by Blake Banner
She hesitated. “Our room, and no, not really…”
“Have you got a calendar?”
She frowned. “Of course, on the wall in the kitchen.”
I stood and went to have a look at it. There were big photographs at the top of iconic American sites, and underneath were the days of the month. I leafed through a couple of them.
“How long did you know Bran?”
“He moved in just after New Year.”
I turned to face her. “The cops who came, one of them had a dark blue suit, he was well-built, late thirties, balding on top, had a kind of ex-military air to him. Could you describe the other?”
Suddenly, she looked scared. “Uh, six foot? Athletic, mid thirties, dark hair, might have been Italian, long face, high cheekbones. Detectives Marsh and Delano.”
“You ask them why they wanted to see his stuff?”
“Of course. The one called Delano was real offensive. He just shoved the warrant in my face and said, ‘You want an explanation, ask the judge.’”
“Figures. You had a good look at their badges?”
She shrugged. “No, why would I? They were police officers.”
“You spoken to the cops since? Did you phone the station house?”
“No.”
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because those men are very dangerous, Lin. They killed one of Bran’s friends, just down the road, and I think they may have killed Charlie. As long as you keep quiet and don’t make trouble, they’ll ignore you, but if you start making inquiries, asking awkward questions…”
“This is crazy, you can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious, Lin. Be smart. Don’t get involved.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you one of them? Are you warning me off?”
I smiled and shook my head. “Yes, I am warning you off. No, I am not one of them. These people don’t warn you, Lin. If you’re a problem, they just take you out of the equation. I am going to find out who they are and what they are about, and then I’ll shut them down. You can be sure of that. But don’t you get involved, Lin. They will kill you.” I hesitated. “I’d better go.”
At the door, I stopped and turned back. “Lin, at the party, have you any idea who Bran spoke to at the door, who gave him the supposed coke?”
“No, I have no idea. They just said it was a man and a woman. He seemed to know them. You want me to ask…?”
“No. Forget it. Forget I was here. If anybody asks you, tell them some asshole was here and you sent him packing.”
She stared at me for a long moment. She looked suddenly like she was on the brink of tears. Alarm bells in my head told me not to get involved, to get out of there and not come back. She gave a small frown. “What’s going on, Mr. Walker?”
I sighed. “I don’t know, Lin.” Then I said, “Nothing. One of those unfortunate, freak accidents. Life is full of them, and you got unlucky. Go back to your life, before Bran. Try to forget you ever knew him. At least for now.”
She didn’t answer. I left, closed the door, and let myself out into the late afternoon sun. There were birds singing in the plane trees, high up in the sky a tiny airplane caught the sun for a second and glowed like fire, across the road a couple of kids on bikes laughed out loud at something, and down the road a cat paused in its slow amble to sit and scratch its ear. Life went on.
I stood there, on the stoop, and made a subtle show of being frustrated, stuck at a dead end, not knowing which way to go. If there was anyone watching, let them think Lin had been no help at all. Then, I trotted down the steps and made my way back to my car. I leaned on the roof and looked up and down the road while I pulled my Camels from my pocket and lit up. The Audi wasn’t hard to spot. Either they were being bold and wanted me to notice them, or they thought I was an amateur, and weren’t bothering to be careful. I wondered who had put them onto me. Dr. Lucia Salcedo, or Ken Chang, Charlie’s tutor? I looked at my watch. Afternoon was closing in on evening. I climbed in behind the wheel and headed off for the Bronx at a leisurely pace they would find easy to keep up with.
SIX
It was a twenty-five minute drive from 127th Street to Betts Avenue, on Pugsley Creek. I crossed at the Madison Avenue Bridge and then it was pretty much freeway all the way across the Bronx as far as exit 52 onto the Bronx River Parkway. I kept the Audi in my mirror all the way and gave them plenty of warning that I was coming off at Soundview Avenue. Then I took it nice and easy, with the windows open and the sun and the breeze on my face all the way down to White Plains Road, where I turned left onto Gildersleeve Avenue and parked at the corner with Betts. In my peripheral vision, as I climbed out, I saw them park at the corner of Husson. I had a look around, stared at the water for a while and then made my way to number 208.
