A Place in the Wind

by Suzanne Chazin

  “So? Get it from the jail.” Zimmerman turned to Wil. “Maybe I should call Adele. Or that lawyer of yours.”

  “Seems to me,” Greco grunted, “you’re doing a pretty good job of obstructing all by yourself.” He turned to Wil and shut Zimmerman out.

  “Look, kid, me and Jankowski just want to get our job done here and punch out. You want to turn this into a big deal? We’re going to have to take you down to the station, lock you up overnight, and let someone else handle this in the morning. Either way, it’s going to happen. So which is it going to be? The easy way? Or the hard?”

  Wil stared at the wand in Greco’s outstretched palm. He knew what the cops wanted. They wanted his DNA. Wil had assumed they’d gotten it from the mandatory cheek swab every inmate gets at the jail. But maybe the sample was corrupted. Or got thrown out. Either way, they were determined to get it. Wil could delay giving it to them. But ultimately, he’d have to. People lie. Science? Never.

  Wil grabbed the wand, touched it to the inside of his cheek, and handed it back to Greco. “There.”

  Greco shoved the swab into the cylinder and sealed it in a clear plastic bag. He and Jankowski rose. Jankowski smiled at Wil like he was prey. “Don’t leave town.” The detective laughed to make it sound like a joke.

  It wasn’t.

  Wil leaned his head against the door after they left. He thought Zimmerman had gone back to bed. But the old man was standing there, watching him.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” said Wil.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” said Zimmerman. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll make tea.”

  “You don’t have to do that, sir. Really.”

  Zimmerman fixed Wil in his gaze. “You haven’t told her, have you?”

  Wil felt his blood turn to ice water in his veins. “Pardon?”

  “Your mother. You haven’t told her your brother is dead. I overheard your conversation upstairs when I got up to use the bathroom.” The old man switched to Spanish. “Mijo, in your shoes, I would have made the same decision.”

  Wil wasn’t sure if he was more shocked at the old man’s perfect command of Spanish or the fact that he’d called Wil, mijo—“my son.” Max Zimmerman was full of surprises.

  Then again, so was Wil.

  “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” said Wil.

  “I spent five years in Cuba after the war. Come”—he gestured—“it’s time for another story.”

  In the kitchen, Wil poured hot water into two mugs. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the hands of the rooster clock on the wall.

  “Your brother,” Zimmerman asked finally, “were you close to him?”

  “It’s complicated,” said Wil. “We didn’t grow up together.”

  “But you loved him, yes?”

  Wil played with the tab on his tea bag. “It’s my fault he died.”

  “Ah.” Wil expected the old man to grill him on the details or launch into some lame reason why Wil shouldn’t feel he was to blame. Instead, he stared into his mug.

  “I believe I told you the other day about my older brother, Samuel?” Zimmerman fluttered his left hand with its partial missing finger for emphasis.

  “Yes,” said Wil. “I remember.”

  Zimmerman’s lips moved without sound, as if he were trying to coax his words from hiding. “Samuel was the fastest boy I’ve ever known,” he said slowly. “Before the war, he had stacks of racing medals in his drawers. Me? I was the slow one. When we were in the camps, Samuel told me that if I ever got the chance to run, I must run and not look back.”

  Zimmerman took a sip of tea. Wil noticed his hand was shaking.

  “One day,” he continued, “we had a work detail outside the fence. Deep in the forest. Chopping wood for fuel. The guards turned their backs to urinate. Samuel told me to run. I thought we were both running. I thought he was running with me. And then I heard a shot. The sound? Wil—the sound stays in my head forever. I did not understand at the time. I thought Samuel ran and the guards shot him and missed me. But that wasn’t it.”

  “He didn’t run?”

  “Oh, he ran,” said Zimmerman. “He ran straight at the guards as they raised their guns. He blocked their fire. He paid for my life with his own. He—the faster one. The smarter one. He died so I could live. And every day of my eighty-eight years, I feel the burden of his choices. His expectations. You could say God spared me, mijo. But I know, it was my brother who spared me. My brother.”

  Zimmerman leaned in closer. “Your brother spared you for a reason, Wil. He believed in you. He deserves your honor now. That means a proper burial. In Guatemala. Where your mother can pray over him.”

