Suspicion

by Joseph Finder

  Powered by nervous energy, but even more by simple competitiveness, he played better and more forcefully than he had before the break. Maybe because he was beginning to learn Galvin’s serve, or maybe he just got lucky, but Danny returned the serve, hit a drive, and Galvin hit a drive back. Then Danny hit a backhand drop shot and scored a point. He’d pulled even. Eight all.

  Then came a long rally. Not just a long rally, but the Bataan Death March of rallies. A cramp emerged in his left side, spreading and blooming, its raptor claws clutching and twisting his insides. The only noise in the court was the squeak of their gum soles on the floor and the th-pock th-pock th-pock of their racquets hitting the ball.

  Galvin began panting.

  Then Danny backed away from the ball and bent deeply, stepping back as if clearing space for a big backhand drive. But at the last second, he hit the ball softly. It kissed the side wall, barely touched the front wall, and there it died.

  Galvin had lost the point and the game. He laughed loudly. “Ha! The old trickle boast! Nice!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Good job of—deception there.” Galvin gasped. “Ya got me.”

  “Thanks.” Danny scooped up the ball to serve, but Galvin put up a hand to stop him. He was breathing heavily.

  “You almost killed me.”

  Danny smiled.

  “All—right,” Galvin said. He leaned over, bracing himself with his palms on his thighs. He looked up at Danny, face dark, glowering. “The hell did you—do in the locker room?”

  Danny’s stomach did a flip. “What?”

  “That break you just took,” Galvin said. “I know what—you were up to.”

  “Hold on . . .”

  “That wasn’t a water break. You went—you found some Red Bull, right?” He attempted a pallid grin. “PowerBar, maybe? I mean, you musta taken something back there. Now, that—was a game.”

  Relief flooded Danny’s body like a warm bath. He smiled, nodded. “Damn near killed myself. Listen, my bladder’s about to explode. Gotta use the bathroom real quick. This time I won’t take as long. Promise.”

  “Gonna take another hit of that Red Bull, is that it?”

  Danny chuckled. “Be right back.” It would take only about a minute to disconnect Galvin’s BlackBerry—the gizmo had to be finished hoovering up the data—and return it to Galvin’s locker.

  “Know what?” Galvin said. “I think—it’s nature’s way—telling us it’s quitting time.”

  Danny’s mind began spinning, a hamster on a wheel. He had to get back to his locker before Galvin opened his own and noticed his BlackBerry missing.

  Before—oh God—Galvin realized his locker key was missing.

  Screwed, he thought. Now I’m screwed.

  “No way. I’m making a comeback.”

  “Three to one—Danny—don’t know what kind of miracle you’re hoping for.”

  “I thought we said best of seven.”

  “Naaah, I’ve got to get back. Got an afternoon from hell ahead of me.”

  “I’ll make it quick. You can spare ten more minutes, right?”

  “Sorry, man. I’m—done. You’re welcome to stay and—do drills or whatever.”

  “That’s all right. See you in there,” Danny said, hoping to get there ahead of him. When he reached the swinging doors to the locker room, he heard Galvin groan loudly.

  “My damn locker key.”

  Danny froze. Swiveled his head toward Galvin. “Oh, jeez. Sorry, man, I must have spaced out, grabbed yours.” He fished Galvin’s key out of his left pocket, held it out sheepishly, then tossed it to Galvin, who caught it in the air. “No wonder I couldn’t open my locker.”

  “So where’s yours?”

  “I got both. Don’t ask.”

  Galvin looked baffled, shook his head. “Whatever.”

  Danny pushed his way into the locker room ahead of Galvin. Galvin followed a few seconds behind, still breathing hard.

  Danny went to his locker, unlocked it, and planted his body between the open locker and Galvin’s line of sight. The MobilXtract had finished. The entire contents of Galvin’s BlackBerry had been downloaded.

  Now all that remained was to get Galvin’s phone back where it belonged.

  Galvin was standing before his own open locker, staring inside. His breathing was slowing. His brow was furrowed. Like something was puzzling him.

  Like he was looking for something.

  Danny reached in, yanked his dress shirt off its hook and draped it over the BlackBerry and the MobilXtract. He held his breath, bracing himself for Galvin to notice the missing BlackBerry.

  And if he did, then what?