It was a big, white, clapboard affair with a red roof and gabled windows jutting out of the second story. It had a small front lawn and a big backyard that went all the way down to the creek at the back. Another lawn ran along the right hand side of the house and connected with the backyard. By the water, I could see there was a small boat pulled up on the shore, beside a large wood pile. It was covered with a blue tarp and in the haze of the late afternoon sun, I could see the bugs darting in small swarms over the water and pile of logs.
I climbed the steps to the door and rang the bell. It had a merry chime and it was followed by a merry voice that called out that the owner of the voice was on her way. The door opened and the owner turned out to be an attractive woman in her mid forties, wearing jeans, a UCLA sweatshirt, and what looked like a dishcloth tied around her head. She had a wooden spoon in her hand and flour on her clothes. There was also a smell of baking on the air.
She smiled. “Yes?”
“I hope this isn’t a bad time. I was wondering if I could talk to Hans and Hattie.”
She sort of sagged. “Well, I wish I could say yes, but they’re not here. Are you a friend of theirs?”
I felt an unhappy, hollow pit open in my belly. “Not exactly, I’m a friend of a friend. Do you know where they are? It’s actually quite important.” She hesitated a moment and I held out my hand. “Lacklan Walker. I’m a friend of Charlie Vazquez. I don’t know if they ever mentioned him.”
“No…” She looked at my hand a moment, then showed me hers, covered in cake mixture. “I have to get some things in the oven. Do you want to come in and talk to my husband?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and walked away, calling, “Bobby, hunny, can you come and talk to Mr. Walker?” Over her shoulder, she said, “I’m Pip,” and disappeared into the kitchen.
I stepped into a large, comfortable, airy living room that had French windows at the back thrown open onto a large, wooden veranda that overlooked the creek. From where I stood, I could make out the wood pile and part of the boat at the end of the lawn. After a second, a large man with an amiable, bearded face blocked out the view as he stepped in.
He smiled at me and held out a large hand. “Paul Peabody. How can I help you, Mr. Walker? I hope you’re not selling insurance.”
He laughed and I laughed with him. “No, actually, I’m trying to locate Hans and Hattie. As a matter of fact, I’m a friend of a friend of theirs. It’s a long story.”
He frowned. “Then I guess we’d better have some lemonade. Grab a seat out on the deck. I’ll be right out.”
I went out onto the decking. The sun had slipped to the front of the house and the veranda was in the shade. There was a cool breeze coming off the water and the momentary chill was welcome. But even so, it was warm and there was the lazy buzz of flies not far off, where the sun was playing on the water. I sat at the far side of a garden table by the door and listened to the lap of the small waves. Overhead, a seagull mocked me in an ugly laugh, then lost interest and went away.
Paul came out and joined me at the table. He settled his large frame in the chair and said, “Pip’ll be right out. The kids are coming for the weekend and she wants to have some cakes and bro
wnies ready for them.” He laughed. “She thinks they’re still four and five years old. I guess she always will. But she won’t be long with the lemonade.”
I muttered something about them being very kind and he studied my face a moment.
“We haven’t seen Hans and Hattie for a few days. Why’d you say you wanted to see them?”
I scratched my chin, studied his face back and made a decision. “It’s a little complicated, Paul, but I received a text message yesterday from a boy called Charlie Vazquez. I have never met Charlie, but some time ago I helped his sister out of a difficult situation in Arizona…” I paused a moment and held his eye. “On the border with Mexico. I was able to help her get back on her feet and go home to her family.”
There was no expression at all on his face, but my instinct told me that so far, he was liking what he was hearing. I went on.
“It seems that since then, her brother has come over here to study biology, at Columbia. So I guess he must be a smart kid. Now, I found out yesterday that she had told him if he ever needed any help, he should get in touch with me.”
