The Red Lotus

by Chris Bohjalian

  “Not a random hookup. More of a—”

  “I think your friend was grasping at straws.”

  The abruptness of her answer was strangely unsettling, but it was clear that Sally gave the notion absolutely no credence. And so instead Alexis asked, “Have you heard again from the FBI?”

  “Not a peep, and I doubt I will. When he was missing, there was a logic to allocating some manpower. Now that we know he died in a bike accident, there’s no reason. There’s no point. It’s a tragedy, but not a crime.”

  Alexis nodded and took a breath, pausing, because she knew that what she was about to say would sound paranoid—especially after pressing Sally about the possibility that Austin had met someone on his first journey to Vietnam. “Something happened to him before the bike accident—before he was killed,” she said carefully. She pulled from her purse his right bike glove and showed it to the administrator. “He was wearing this when his body was found.”

  Sally looked at it and waited. She could tell there was something more coming.

  Alexis opened her phone and showed her the wound on the back of Austin’s hand. “Note there’s no tear in the glove and no blood anywhere on it. Not a drop.”

  “You took that photo of his hand in the morgue?” Sally asked.

  “I did, yes.”

  “I’m sure a pathologist could explain it,” she said.

  “He couldn’t to my satisfaction when I asked him.”

  “Maybe an accident reconstructionist would have a suggestion.”

  “Here’s what’s clear,” Alexis said. “The wound occurred before Austin got back on his bike to return to the hotel. That’s the obvious explanation.”

  Sally sat back deep into the couch and gazed out the window. The sun was falling fast into the west, and the room, which faced east, was losing the daylight quickly. “In other words, he had some other accident in that period when he was missing.”

  “I don’t believe that’s an accident wound.”

  The other woman still didn’t meet her eye. She seemed transfixed by the reflection of the sun on a glass building across the river in Brooklyn. “Then what? Are you saying that someone hurt him?”

  “Precisely. It looks as if someone jammed something round and solid and very sharp into the back of his hand and broke a bone.”

  “Or he banged it on something. You work in an ER, Alexis. Think of the ridiculous things you treat every day you’re down there. The mind-numbingly stupid accidents. Good Lord, people drop weights on their feet at the gym, they slice off their fingertips cutting bagels. They—”

  “Oh, I know,” Alexis agreed. “Trust me, I know. But here’s the pattern I see. Walk through it with me. First of all, he lied about why he wanted to be alone that day. Then he disappeared. He didn’t respond to texts or phone calls. He got hurt or was hurt—that wound on the back of his hand. Then, after dark or pretty nearly after dark, he climbed back on his bike, which is insane for a serious bicyclist. It’s insane for any bicyclist. He didn’t call me or anyone on the bike tour and ask for the support van. He didn’t even tell me or anyone from the bike tour that he was on his way back. And then he was hit by a car or truck and was killed.”

  Sally adjusted the framed photo of her two children on the credenza beside the couch. “Because he lost his phone. That would explain a lot of it. Also? As you said, he may have been lying. To call for help would have revealed his lie.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. He could have borrowed a phone or made a call from anywhere in Hue or Hoi An or Da Nang—wherever he was. He still had his wallet. He still had cash and credit cards.”

  Sally turned to face her directly, and her countenance had grown so stern that Alexis was taken aback. “What are you after? I have to ask. Why are you here? I don’t mean that in any way that’s antagonistic. I swear I don’t. But I’m serious. Why have you come to me?”

  “Because you knew him, too.”

  “I did,” she replied. “At least, I thought I did. So did his friend Oscar. So did a lot of people. I still think he was a good guy. I know he was good at his job. But maybe he was like a lot of folks you pass every single day on the street or see on the subway: he had secrets. Or a secret. I’m sorry that he lied and we’ll never know why, because I liked him. I really did. I’m sure you feel that lie as more of a betrayal than I do. But for me? He lied about his family. Not the worst crime. He probably had his reasons.”