  He’d assume his memory was faulty. Anyone would. He’d be thinking that he didn’t really put his BlackBerry in his suit pocket. He just thought he did. When you reach middle age and you start to forget things, your memory’s no longer an unimpeachable witness. Maybe he left it somewhere, misplaced it. He wouldn’t be suspecting theft, not here, not in the Plympton Club.

  He’d search his locker. Then look around to see if he’d dropped it.

  Maybe he’d go ask José.

  Instead, Galvin didn’t seem to be missing his phone at all, at least not yet. He was disrobing. So Danny did, too.

  And realized the hitch in his plan.

  Because if Galvin locked his locker and took his key with him to the shower, Danny wouldn’t be able to return the damned BlackBerry.

  But would he lock up? You would at a gym whose clientele was sketchy. Not here.

  Galvin didn’t.

  He slammed his locker just before Danny did, and they headed for the showers.

  But then “Sweet Home Alabama” came on. Muffled, but still audible.

  Danny cursed silently.

  Galvin stopped, turned, as if listening to the tune.

  Or as if deciding whether to answer his phone.

  Then he turned back and kept on going, and Danny, exhaling, followed. The showers were next to the restroom area with the sinks and toilets and urinals. Danny hung up his towel and entered an old-fashioned shower stall across the aisle from Galvin’s. It had once probably been deluxe but was now just old. White subway tiles covered the three walls, floor to ceiling, with little hex tiles on the floor. Brass shower mixer handles and escutcheon and a sunflower rain showerhead the size of a dinner plate.

  Danny let the water run for all of ten seconds, the world’s fastest shower. It didn’t even have a chance to get warm. Then he shut it off, grabbed his towel off the hook, and rushed through the restroom area toward the locker, as if he’d forgotten his shampoo or something. Even though each shower stall had shampoo and soap dispensers.

  He heard a squee squeee squee squee and glanced up to see José.

  The damned locker room attendant, who seemed to have a sixth sense for when Danny didn’t want him around, was pushing a big yellow mop bucket and wringer on squeaky casters. He didn’t look up when Danny went by.

  Danny needed ten, at most twelve, seconds to make the switch.

  He had counted it out. Open his locker, take the BlackBerry, over to Galvin’s locker, open it, reach into Galvin’s suit jacket, slip it into the pocket.

  Six quick moves. Twelve seconds, max.

  He found his locker. Opened it.

  Heard loud voices reverberating against hard walls.

  “¿Como le fue el partido?” José speaking.

  “Mas o menos.” Galvin. He, too, must have taken a brisk shower. José probably wouldn’t be talking to him if he were still bathing. That meant Galvin was out, maybe toweling off.

  But maybe he’d take his time drying himself. Or stand in front of the mirror and comb his hair.

  Danny opened his locker, yanked the USB cable out of the phone.

  “¡Chinga, espero que el pegó f
uerte!” said José.

  He spun, located Galvin’s locker.

  Then Galvin’s voice, louder and markedly closer. “¡Si, le gané bien facíl! ¿Como esta Andrea?”

  Pulse racing, he opened Galvin’s locker. A sudden worry: What would he say if Galvin saw him? Sorry, wrong locker? I opened yours instead of mine? Preposterous and not credible.

  Galvin’s chalk-stripe suit hung neatly on its wooden hanger.

  Now José: “Pues si, señor, está muy bien, gracias a Dios.”

  Without even looking, Danny jammed the BlackBerry into a pocket, the inside breast pocket of the suit, and—

  Shut Galvin’s locker door just as Galvin hove into sight, towel around his waist, whistling.

  He clearly hadn’t seen what Danny had just done.

  Sweat broke out on Danny’s scalp.

  “So what’s up for you now?” Galvin asked, opening his locker. “Back to work?”

  “Gotta pick Abby up at school.”

  “Right, right, it’s almost that time, isn’t it?” He put on an undershirt and then his crisp white shirt. “Sometimes I like to pick Jenna up, but today doesn’t work.”

  They finished dressing. Galvin put on his suit coat. “This was fun. We should do it again. You’re a whole lot better than you kept telling me. Man, I mean, a trickle boast, right?”

  “Sweet Home Alabama” came on. Galvin reflexively reached his right hand into his left inside breast pocket.

  The tune kept playing. Galvin looked baffled. Fumbled around. His left hand reached into his right inside breast pocket.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Strange,” he said, grabbing his BlackBerry. “I always keep it on that side.”

  He answered the phone: “Yep?” Then, “I should be there in ten minutes.”

  He ended the call. “I must be losing my mind,” he said.

