Oliver got up off his knees after looking under the bed. “I haven’t found any luggage. The head nurse said Mandy was planning a vacation of sorts. Maybe she decided to extend her trip.”
“And not call in to her boss?”
“Yeah, she hasn’t been portrayed as the spontaneous sort.”
“Maybe she has a dark side.” Marge started talking to herself. “Okay, dark side, if I were you, where would I hide? If I were into drugs, maybe I’d hide in the freezer or in the toilet tank.”
“I’ll give it the old college try,” Oliver said. But he returned a few minutes later empty-handed. “We’re wasting our time. I could request a warrant for phone records, but since she hasn’t been reported missing, I don’t know if I could get it.”
“Does she have a MySpace or a Facebook? Sometimes they post things that may help us out.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m too old for that nonsense.”
“You mean you don’t want a thousand Facebook friends?”
“Au contraire, I’d love to lose a few that I already have. Call the Loo and let’s get our next move.”
But Marge wasn’t ready to leave. She went back into Mandy’s closet, checking the walls and floors.
“What are you looking for?” Oliver asked.
“Maybe a safe…” She sighed. “One more shot, Scotty, just for the heck of it.”
“Sure, why not. I’ll go over the living room—again.”
Marge started rummaging through Mandy’s clothes a second time. The dresser was just low enough to hurt her back. And if she dropped to her knees, she couldn’t look into the top drawer properly. She decided to take the entire drawer out and put it on the bed, going through the items while seated, starting with the bottom drawer filled with bulky sweaters and sweatshirts. Mandy was neurotically meticulous, tucking tissue paper inside every sweatshirt and sweater to keep each article from wrinkling. The clothes crackled static as Marge went through them, piece by piece by piece, unfolding them, and then folding them back up. When she got to a thick green cable knit, she felt something a little more solid between the front and back of the sweater.
Inside was a double-ply plastic bag.
“And what is this?” She regarded the contents. Then her eyes widened. “Oliver?” No answer. “Yo, Scott.”
“What?” he yelled from the other room.
“You need to come here now,” Marge said. “We’ve found her dark side.”
He came bolting in as Marge spread the photographs on top of the bed. In several snapshots, Mandy was on all fours, garbed in black fishnets, garter belt, and a leather bustier. A spiked dog collar was pulled against her neck by a taut leash. The man who was restraining her was masked and shirtless, with ripped muscles and a six-pack. Even though his facial features were obscured, he had plenty of identifying tattoos. Didn’t look like Aaron Otis’s ink work, but she’d definitely have a look at the young man’s arms again.
Both she and Oliver had seen lots of pictures of this sort of thing. Mostly the photos looked like silly sex games. Not this time. The pose was menacing enough, but there was something about Mandy’s expression that told her it wasn’t a joke. The cat-o’-nine-tails that the man was gripping in his right hand sealed the deal.
“Quick question,” Marge said.
“Tell me.”
“The pictures look pretty well focused, no?” Marge said.
“Yeah, you can make out detail. Why?”
“They don’t look like they were shot with a timed camera on a tripod. So my question is—who took the pictures?”
A KNOCK ON the interview-room door, then Wanda Bontemps came inside. “Sergeant Dunn on line three. She says it’s important.”
Decker nodded and stood up. “Excuse me for a moment, Aaron. Would you like something to drink? Some coffee or soda?”
“Water would be great.”
“I’ll get it for him,” Wanda volunteered.
Decker closed the door behind him and took the call in his office. “What’s up?”
“Did Aaron Otis ever come in?”
“I was just finishing up with him. What’s up?”
“Can you take some snapshots of his arms?” Marge explained why. “I don’t think it’s him, but I’d like to make sure.”
“I can hold him here for another twenty minutes or so. If you bring in the photographs, maybe he can identify the tattoos.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he was there, Rabbi. The photographs looked staged and that means someone snapped the poses. If Garth and Aaron were swapping girls, why not Mandy?”