  “And what if those reasons were because he needed a pretext to return to Vietnam? Maybe he had a good reason for lying and maybe he didn’t,” she answered. “That’s my point. We don’t know. But what we do know—at least I believe this—is that when he was missing, he was tortured. I don’t think that word is hyperbole.”

  “That’s a pretty big leap,” Sally said, and she stood and switched on the overhead fluorescent lights on the ceiling.

  “I want to go through his office. May I?” Alexis asked. “I want to look at his office computer.”

  “I can’t allow that. That belongs to the hospital.”

  “If I get police permission?” Alexis asked, aware of the urgency creeping into her voice.

  “Sure, if you get police permission. But why in the world would they allow that? Why would they give you permission?”

  “Because—”

  “He’s gone, Alexis. Accept that. The police aren’t going to do anything. Certainly not in New York and I rather doubt in Vietnam. It’s over, it’s done. I know you miss him. I do, too. Maybe he lied to you. Maybe he broke your heart. If he did, I’m sorry. I really am. But you need to move on.”

  Alexis stood. She didn’t appreciate sitting there like a scolded child while this other woman seemed to tower above her. “If I don’t touch his computer, may I look around his office? Just take a peek? I wouldn’t open any drawers or boot up his computer.”

  “Sure, fine. If his father says yes, you can do that. The man arrives tomorrow. Join him here. His father is coming to town to see what he needs to do to clear out the office and to scope out his son’s apartment. See how much work it will be to clean it all out.”

  “Tomorrow. What time?”

  “I don’t know, but midafternoon, I think. Rich will know.”

  “Rich is your assistant?”

  She nodded. “Yes, the young man who showed you in.”

  “I’m in the ER tomorrow afternoon, but I’ll make sure I get away for at least a few minutes. I’ve never met Austin’s father, but I got his phone number while I was in Vietnam. I’ll call him again. But could you ask Rich, please, to let me know when he’s here?”

  “I will. You can, too.”

  “Is his father getting into town tonight or tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. And, actually, it’s Austin’s mother and father. I believe his mother will be here, too.”

  She and Austin had never exchanged apartment keys. She had assumed that someday they would. His apartment had doormen, and she knew at least two of them by name. She wondered if one might be on duty later today or tonight whom she knew—and who would be willing to give her a spare key so she could rummage around Austin’s place before his parents arrived.

  “Can I make a suggestion?” Sally asked.

  Alexis leaned back against the credenza. She started to fold her arms defensively across her chest but stopped herself. “Go ahead.”

  “Why don’t you get a private detective? If you feel so strongly about Austin’s disappearance, hire the sort of person who can dig deeper than you or I can. You and I know the importance of a specialist as well as anyone. Maybe, if you really want to find out what happened, that’s the way to go.”

  Alexis was both appreciative and surprised. She’d expected Sally to tell her—once more but with different words—to move on. “That’s a great idea,” she said. “A really great idea.”

  The other wo
man shrugged modestly. “Sometimes I get lucky.”

  “Do you have any names? I guess I could Google one.”

  Sally went to her desk and opened a drawer. She rummaged inside it a moment and then found a business card. She handed it to Alexis, and Alexis looked briefly at the name: Ken Sarafian. It appeared that he worked alone and he covered the tri-state area. His office was on lower Broadway.

  “May I ask why you have this? Is this guy good?” Alexis asked.

  “Yeah, I think he’s pretty good.”

  “You’ve used him?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “How do you know him?”

  The other woman’s eyes briefly—and it was very brief—looked unexpectedly wistful. “He’s a family friend. He used to play golf with my dad growing up. Back then, Ken was NYPD.”

  “And now he’s retired?”

  “From the police force, yes. My dad passed away four years ago, and I’ve only seen him once since the funeral. But as far as I know, Ken’s still working—on his own. I’d guess he’s seventy or seventy-one now.”

