by Robin Kirman
In the lobby she’d spotted him, leaning down to drink from the water fountain. He looked up just as she walked by and cleared his throat; before he could speak, she put out her hand and he took the paper.
“And you decided to do this,” Lombardi asked her, “without encouragement?”
“Yes.”
“He hadn’t done anything to lead you to think he was open to a meeting.”
“No.”
“But you still thought he was.”
“I told you he’d just vanished for two weeks. If you call that encouragement.”
“It didn’t strike you this might be a tactic? Playing hard to get?”
So far, Lombardi hadn’t said a whole lot, but she’d begun to sense the impression he was forming of her story—not at all the one that she’d intended. While she’d flattered herself to think Storrow had been drawn to her, Lombardi must have assumed the man was tailing her, waiting for her to take what she thought was the initiative. Efforts that had seemed romantic began to look sinister when seen through the eyes of this officer: tricks Storrow had used on any number of women until one was dumb enough to fall for them.
Lombardi thought her dumb then—her fine education notwithstanding. When she continued, her voice was cooler, her explanations more exact. “I was a student; getting involved with me could cost Storrow his job. There were plenty of other women he could have who wouldn’t be any threat to his career.”
“Lots of women, in theory. But then—you were right in front of him.”
“I’m not sure proximity was the most compelling criterion for him.” In response to his judgment, she’d taken on a high tone, sounding like the cloistered, snot-nosed Harvard gal he no doubt thought she was.
“New York then.” Lombardi dropped the matter and went on, efficiently. “Why were you going there, again?”
“Pursuing an internship. Visiting a friend who ran a gallery.” More accurately the friend’s son, Gabe, who’d offered her his roommate’s bed for the holiday.
In fact it hadn’t been merely a professional visit; Gabe had been a childhood crush and she’d been looking forward to their reunion, though her excitement had faded upon meeting him again: slicker, cologned, and less appealing than she remembered him, he’d shown her to the filthy room that was now hers. Men’s underwear lay on the bed; he’d settled on top of them, kicked off his Doc Martens and lit up a joint. Almost immediately, the phone rang; Gabe, irritated, let Georgia know it was a man for her.
“I’m not disturbing you?” Storrow’s voice sounded official. As if her welfare were his responsibility, he’d asked if she was comfortable where she was staying: “Because, as it happens, there’s an empty apartment if you want it. It’s been offered to me, but I won’t be able to use it.”
“He was giving you an apartment?” asked Lombardi. “Just like that?”
It had struck her as unusual, but Storrow had an explanation ready: “I’ve got a former classmate stationed overseas, still keeps a small flat here, in Manhattan, for when he comes through. Otherwise he lets us old grads use it. It’s free now if you’re interested.”
An awkward silence followed as she wondered: Might he have gone to greater lengths to get this place than he’d let on, might he be providing them some kind of private pad? He was a stranger to her still, but she sensed a labored quality in the way he went about things, each task accomplished with the greatest possible effort, so that it wasn’t inconceivable he’d gone to so much trouble because he couldn’t make this happen any other way, couldn’t make a simple proposition that they meet one night for drinks.
—
The address was in Hell’s Kitchen, Fifty-Second and Eighth. Storrow was waiting for her there; he buzzed her in at the vestibule and, when she emerged from the elevator, he was standing at an open door. Crossing the hall, she’d been nervous, unsure whether to offer a handshake or a kiss. Storrow had removed the chance for either, backing up behind the door and waving with his free hand for her to come inside. He was dressed in a narrow, tailored, navy suit and a starched gingham shirt; she’d wondered if he’d dressed up for her, but this, she’d later discovered, was Storrow’s standard uniform.
She’d come in and complimented the apartment: neat, spare, straight out of a catalog, lacking in any sort of character or personal detail. No photographs or ID cards or pieces of mail, no evidence about the tenant or signs of ordinary living.