“Good point. Aaron just confessed to me that Garth likes to do it from the back because he likes to be in control.”
Marge squatted down and slid the bottom drawer back into the shelf. “I would say with a hundred percent certainty that the guy in the photograph likes to be in control.”
“Get here as soon as you can with those pictures.”
“And what’s our justification for taking personal stuff from Mandy’s apartment?”
“We have two brutal homicides and we can’t find Mandy Kowalski anywhere. Then we see these pictures, so now we’re really worried about Mandy’s safety. It’s imminent danger. And that’s no lie.”
ALL HE WANTED to do was fade into the woodwork.
Instead, as he sat in the doctor’s office, he realized he was a supreme pain in the ass.
“My hand’s fine, Mrs. Decker. This isn’t necessary.”
“Call me Rina, and how do you know what’s necessary?” She took in her charge. Gabe was neatly dressed in a clean white shirt and jeans. Athletic shoes housed big feet. His face looked tired, his eyes dragging behind his glasses. He had broken out all over his forehead. His hair was hanging into his eyes and brushing the top of his shoulders. Nice hair—thick and shiny.
Gabe wiggled his fingers. “Nothing’s broken.”
“You have nerves and tendons, right. I’d be derelict if I didn’t check it out.”
“Why would you be derelict? You don’t owe me anything.”
Rina gave him a stern look. “I’m not your mother. I’m not your father. I’m not even your legal guardian. I barely know you. But for some reason, providence has dropped you into my lap. And I shall take care of you until otherwise directed.”
The boy said, “My dad’s around somewhere. I’m sure he’d sign papers for me to go to a boarding school next year.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I dunno.” A pause. “It’s a little late in the year to start applying, but I’m sure I could get in anywhere. Talent trumps all.”
“Any specific school in mind?”
“Doesn’t matter. I told the lieutenant that I could get into Juilliard when I’m sixteen, so I guess all I have to do is hang in for a little over a year. As far as a high school, they’re all the same.” Gabe made a face. “It would be helpful to find a piano teacher.”
“Where would I find the kind of teacher you need?”
“There are two really good ones at USC. I’d have to audition. Probably should wait until my hand is a hundred percent.”
“Okay. Let’s get you healed up and we’ll take it from there.”
Gabe flicked hair out of his eyes. “I really appreciate you letting me stay with you.” A pause. “I do like my aunt. She’s a real nice person but she’s immature and very sloppy. I get physically ill when I’m in messy surroundings.”
Rina laughed. “My sons’ room has never looked so neat. Can I sic you on my daughter’s room?”
“I can’t go in there,” Gabe said. “It makes me nervous.”
The boy was dead serious. The nurse called his name. As he stood up, the nurse said to Rina, “You can come in with him if you want?”
Rina shrugged. “Up to you.”
Gabe said, “I don’t care. It’s just my hand.”
The two of them were seated in an examining room. Twenty minutes later, Matt Birenbaum came in: a short man in his fifties with wiry gray hair styled
in a bad comb-over. Rina stood up from the chair.
“Sit, sit. I’m fine. How’s the family? What’s the Loo been up to?”
“The usual mayhem. How are the boys, Matt?”
“Josh is starting Penn Med School in the fall.”
“Mazel tov. He must have liked what he grew up with.”
“Tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.” Birenbaum looked up from the chart that Gabe had filled out in the waiting room. “Rina tells me you’re a pianist?”
“On my exceptionally good days.”
“And you hurt your hand in a fight?” The doctor looked disapproving.
Rina said, “He was attacked by a mugger.”
Birenbaum looked up. “Wow. That’s scary. Did he hurt you in places other than your hand?”
“No, just my hand. And that was from punching him. I think I overdid it.”
“Well, thank goodness it was fists and not a gun.” Gabe didn’t bother to correct him. “No other health problems?”
“I’m in good health except for my zits. I like had this major breakout attack.”
The doctor regarded his forehead. “It would help if you cut your hair.”
“Probably.”