Paul nodded, like he approved. Pip stepped out, holding a tray with a jug of lemonade and three glasses with ice. As she set the tray on the table, Paul gave her a summary of what I’d told him so far. Pip poured, frowning. “So, is Charlie in trouble? What’s the connection with Hans and Hattie?”
She sat and I sighed. “That’s just it. Charlie hasn’t been seen at his apartment or at college since last week. But I was able to find out that he had a small group of close friends, and Hans and Hattie were among them. So far, I have tried to locate two of the others, but without success. The last time Charlie was seen was with Hattie and Hans and two other friends at the Mezcal on 7th Avenue, the Saturday before last.”
Pip stared at Paul, who stared back. They both frowned. Pip said, “Well, the last time we saw Hans and Hattie was a week last Saturday morning.” She gave her head a little shake. “We’re not their keepers. They come and go as they please. They pay us a nominal rent, but mainly we are friends. It never occurred to us that there might be something untoward…”
I had a disagreeable, sinking feeling in my stomach. “Pip, Paul, this is going to sound like an odd question. Please bear with me. Were Hans and Hattie… Did Hans and Hattie have current visas to be in this country?”
Pip frowned, then gave a harsh, indignant laugh. “You have to be kidding! Is that what this is about? Are you from Immigration?”
I shook my head. “No, no, not at all. I am a private citizen and I have no interest in whether they were here legally or not. But I do have a very particular reason for asking.” I spread my hands. “It sounds bizarre, but, though Charlie was here legally, so far it seems that his group of friends had two things in common. They all had remarkable mental faculties, and they were all here illegally.”
Paul was frowning hard at his shoes. Pip stared at me for a long time. Behind her, the blue tarp was stark beside the white boat. The dark water lapped softly, and the buzzing of the flies made the afternoon warmth heavy and sleepy. She picked up her glass, the ice chinked, and she turned to Paul.
Paul said, “Their visas had expired last November. They were due to go home, but, well, we put them up for a couple of weeks and it just never quite seemed to happen. They stayed a week, a week became two…” He sighed and spread his hands. “We’re not bad people. We didn’t intend to break the law.”
Pip took over. “They were hoping to get a job that would allow them to stay. They should have gone and then come back, but it seemed so unnecessary! They had nothing to go back to. They both came from unhappy homes, and they had made a life here. We were trying to help them.”
Paul raised his head and gazed out past the woodpile at the black waters of the creek and the East River. The late afternoon sun made globules of molten light on the small waves that glowed and died, like passing spirits.
“You are quite right,” he said suddenly. “They are both remarkable people.” He smiled. “They are so smart it scares me sometimes. They have this ability, it’s almost supernatural…” He turned to frown at me. “Hattie just seems to know what you’re thinking and feeling. She’ll walk into the room and look at you and you can see it in her eyes: she’s reading you! And she’ll say, ‘you can’t be responsible for their decisions.’ Or, ‘Just ask yourself, Paul, were you sincere?’”
Pip was smiling at her glass and nodding.
Paul went on, “And you’ll say to her, ‘But how did you know I was thinking that?’”
Pip laughed and leaned affectionately toward her husband. “And she’ll give you a perfectly logical explanation, like something Sherlock Holmes might say, and you’ll think…” Her eyes became abstracted and she looked away. “And you’ll think, to be that aware of other people, of what they are thinking and feeling… It’s hard to imagine how selfless you’d have to be. She simply doesn’t think of herself. And it isn’t in an affected, self-sacrificial way. She’s not playing the martyr.” She turned back to look at me. “It’s simply that all her attention is focused, like a spotlight, on the people around her; and she wants to help.”
Paul was nodding at his shoes again. “We were encouraging her to try for Stanford. She would be extraordinary in the field of psychology. I mean really extraordinary. Her understanding of human motivation, the dynamics of the mind, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Pip sighed. “And as for Hans, well, his powers of analysis really are like something out of Conan Doyle. They are like nothing we have ever seen. We are both psychologists, Lacklan, and we have both worked, through various programs, with gifted children, but neither of us has ever come across anyone like Hans. Any problem you present him with, right, Paul?”