Storrow gave her a brief tour, opening the bedroom door, but shying away from stepping in. The thought returned that he might have arranged this place for the two of them. She supposed she’d led him to expect that was what she wanted. Now she wasn’t sure. When Storrow moved toward her, she stepped back, but he was only reaching to close the door.
“I’ll leave you to it then.” He clapped his hands and withdrew a set of keys from his blazer pocket. “Yours if you want them.”
“That was it,” she told Lombardi. “He showed me around and then he left.”
“Just like that?”
She, too, had been surprised that Storrow had excused himself so soon, smiling and putting out his hand in that avuncular way he had, as if she were one of his Adams House wards and he were acting, merely, in loco parentis.
From the window she’d watched him step out into the street and hail a cab. Off to meet a woman? There must have been a woman, she’d imagined, observing his confident gestures and lean, strong back, and startled by the possessiveness she felt.
Alone, she’d lingered in the apartment, poked around a little. There was a stocked bar along one wall, a Bang & Olufsen stereo, a cable box, men’s magazines. The bookshelves contained sober histories, political biographies: the sort of collection that bore out Storrow’s story, which she was by then willing to believe.
“So you decided to stay?”
“I didn’t see any reason not to.”
It was a kick to have the run of a place like that—kept by men who did whatever they did without leaving any traces. Her presence there constituted a secret of its own; dressed in a man’s sweatshirt she’d found inside one of the drawers, she sat on the leather sofa getting tipsy and flipping through X-rated channels. Not that Lombardi needed to know this, or to know that later, lying in bed, in the dark, in a room that smelled vaguely of aftershave and shoe polish, she’d listened for the door, imagined Storrow returning late at night, crawling into bed beside her. All the skittishness of the afternoon had fled her. If he’d come to her, she’d have welcomed him.
“Did he return that night?” Lombardi asked.
“No, he didn’t.”
When she woke the next morning, the phone was ringing. She’d snatched it up eagerly, but it was only Gabe. He’d apparently redialed the number Storrow had called her from the day before: tracking her down just to announce he’d left her bag out in his hall. She didn’t bother asking about visiting the gallery. Her prior plans had been upended; the next weeks were cleared for whatever adventure might be waiting.
As long as she remained in the rooms Storrow had provided, she couldn’t invite friends to come and visit, or explain her whereabouts to anybody, including her father, who’d called Christmas week to say he’d split from his girlfriend in Cancun. But rather than join him in sunny Mexico, Georgia chose to remain in Manhattan, strolling down slushy avenues under colored lights, wandering among tourists through museums, or simply lounging around the apartment like a bored housewife, occupied with idle daydreams. Each morning, in the shower, she’d picture Storrow drawing back the curtain; each time she stepped through the front door, she prepared to feel him grab her. As the weeks passed, though, she lost faith that anything would ever happen. If Storrow wanted her, he wouldn’t have let this month—remote from campus, as free to meet as they would ever be—slip by without event.
On the last day of her vacation Storrow called to make arrangements to collect the keys. She’d planned to simply leave them in the mailbox, but he offered to drop in and see if she needed any help straightening
up.
Storrow had arrived looking almost the same as when he’d left the month before: pressed gingham shirt and navy suit, not a hair out of place, nor any sign of an unbefitting motive. Seeing him there, relieved to find all in order, looks good, all spooned up, she couldn’t understand how she’d ever imagined a different outcome: that this man could be lured into a messy affair. Possibly Storrow already had a girlfriend, or, for all she knew, a boyfriend; perhaps he was recovering from a failed relationship or even a divorce. She hadn’t the faintest clue about his personal life, or any insight into his desires; it had been sheer invention to believe his interest in her had been anything but chaste.
Her bag was packed; she expected nothing more from Storrow than perhaps some help loading her things into a cab bound for Penn Station, and so she was caught off guard when he checked his watch and turned to her. “Do you need to rush off? Feel like some chow?”