“I can give you a scrip for a cream.” He put down the file. “I’m just going to do a quick exam.”
He took Gabe’s blood pressure and his heart rate, listened to his chest, checked out the eyes and the ears and the throat. Rina was impressed by his thoroughness. Birenbaum said, “All right, young man, let me see the damage.”
Gabe gave him his left hand. The doctor regarded the flesh. “Big hands. How tall are you?”
“Six feet.”
“And how old are you?”
“Almost fifteen.”
“So you still have some growing to do.” He flipped the hand over and then over again. “A little bruised, that’s for certain.” He flexed the fingers and rotated the wrist. “Nothing’s broken.” He pressed and pulled, trying to find tender spots, noting when the boy made a face. “Any numbness?”
“No.”
“Any pain when you stretch your arm or fingers?”
“No.”
“Have you tried playing the piano?”
“Not since I hurt my hand.” He paused. “I really haven’t touched the keyboard in five days unless you count accompanying the school choir, and I don’t count that.”
Birenbaum smiled. “I specialize in professional musicians. I have an instrument room including a piano with electronic hookups. When the musicians play, the readout gives me an idea about their hands and fingers, the deficits and strengths. If you are a serious musician, I’d like to monitor your hands as you play.”
“Sure.”
The doctor brought them down the hall and into a soundproof room. On the walls were a violin, a cello, a guitar, an oboe, a sax, and a trumpet. The piano stood in the middle of the room. It was a Steinway, but the white keys had colored patches on them: the C’s had red, the D’s were blue, the E’s were green, and so on up the spectrum. Birenbaum said, “I also use the piano for a lot of my patients who don’t play. That’s why the keys are colored. If you can tolerate the distraction, I’m going behind the window, where I have all my equipment, and listen to you play. Don’t start until I tell you, okay?”
“Sure.”
He took Rina into a booth that looked like an engineer’s studio. Sitting on one of the chairs was a man in his sixties, bald except for a gray ponytail. He was of medium height with a round face and dark intense eyes. Birenbaum introduced him as Nicholas Mark. The man stood up and offered Rina his chair.
“I’m fine,” Rina said.
“Please, sit.”
Rina sat down. Birenbaum fiddled with a few of his controls. He talked through a microphone. “Can you hear me, Gabe?”
“Sure can.”
“The piece I usually ask pianists to play is the Fantaisie-Impromptu because most of them know it fairly well and it’s long enough to give me a good readout. There’s sheet music in the bench for that, and other pieces if you don’t want that one. If your hand hurts at any time, stop.”
“Okay.”
“The sheet music is in the bench,” he repeated.
“I know the piece.” Gabe adjusted the bench so he could comfortably operate the pedals. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and put the specs back atop his nose. His hands flew up and down the keyboard. “Nice piano.”
“You can start whenever you’re ready.”
The kid didn’t answer, just stared into space for a few moments. Then he lifted his left hand, his eyes half closed as he launched into a series of arpeggios.
Rina’s mouth dropped open.
For the next five minutes and fourteen seconds, she was transported to another world. She had attended a few classical music concerts, but not being very musical, she couldn’t even remember them. But with the boy, there was something different. Never had she heard the piano played with such technique, touch, and feeling.
When it was over, no one spoke. Nicholas Mark, the ponytailed man who was in the room, said, “Matt, ask him if he knows any of the Chopin Opus ten Etudes.”
Through the mike, Birenbaum cleared his throat. “Your finger strength is registering well. Do you know any of the Chopin Opus ten Etudes?”
“Sure.” The boy thought a moment. “How about the Liszt Transcendental Studies?”
Mark nodded. Birenbaum said, “Liszt is fine.”
“Or how about the Grandes études de Paganini? ‘La campanella.’ I like the piece, and that should tell you a thing or two about my hand’s strength.”
Mark said, “Tell him if he has any pain to stop playing immediately.”
Birenbaum said, “That’s fine, Gabe, but watch your left hand. If you feel any twinge of anything, stop playing. Your hand is what’s important here.”