She turned to her husband. He was nodding at the river and laughed. “He’ll go kind of abstracted, his eyes will glaze, like he’s running some kind of freaky program in his head, then he’ll say, ‘OK, so zee answer to zis problem is…’ and he will give you a solution that is exquisitely elegant and logical, or he’ll say, ‘Yah, vee neet some more data on zis problem…’”
They were both in stitches, leaning toward each other, she gripping his knee and he holding her arm. They mimicked a few more of what were clearly classic Hans phrases and sat back, wiping their eyes. Paul shook his head, his eyes lost in wonder. “Man, he is something special, I’ll tell you. If you could get a computer to feel human emotion, that would be Hans. I told him I would do all I could to get him into MIT. We are really prepared to go the extra mile with these kids, but they didn’t want to be separated. They wanted to stay together.”
Pip’s face became serious. “The poor darlings, they have been under such a lot of stress lately. It was beginning to tell a little, Paul, wasn’t it? I think they probably just needed to get away for a few days.”
I looked at my glass of lemonade. It had become frosted on the outside, and suddenly the yellow-green color of the liquid looked sickly to me. I spoke half to myself. “So you were both committed to sorting out their position in this country, and ultimately getting them citizenship.”
They both nodded. Paul said, “Oh, yes. That is our goal. We consider these kids family.”
“You have no idea where they are right now?”
Pip said, “No, none at all.”
“Please think very carefully. They could be at risk.”
They frowned at each other. Pip spoke, still looking at her husband. “Last time we saw them was that Saturday morning. We were going out of town for the weekend.” She turned back to me. “Our children are all fostered, and we were going to visit…”
She saw my expression and her voice trailed away.
“Pip, Paul, there were five people in this group of friends. Each one of them had some kind of gift. Zack was an extraordinary mathematician, Bran’s memory was not eidetic, it was well beyond that, Charlie seems to have been highly intelligent and tireless…”
Pip looked sick. “You’re talking in the
past tense.”
“Both Zack and Bran died last weekend in circumstances that strongly suggest that they were murdered.”
She clapped her hands over her mouth and all the color drained from her face. Paul tried to say, “No…!” but his voice was thick and distorted.
Pip’s voice was a whisper. “But why? Why on Earth would anyone want to hurt such gentle, kind people…?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s what I am trying to find out.” I felt suddenly weary and slightly sick. “You say you were away for the weekend?”
“Yes, visiting…”
“Excuse me a moment.”
I stood and went behind her along the veranda. I climbed down the four wooden steps that led to the back yard, and crossed the forty or fifty feet of lawn toward the water, toward the small, white boat and the wood pile with the large, blue tarp. My legs and my feet felt like lead. As I approached, the nauseating buzzing of the flies grew louder, and with it came a smell, a smell that was all too familiar. I knew what I was going to find. It had been dawning on me for the last few minutes.
I had long since decided that if there were any gods in this universe, their creed was not love and compassion, it was war and cruelty and violence. But in that moment, as I took hold of the blue tarpaulin, I prayed. I prayed that I was wrong, that Hans and Hattie were not lying there, in the wood pile, with the swarming flies feeding on their dead bodies. I loosened the ropes and pulled back the sheet.
I was not wrong. I was horribly right.
I heard the scream behind me. I heard the scramble of feet, Pip’s hysterical voice, Paul trying to console her, pulling her inside the house, away from the horrific, pitiless, monstrous truth. I dropped the sheet and made my way back inside. They were on the sofa and he was holding his wife, who was sobbing violently. He stared at me resentfully. “Did you have to? Like that…?
I wanted to tell him I didn’t know a nice way to uncover murdered bodies, but instead I said, “I have to call 911. Before I do, I need to ask you a question. Did they have laptops, papers, diaries…?”