  “I know.”

  “What if I made the call for you?”

  “Then I’d have to . . .” Wil’s voice trailed off.

  “Have to what? Tell your mother how he died?”

  “Yeah.” And other things. Stuff bottled up in a human heart—and now a test tube as well.

  Chapter 43

  Vega found Joy’s car—her mother’s old white Volvo—still parked in the student parking lot closest to the Neumann Sciences Building. If her car was still there, there were only two possibilities. Either she’d gone back to POW after dinner with Langstrom to finish some project, or someone had driven her elsewhere. Vega walked into the Neumann Building and up to the third floor. The offices of POW were closed. He tried Joy’s cell again. No answer.

  He knew in his gut: Langstrom had lied to the Mayfair Police.

  Boucher Road was a modest street of small, funky houses that appeared to have sprung up in the 1970s and hadn’t been updated since. Lots of dark, discolored cedar siding. Lots of right-angled roofs with bubble skylights that popped up from their siding like boils.

  Langstrom’s house was the third on the cul-de-sac. A faint light radiated from his picture window, casting a bluish glow over the snow-smeared front lawn. In the driveway, Vega saw one car: a dark green Volkswagen minibus covered in bumper stickers for Greenpeace, POW, and the Sierra Club. Vega parked his truck on the street. He had to be careful. Langstrom wasn’t yet a suspect in anything. If Vega tried the direct approach, he could end up with a harassment charge or restraining order—both of which could get him fired. Not to mention that it would cost Joy her internship and erase any daughterly goodwill toward Vega for the next decade.

  He wished there were a way to know if Joy was still here. All the windows were too high to see in or had their blinds drawn. He needed a way inside. One that was legal and plausible. When he was a boy, all the cops in his Bronx neighborhood used to gain access to dealers’ apartments by “dropping a dime”—calling 911 from a pay phone to report a robbery or domestic dispute at the address they wanted to raid, then responding to their own call. Cops couldn’t do that stuff anymore.

  Then again, no one would question a cop who mistakenly called in the fire department.

  Vega took out his phone and dialed 911.

  “This is Detective Vega of the county police,” he told the dispatcher. “I’m at 12 Boucher Road in Mayfair. I think I see smoke coming out of the residence.”

  “Copy that, Detective. Please remain at the scene. An engine will respond in ETA four minutes.”

  Good. He’d validated his reason for being here. It would now make perfect sense for him to try to vacate the premises. He walked up to Langstrom’s door and rang the bell. Twice. No answer. He pounded on the door. A lock released from the inside. The professor opened the door a crack.

  “Yes?” Jeffrey Langstrom looked glassy-eyed. His long gray hair hung loose at his shoulders. His John Lennon glasses were crooked. The buttons on his denim shirt were mismatched, the mistake largely covered by his ZZ Top beard. Vega wondered if he’d woken the man. Then he smelled the sweet perfume stench of marijuana emanating off his clothes. Was that all this was about? Had Langstrom kept the cops out simply because he was smoking a doobie?

  “Sir?” said Vega. “I was driving by your h
ouse and noticed smoke.”

  “There’s no smoke here.” Langstrom didn’t seem to recognize Vega from the protest at the campus. Vega was glad. It would have blown his cover.

  A siren cut the night. Vega heard the rumble of a diesel engine as the rig turned onto Boucher Road. It underscored Vega’s claim better than his words ever could.

  “I’m a police officer, sir.” Vega flashed his badge. “I don’t want you to be unsafe. Mind if I come in and take a look?”

  “There’s no fire.”

  “Is anyone else home besides you?”

  Langstrom hesitated. “No.” Beads of sweat broke out on his bald head, glistening under the dusty yellow glow of a foyer light. The professor swept a gaze at the street behind Vega where a shiny red, rarely used Mayfair Volunteer fire company engine was pulling up to a hydrant by the curb. A bunch of young, too-eager kids, barely out of their teens, hopped off the rig. They all looked excited for action. Vega was sorry to disappoint them.

  “This is a bad time,” said Langstrom.