He steered her to a restaurant on the next block, a place she’d never have chosen on her own, stuffy and pretentious: oversized flower arrangements, layered tablecloths, and crowded silver.
“So it was a date?” Lombardi cut in at last.
Markedly unlike a date: Storrow had refused to order drinks—just a ginger ale for him—and had begun by asking questions about her studies, her intentions after graduation. Precisely the sort of questions that might be asked over a dining hall meal: a housemaster getting to know one of the students.
Later, as the food arrived and Storrow grew more comfortable, he spoke about himself—a favorite subject, she’d discovered. He was evidently proud of his achievements and of the upbringing that had enabled and inspired them. The Warbers—his mother’s line—could boast of six graduates of the Citadel, all gone on to become generals and public servants. As for him, he’d been the first in his family to head north to West Point, and the first to go to Oxford or have the honor of being a professor at Harvard.
While he went on, she’d watched him cutting his steak into same-sized pieces, observed the irritating order on his plate. Even his good looks began to seem drab, robotically symmetric, and its few peculiarities became unnerving: the small scars over one brow and at his chin, and that blue vein snaking down his forehead, ending just between his eyes. For weeks now, she’d fantasized about this face and this body; now she couldn’t comprehend it: How could she have been caught up in a bizarre sexual stupor with this man at its center?
The whole impulse had been mistaken, from the moment she’d abandoned Gabe, who was far more her style really—artistic, cynical, and fun—to join a man for whom even a meal appeared a chore: all that slicing and chewing while supplying steady, bland conversation. When Storrow was finally through and the waiter came to take his plate, Georgia refused dessert and coffee; they would simply return to the apartment for her bags.
“And then,” she told Lombardi, “that was when we became involved.”
“You mean sexually.”
“Right.”
“You had sex. After what you considered ‘not a date.’ ”
“Yup. That’s how it was.” They were scarcely through the entrance when Storrow gripped her by the back of the neck and pulled her to him; she’d been taken by surprise, equally by his action and her reaction, by the attraction that inexplicably arose in her again. He’d led her to the sofa, neglecting even to shut the front door behind them.
“Was he rough with you?”
“No.” Though she had sensed some anger. At himself mostly, she thought, for submitting to desire. He’d retained a certain formality, held himself at a remove.
“You weren’t scared or disturbed by anything he did.”
“No. Maybe he was. He seemed more startled by it all.”
“You mean to say he lost control?”
She sensed this was not a description to introduce in such a context. “We both knew what we were doing.”
“So then, if he was deliberate, he must have brought you up there to sleep with you.”
“Look, the man has urges like anybody else; if anything, it was harder for him to indulge them.”
Afterward, Storrow had been mortified to see the front door still ajar; he’d risen from the sofa to shut it and hurriedly replaced his clothes.
“This,” he’d said gravely, “can’t become a regular event. You understand why. It goes without saying you can’t tell a soul.”
“Yes, it does go without saying.” She’d been insulted that he’d think she’d imagine otherwise, that she was a child who would run and tell her friends.
“Not anyone.” He persisted. “You can’t hint, you can’t imply. We say hello at the pool—that’s all there’s ever been. I just need to be sure.”
“No one will know. And, don’t worry, it won’t happen again.” She disliked this self-absorption. He might have paused to stroke her hair, to offer her a kind word before instructing her so coldly.
But then something changed in him; he peered up at her, cheeks damp and blushing, green eyes wide: “Please. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. It’s just that I can’t have a scandal. Truth is, I’m sorry: I like you so darn much.”
Her anger subsided; someone who couldn’t even utter the word damn, and she expected him to throw himself into an illicit fling?
They’d sat together on the sofa, close but not touching, she with her knees drawn up, he slumped over, head in his hands. This wasn’t the kind of man to permit himself easy pleasure. Though she was no longer offended, she thought it would be best for their relationship—or whatever it was—to end right there. Storrow took life very hard, it seemed. Much too hard for her.