  “Thank you,” Alexis said.

  “And there’s a bonus to hiring a guy like Ken.”

  “And that is?”

  “He’s a Vietnam veteran. I don’t know a lot of details, but my dad told me a little bit. The two of them hung out at the golf course—a public course they both liked on Long Island.”

  “I’ll give him a call. I like the idea.”

  “He’s a good guy. I should have done a better job of staying in touch. Say hi for me, will you?”

  “Sure,” Alexis said. “I will. You said you saw him once after your dad’s funeral. I’m guessing that wasn’t business because you said you never used him. Was it pleasure?”

  “Alas, not. He had a daughter. Kathleen. She died in April—no, May. She was pretty close to your age, I’d guess. I went to the funeral out on Long Island.”

  “Oh, God. I’m sorry. That’s horrible.”

  “It was. It is.” And then Sally Gleason surprised her. She wrapped Alexis in her arms and held her, murmuring, “And I’m really, really sorry about Austin. This just sucks and I wish there was something more I could do than give you a business card.” Alexis nodded into the other woman’s shoulder, a little stunned by the embrace, and found herself blinking back tears.

  14

  Alexis supposed she was due: it had been months since anyone had airdropped a dick pic onto her phone on the subway. But there it was. The car was full—not shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh packed, not the sort of crowd in which a winter flu spreads like spilled gasoline—but there were two dozen people standing and every seat taken. She had a seat and was reading a news story she’d clicked on at a stop with Wi-Fi, and now there was Wi-Fi again, and there it was on the front of her screen: dick pic.

  Usually when she was flashed this way, she just deleted the image and shut off her phone. Not today. Not this afternoon. She wasn’t completely sure why, but it made her angrier than usual. Maybe it was the jet lag. Maybe it was Austin’s death. Maybe it was just one too many assholes sending her dick pics. Quickly she scanned the car to see if there were any children present; there weren’t. And so she rose from her seat somewhere between Fifty-First Street and Fifty-Ninth Street and held up her phone with the photo, pointing it in all directions, and said loudly but calmly, “Who’s the pervert in this car who just sent me a dick pic? Who’s the loser who gets off on this crap?”

  Some of the people groaned and some looked away—or down at their own screens, as if they were afraid their phones had been infected, too—and some, like her, studied every male in the car: the older businessmen and the delivery guys and the young dude in the denim jacket. One man, a handsome fellow her age in a gray business suit and a duster about four feet away, let go of the metal pole and held up both of his hands as if he were being robbed, and shook his head. She glared at every man in the car, but none except for the guy in the duster would make eye contact with her. Then he asked her, “You okay?”

  The car squealed to a stop at Fifty-Ninth. She had planned to ride to Sixty-Eighth Street, Austin’s stop. But she just hated this shit. She hoped she had shamed the degenerate, but somehow she doubted it. She looked at the young executive who had asked if she were okay, nodded that she was, and exited the subway. She’d walk the rest of the way.

  She felt at once bullied and relieved when the subway pulled away from the station.

  * * *

  . . .

  Would the doorman on duty at Austin’s apartment be among the few who knew her? Would he know that the resident of 13D had died?

  Alexis stood for a long moment on the corner of Sixty-Ninth and Third, about forty yards from the awning, trying to decide. There’d been nothing in the newspapers, and there might never be. He’d died in a bike accident on the other side of the world. Things happened. It wasn’t as if the bike tour was going to go out of its way to publicize the story. The question was whether Austin’s parents or one of his friends had already said something to the superintendent of the building. But did his friends even know yet? She hadn’t had time to try and track down any of them. Had his parents? Perhaps. But he wasn’t on the social networks, so it wasn’t as if there was going to be any centralized mourning on Facebook or Instagram or his fifteen seconds of posthumous fame there.

  If the doorman knew that Austin was dead, it was likely because his parents had informed the super that they were coming to town tomorrow to assess how difficult it would be to clear out his apartment.