  Shit. It was still within the man’s legal rights to refuse them all entry. Vega was going to have to force the situation. He pretended to lean a hand on Langstrom’s front door. What he was really doing was pushing it open. Trying to see inside. He could only see a corner of the living room beyond the foyer. A black-and-white cat jumped off the armrest of a chair and sauntered over to a coat tree in the foyer; there was a tumble of jackets and hats piled on it. That’s when Vega saw it. A suede jacket. Tan in color with a corduroy collar. Some designer brand that you don’t see on every third person walking down the street. Wendy’s jacket. But Wendy wasn’t the one wearing it. Not tonight.

  Langstrom had no idea Vega was looking at the jacket. He seemed more agitated at the firefighters pouring from the rig and fanning out across his driveway. Two men in turnout coats and rubber boots climbed the steps to Langstrom’s door. One of them was carrying a portable extinguisher. Langstrom stepped out.

  “There’s no fire!” he said sharply. “Go away!”

  The firefighter in the white helmet, likely the volunteer chief, started explaining to Langstrom why it was a good idea to check the property. More firefighters were walking the perimeter. If they didn’t see smoke and Langstrom refused them entrance, Vega’s whole ruse would collapse. Vega had just seconds to take advantage of Langstrom’s distraction. He slipped inside.

  “Joy?”

  Vega raced through the living room. It was decorated in Third World kitsch and reeked of marijuana. Beanbag chairs were scattered across the woven rug. Statues of Buddha and Hindu gods sat on shelves crammed with books. Latin-American folk art adorned the walls. Langstrom’s Baggie of weed and rolling papers were sitting on a low wooden table.

  Normally, Vega would be fixated on the weed, furious that Joy might have been smoking it with him. But now Vega found himself praying for that to be the worst of their problems. He stepped through an archway into a kitchen and dining area. Two dinner plates sat across from one another at the table. One had only an oily residue of tomato sauce on it. The other had a full plate of pasta under a lump of sauce. It looked cold and congealed. A wineglass sat beside each. Both held only a tint of red at the bottom.

  Red wine—just like Zoe had said. Vega’s heart beat wildly in his chest. Where was Joy?

  The black-and-white cat pawed and meowed at a closed door off the kitchen. Vega put his hand on the knob.

  “You there!” shouted Langstrom. “What are you doing walking through my house? Get out of here. Get out!”

  Vega kept his back to Langstrom and threw open the door. The room was dark, lit only by a slash of light from the dining area. It took Vega’s eyes a moment to adjust. The images that assaulted his vision felt imagined, not real. Something he’d conjured off a screen. Because until this moment, that was the only place he’d ever seen them.

  The four-poster bed. The patterned plaid comforter. A girl lying naked and passed out across the sheets.

  His worst nightmare.

  “You son of a bitch!” Vega wailed. “What have you done to her?”

  Vega threw open the door and ran over. He listened to her chest. She was breathing, thank God. Deep, rattling breaths. But at least she was breathing.

  Langstrom stood in the doorway. He tossed off a nervous laugh. His voice was as thin and tepid as a whiny child’s. “She’s my niece. She’s just a heavy sleeper. She’s—”

  Vega grabbed Langstrom and slammed him hard against the wall. The professor’s eyes grew wide with fear.

  “She’s my daughter, you sick, twisted bastard!”

  Vega let Langstrom go. He didn’t have time to deal with him right now. Joy needed all his attention. He wrapped a blanket around her and scooped her in his arms. He cradled her head on his shoulder and raced to the front door, where the firefighters were packing up to leave.

  “I need an ambulance and police response!” he shouted to the men. “Unconscious female, eighteen years old. Suspected poisoning.” No way was he going to have anyone think she was just some junkie or drunk who did this to herself. “That man is Professor Jeffrey Langstrom,” Vega told the firefighters. “He did this. Don’t let him leave.”

  Joy mumbled. She tossed in her father’s arms. Vega sat on a beanbag chair in the living room and tried to get her to wake up, while the firefighters surrounded Langstrom and assured Vega that EMS was on its way.