“So we both agreed it was to be a onetime thing.”
But it hadn’t been, Lombardi quickly reminded her: “Storrow tracked you down again on campus.”
As if, to hear Lombardi say it, Storrow were some kind of stalker. To discourage that notion, she left out of her account how she’d tried to avoid Storrow by swimming in the evening, or how, one night, she’d exited the water and seen him seated at the side of the pool, reading a paper. A strange thing to do in a room choked with chlorine. He’d waved to her; she’d ignored him. If he wanted reassurance she’d act as if nothing had happened, he would have it. She’d done her laps, showered, and changed, and it was only once she’d stepped out into the frozen night that they’d spoken; Storrow was waiting for her by the exit.
“It’s not safe, walking alone this late.”
“I can handle myself, thanks.”
“Right. I’m the one who can’t.” Storrow stood rubbing his hands against the cold. Even in the bitter chill, he wore only his navy blazer. “I…I’ve been wanting to speak with you…”
She’d pitied him then, this grown man at a loss for what to say next. Nervously he watched the building entrance, the students passing through: one among them waved at him. “We can’t talk here. Can I call you?”
“To tell you he’d reconsidered?” Lombardi interrupted. “That an affair might be possible?”
“If we kept to certain guidelines.”
“Guidelines?”
“You know. Precautions.” She didn’t wish to be any more specific, to have to repeat the many restrictions that Storrow had set out for her that evening. From here on, their relationship was not going to appear at all like she wished it would: as the story of a man of principle still susceptible to love. Storrow would not come off well, and Lombardi would never see her the way she liked to see herself: as a woman of sufficient maturity and merit to attract an accomplished, older man.
“The campus phones were untraceable, so Storrow and I set up appointments to speak on those.”
“That will be our only means of contact,” Storrow had said. “Under no circumstances can you come to my office or my house. I don’t want you to be seen speaking to me in public after today. We can meet at the New York apartment on the weekends. You’ll take a different train than I do and come up with a reliable excuse, a job or internship. Something, but not a boyfriend. No one can
know that you’ve begun seeing anyone, and no one can ride into the city with you. I’ll adhere to all the same constraints myself, of course.”
What a creature, she’d thought: a man who could only permit himself to break the rules by creating twenty new ones. “Honestly, this doesn’t sound like it’s for me, so many restrictions.”
“They’re for me,” he’d admitted. “I’m afraid with you I’ll…lack restraint.”
Through the line, she’d heard him inhale deeply, and that tense breath was what had overcome her reservations. She was attracted to this strain she sensed in Storrow: impulses at war with his monumental efforts at self-mastery. But she was reluctant to admit such feelings to Lombardi now.
“Nothing he did ever made me think that he was troubled or violent,” she said finally. “I want to make that clear again.”
“You’ve made your position very clear, Miss Calvin.”
What she hadn’t done, she knew, was alter Lombardi’s view in the slightest. He’d obviously made up his mind about Storrow, and his suspicion was beginning to magnify those misgivings she hadn’t even known she had, making her own assurance sound weaker than it should.
Four days earlier, she’d have refused to believe anyone who accused Storrow of the slightest inconsideration—of letting a door close on the man behind him, of leaving a woman without a seat on the train—yet here she was presented with this most vicious act, the murder of a girl, and suddenly she realized she couldn’t banish doubt. Lombardi believed Storrow was guilty. He must know something to be so persuaded.
“I think I’d like to go now,” she told Lombardi, finally; she’d been in this room for what felt like hours; she hadn’t eaten since the morning. “I’m starting to not feel well.”
Lombardi exhaled; above his belly, where the buttons strained, one freed itself from its hole. “I hate to put you through all this, I really do, but I feel obliged to point out—this isn’t the first time you’ve defended a man whose behavior with you might not have been let’s say, conventional.”