“Sure.” Again, Gabe stared into space for a few moments, readjusting the bench for his feet. The etude started out with a few light touches, but then quickly progressed into an exquisite series of bell-like passages with the boy’s right hand moving a mile all the way up the keyboard to a series of lightning-fast trills, and ended with a rousing climax. It was a beautiful and complex piece of music that traversed an emotional spectrum, but Rina felt that Gabe chose it because, more than anything, it showcased virtuosity. Four minutes and thirty-two seconds later, again, she was stunned into silence.
This jewel that had been entrusted into her care.
Gabe rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. “A little dicey. Not my best, not my worst. I made some mistakes. My left hand’s definitely off. But it should heal, right?”
Birenbaum cleared his throat into the microphone. “It should heal fine. I’ll be out in a minute, Gabe.” Matt turned to his ponytailed friend. “That was weird.”
“You might say that. Where’d he come from?”
They both looked at Rina.
“It’s a long story.”
“So what do you think, Nick?” Birenbaum asked.
“What do I think?” The man shrugged. “The kid’s a freak.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
IT WAS THE first time that Rina had seen the boy display unfettered emotion. Too bad it was anxiety. His eyes got big and his breathing quickened. His gaze was on Nicholas Mark. “Were you listening to me?” He regarded Rina. “Did you set this up?”
“Set what up?” she asked.
“No one set anything up. I just happened to be here getting my hand checked,” Mark told him. “Dr. Birenbaum invited me to listen.”
Gabe said. “I can do better than that. That stunk!”
“Stank,” Rina corrected.
“Stunk. Stank. I can do better than that. I swear I can. My hand’s off. Not that I’m making excuses. It’s just that I know that I can do better—”
“Relax.” Mark put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“I know I made mistakes. It wasn’t my best at all—”
Rina said, �
��Excuse my ignorance, but are you a pianist?”
Birenbaum said, “Nicholas Mark is not only a renowned pianist, but he is at the forefront of modern composition for the piano.”
“That’s great,” Rina said. “We’re looking for a piano teacher—”
The boy spoke through clenched teeth. “Uh, I don’t think Mr. Mark needs to be bothered with our trivial problems.”
“Relax.” Mark put his hand on Gabe’s shoulder again. “It’s okay. Take a deep breath.”
Gabe nodded, took a deep breath, and let it out.
“Better?”
“I’m fine.” Gabe suddenly felt dumb for being so nervous. “I’m okay.”
“Good. First of all, who have you studied with?” After Gabe rattled off a half-dozen names, Mark asked, “What happened? You kept outgrowing teachers?”
“Yes, that happened. And I was sort of at my parents’ transportation whims since we didn’t live in the city—in Manhattan. I’m from back east. We lived about thirty minutes away in the burbs.”
Mark looked at Rina. “How are you two related?”
“We’re not,” Gabe said. “I’m a foundling—”
“You’re not a foundling,” Rina said. “His parents are unavailable at the moment. He’s staying with my family. When he hurt his hand, I thought of Matt. We go to the same synagogue and he’s the best.”
“You make me blush,” Birenbaum said. “But not too hard.”
Mark smiled. “You are the best.” To Rina he said, “How long is Gabe staying with you?”
“That’s up to Gabe and his parents. As far as I’m concerned, he can certainly bunk down with my family, especially if it means having the teacher he wants.”
“Where are your parents?”
Gabe turned bright red, but Rina was very calm. “That’s at issue right now. We don’t know where his parents are, but his parents do know that Gabe is staying with us. Professionally, what can you do for him?”
The boy slapped his hands over his face. Mark smiled. “I said relax, okay. It’s not a prerequisite of American citizenship to know who I am.” He turned to Rina. “What I can do for him…is…this. I want you both to know…that I’m not looking for students. With my teaching at the university, my composing, and commuting each weekend to and from Santa Fe, I don’t have a lot of free time.”
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