowering in the sky, the slanted sunlight glinting off the skyscrapers in the distance on the New York side of the Hudson. He wondered if Grace had left her office yet for the drive home. He was about to call her when a knock sounded on his office door, a sharp rat-a-tat.
“Yes,” Duncan called.
Bent strode in.
He came up to the windows to stand beside Duncan. “Everything going fine?” He glanced back at the computer screen. “Coding coming along, yeah?”
“Sure. It’s going to take a while,” Duncan said. “You got back today? From the funeral?”
“Early. Been in meetings all day.” Bent rubbed at his forehead with his fingers, looking out at the fallen cherry blossoms. Duncan could hear the sound his fingers made against his skin, dry and raspy. “Life goes on,” he said. He pushed his hair back with a weary gesture. “Work is what saves us. That was what my grandfather always said. My father disagreed, but he didn’t convince me.” His eyes were on the grand vista of New York spread before them, the silver-blue might of One World Trade Center rising from the haze of smog below. “My father’s dreams were small.”
“Does he still work for your grandfather?”
Bent nodded. “But he wanted to be an inventor . . . he was an inventor, I suppose. He wanted to make little things. Things to make kids happy, he used to say. Toys for boys. Twirling balls on ropes, a bit like yo-yos. Peg legs for hopping, like pogo sticks. Puzzles with sliding metal balls. But he could never sell them. They weren’t different enough from what was already on the market.”
He moved away from the window, shaking his head, and sat down in front of the desk. “I’ve brought some news that may be . . . a bit of a surprise,” he said. “We’ve had to make a change.”
Duncan sat down, waiting to hear more.
Bent crossed his legs and smoothed the crease of his pants over his knee. “I was due to go to Sri Lanka in two weeks, with Janie.”
“That KIS summer camp you mentioned?”
“She wants to go. She remembers the best of my stories about my KIS days.” He examined his fingernails. They were well kept, with a shine to them. Duncan wondered what his toenails looked like. Grace had once said that Bent had a persistent toenail fungus. How had that come up? He couldn’t remember.
Bent looked up again. “You never know what kids retain. I had plenty of complaints about my time there. My family didn’t visit. The other kids were always getting food mailed to them, things we couldn’t get in Sri Lanka back then: peanut butter, strawberry jam, chocolate sauce, maraschino cherries, Pringles . . . I didn’t get any of that.” Duncan saw a hint of sadness in his eyes. For a fleeting moment, he looked almost childlike. Then he smiled, suave once again. “But Janie doesn’t remember me talking about those things.” The evenness of his teeth was impressive, but Duncan remembered that Grace had said something about them too. He had a lot of fillings, she’d said, because he hadn’t had much supervision in brushing his teeth when
he was a kid. It was strange that he knew so much about his boss, he thought. Things that lay under the veneer.
“KIS isn’t the same now, Grace says. Much more modern, from what she’s seen online.”
Bent nodded. “Patty—my ex-wife—approves of the summer program. A way they’re courting new international students, she says.”
“You’re thinking of enrolling Janie there for school, then?”
“I doubt she’ll want to leave her school here, but we’ll have to see. Maybe she’ll enjoy the summer program so much she’ll be clamoring to enroll.” He examined the tip of his shoe, a well-polished black loafer. “I’ll be doing some work while I’m in Sri Lanka. Seeing some people in Colombo. Some of the researchers who’ve been working with us.”
“They studied thovil? These are researchers at the University of Colombo? Who specifically? Maybe I’ll know them, or Grace will.”
“They didn’t study the ceremonies. They were working on other research. Cinasat’s done a number of other experimental trials, over a couple of years, in various locations. Some of it was done overseas, including in Sri Lanka.” Bent cleared his throat. “It’s easier to get the studies done quickly overseas.”
“To test the drug? I didn’t realize you could do trials overseas.”
“Of course, everything was aboveboard, documented and so on.” Bent cleared his throat again. “Anyway, a matter has come up that is of some concern to us here. Some of the studies in Sri Lanka . . . Well, it looks like there may have been some attempts to leak data.”
“Leak to whom?”
“This is a proprietary project, of course,” Bent said. “I can’t really go into all the details. Let’s just say we need to keep our data private, yeah? We disclose what we need to, to the FDA and for regulatory purposes. But some things are meant to be kept in-house.” He examined his ankle, smoothing the houndstooth fabric of his sock. “We think someone may be trying to sabotage the project.”
“Who? What’s happened exactly?”
The Mask Collectors Page 11