  “It’s Dad,” Vega whispered into Joy’s ear. “I’m here. You’re safe now.” He rubbed her arms to try to stimulate her into responding. He patted her chin, traced his knuckles across her back. Anything to keep her aroused. He was conscious of his grief being played out among strangers, but he couldn’t worry about that right now. All his focus had to be on Joy. “Wake up, chispita. Mom and I love you so much. No matter what’s happened. You’re going to be okay.”

  Joy opened her eyes at one point and stared at her father. But Vega could see she had no control over her body. He drugged her. That son of a bitch drugged her. And then more terrible thoughts started coming.

  He raped her. He filmed her.

  Vega had seen the room. It was the same room Zoe Beck had been filmed in.

  The police arrived first. Tripp and DiStefano—the same two officers who’d detained Vega earlier. They looked guilt-ridden as they stepped through the doorway and avoided Vega’s gaze. It wasn’t their fault. Not really. But still—he couldn’t shake the anger that he could have stopped it if he’d been here sooner. When EMS arrived, they bundled Joy onto a gurney. In the back of the ambulance, they started a saline drip.

  “He used some sort of date-rape drug on her,” Vega told the EMTs. “I’m thinking Rohypnol, but I can’t be sure.”

  “Do you know if she was sexually assaulted?” asked one of the EMTs. Vega kept his gaze on his unconscious daughter and shook his head. He’d handled dozens of sexual assaults in his career. He knew what to check for. But he couldn’t bring himself to look at his own daughter’s body that way.

  DiStefano, the female cop, walked over just as Vega was about to hop in the ambulance.

  “I just want to say I’m sorry,” she told him. “I wish we could have stopped it sooner.”

  “Me too,” said Vega. “Did he say if he’d . . .” Vega couldn’t get the words out. DiStefano knew what he was asking.

  “He denied everything. But we’ve got his phone. We’ll check it to see if he filmed anything. The doctors at the hospital will take a urine sample to test for the presence of sedatives. They’ll perform a . . . kit.” She omitted the word “rape” for Vega’s sake. “You know the procedure.”

  On the way to the hospital, Vega called Wendy and broke the news. Wendy sobbed into the phone. “Will she be all right?”

  Yes. No. The drug itself was likely to wear off after a few hours. But it could take a couple of days before the nausea, vomiting, and headaches abated. And that was assuming that’s all that happened to their daughter.

  In the emergency room, Vega waited
outside a curtain while a female doctor and a nurse performed a rape kit and took a urine sample. He called Adele and told her what was happening. She offered to come over, but Vega declined. Wendy would be here soon. It didn’t feel right to have his ex-wife’s grief on display. Adele agreed.

  By the time Wendy arrived, Joy started to regain consciousness. She was dizzy and nauseous. She couldn’t recall anything about the evening. The doctor took both parents aside.

  “Your daughter doesn’t appear to have been sexually assaulted, although there’s no way to tell with absolute certainty. We’ll know within an hour or two what drugs she has in her system and how long it will take for them to wear off. We can probably treat and release her tonight.”

  “Thanks,” said Vega. The news should have lifted his spirits a little. But Vega couldn’t shake the feeling at how close this guy had come. It wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t necessarily even the worst time.

  Catherine.

  An orderly wheeled a cart down the hallway. The rumble felt like it was coming from inside Vega’s chest. He was glad his daughter couldn’t remember much about tonight. He was pretty sure he’d never forget.

  Chapter 44

  Vega called the Mayfair Police Department first thing Saturday morning for an update on Joy’s case. The detective in charge, Garrison, was an amiable guy who told Vega the cops had already obtained a search warrant and seized Langstrom’s phone and computer. They’d found plenty of coeds’ videos on them—thankfully, none of them Joy’s.

  “So it’s a strong case,” said Vega.

  “I would have said so—if the DA hadn’t informed us this morning that Langstrom wants to cut some kind of a deal.”

  “For assaulting my daughter and all these girls?” asked Vega. “No way! Besides, Lake Holly needs to talk to him about the Archer murder. For all we know, he’s involved in that too.”

  “That’s why you need to bring your daughter in this afternoon so we can get a statement.”

  “She’ll be there,” Vega promised. “And another girl too.” Zoe. He had to convince Zoe.