  She realized that his parents were actually the key to a lot of things. For instance, would they want to sue the bike tour company for negligence? For allowing their son to bike alone? Yes, all the guests had signed release forms, but that didn’t mean that the tour company wasn’t going to have to contend with parental wrath in the form of a lawsuit. And what about the way he had misrepresented his family history? The way he had lied—or been lied to? Would his parents ever hear of that and, if so, what would they make of it? How would that affect their grief and how they mourned their only son? What kind of funeral would he have once his remains had been returned to America?

  For the moment, however, none of that mattered. All that mattered right now was this: she had to hope that either Diego or Sean was the doorman on duty. They were the two who had seen her most often and would be most likely to give her one of the extra keys they kept to his apartment. If it was one of them, she decided her plan would be to presume that he knew Austin was never coming back, and she would share how devastated she was that he was gone.

  * * *

  . . .

  Sure enough, it was Sean who was behind the desk and opened the glass door for her. Sean was in his late fifties, and his uniform jacket buttons worked hard to keep a great barrel of a chest confined. He was cheerfully gruff, with a walrus mustache that was as white as his hair, and massive brown eyeglasses that looked like they came from a vintage clothing shop in Greenwich Village.

  “Alexis,” he began when she was inside the lobby with him, “I’m so sorry about Austin.”

  “You heard?”

  “Yeah. His father called. Told us to let his friend in yesterday afternoon. I gather his parents will be here tomorrow. Both of them.”

  She nodded, absorbing this. Someone had already been upstairs. Someone had beaten her here—and with Austin’s parents’ permission. “Was it Stephen?” she asked, making up a name just to elicit a response. She hoped she sounded knowing.

  “No, it was that bald fellow. Guy Austin’s age who I guess works with him at the hospital. He came straight from the office. Was still in his suit.”

  “Of course. That’s”—and she stopped and rolled her eyes in frustration, hoping it looked as if the name were on the tip of her tongue but she just couldn’t quite remember it.

  He reached for a n
otebook behind the counter and scrolled back a page. “Oscar,” he said. “Oscar Bolton.”

  She noted the last name. It would be easy enough to confirm that this was the same Oscar who had been in Sally Gleason’s office earlier that afternoon. But she was almost certain it was.

  “Do you mind if I go upstairs?” she asked.

  He seemed to think about this. He seemed on the verge of asking her why, pressing her for details. He seemed about to say no. And so she considered hinting there was something of hers that she didn’t want Austin’s parents to find—something vaguely sexual and embarrassing—and was fully prepared to go with this ruse. As she began to fabricate a story in her mind, she stammered, “I…I left,” and then wiped at her eye, even though there was no tear there and quickly looked away. She sniffed, a gesture that was histrionic but, she suspected, helpful. For all she knew, her eyes were still red from the moment she had parted with Sally Gleason.

  And it worked. She didn’t have to concoct a story. She’d given him just enough. He went into the closet behind the counter where they stored the residents’ dry cleaning and packages that arrived during the day and returned with the spare keys.

  “Make sure you bring them back when you’re done,” he said. And then, perhaps fearing he had sounded too harsh, added, “I don’t know if his parents have a set. They might need them tomorrow.”

  * * *

  . . .

  For a long moment she stood at the living room window of his apartment and stared down at the street thirteen floors below. The window—the windows of the whole building—needed cleaning badly. The glass was speckled with black dirt.

  Being here was hitting her hard. She knew it would, and now she had turned away to face the outside world instead. Six and a half months they had had together. Not a lot, but enough. She knew how she had felt in Hoi An before she had learned he had lied: she had thought that she loved him. Maybe she loved him still. She knew only for sure that she was still trying to navigate a maelstrom rich with both confusion and grief. And though they had spent more nights at her place than his, they had spent enough time here that she could feel the emptiness and the loss in a way that was causing her eyes once more to well with tears.