  As if he knew something was amiss.

  31

  Danny drove up to the pickup line at Lyman right on time, but he didn’t see Abby in the knot of girls hanging out in front of the school’s main building.

  Nor was she among the girls trickling out of the front entrance. She was normally punctual. Maybe she was talking to a teacher. Maybe she’d misplaced something.

  By the time Danny’s car reached the curb, the crowd of girls was thinning out, and still no Abby.

  Leon Chisholm, in full traffic-cop mode, gave him a wave and a smile. “Haven’t seen her,” he said. Danny smiled back, hit her phone number on his iPhone.

  It rang once and went to her voice-mail message, high-pitched and singsong. “Hi, it’s Abby, you know what to do!”

  Leon waved him out of the queue, toward the short-term parking area just off the circular drive. “If you don’t mind,” he said. “So I can keep the trains running on time.”

  “No problem.” Danny felt a flash of irritation. Normally, she couldn’t wait to get the hell out of school. It was possible, sure, that she had a good reason for being late. But she should have texted to let him know.

  After five minutes or so waiting with the car running, he switched it off and walked into the school building. He saw a girl he recognized from one of Abby’s birthday parties a few years back at a Build-a-Bear Workshop where the girls made their own teddy bears. She was tiny and had a mop of curly hair and a sour disposition and was in the middle of an animated conversation with a much taller girl in a Lyman Crew warm-up jacket.

  “Shira?”

  The girl turned away from the crew jock. “Yeah?”

  “You see Abby?”

  “You mean, like, in school?”

  “I mean, like, recently.”

  Shira shrugged, shook her head, and turned back to her friend.

  Danny checked his phone for a text message, maybe a voice mail that might have come in without the phone making a sound. That happened sometimes when the reception was spotty. Nothing there.

  He didn’t remember what her last class was or where it took place. He didn’t remember where her locker was. But the school secretary-receptionist in the front office would know where she was supposed to be. It occurred to him that she might be sick, might have gone to the school infirmary. But the school was supposed to call him and say so. Maybe it had just happened.

  All that speculation was pointless, he then decided. She was probably loitering at the lockers—wherever they were—with Jenna.

  Though, come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Galvin’s Maybach limo in the pickup line, and there was no way the new driver was going to be late picking her up.

  He looked around, fully expecting Abby to appear, sheepish or defensive or some combination of both.

  But she wasn’t there.

  The school secretary, Mrs. Gifford, a grandmotherly white-haired woman with apple cheeks who was probably ten years younger than she looked, smiled at him as she finished a conversation and then hung up the phone.

  “Looking for Abby?” Mrs. Gifford said. She knew the names of all the school’s students and could identify all the upper classmen by face.

  “She didn’t sign out early, did she?”

  She donned a pair of reading glasses on a chain around her neck and consulted her computer screen. “She was here today, but you knew that. And, no, she didn’t sign out early. Unless she left early and forgot to sign out as they’re supposed to.”

  “Where was her last class?”

  “Well . . . human sexuality, in Burke 203.”

  “How do you get there?”

  • • •

  It was a long trek through the main building and into the adjoining one, Burke Hall, a maze of jags and blind alleys and staircases up and down and up and down again. He saw a pretty black girl named Carla who was a friend of Abby’s, or at least used to be.

  Carla had seen Abby at lunch but had no idea where she was now.

  Abby wasn’t in or near the classroom where her last class had been held. Danny checked his iPhone, obsessively now, for a text or a voice message or an e-mail. He called her mobile phone and it went straight to voice mail.

  She was nowhere in school to be found.

  So maybe she had disobeyed his order and gone home with Jenna, before dismissal. Somewhere in his call log he had the Galvins’ home number, he was sure. He’d called the house once or twice. Celina Galvin had called his cell once, he recalled. But when he located her incoming call in the call history, it was marked BLOCKED. He searched for the outgoing calls he’d made to their house but didn’t find any. Maybe, in fact, he’d never called their landline. Celina had called him once, and he’d called Abby’s cell when she was over there. No use in trying directory assistance to find their home number. It would be unlisted for sure.

  Well, Galvin was never without his BlackBerry. He called that number, and it went right to voice mail. Damn. Using his phone’s browser, he found the phone number for Galvin Advisers in Boston and called it. He got one of those infernal voice-mail prompt menus that tell you to enter the four-digit extension of the person you want to speak with, or press 9 for a company directory. He pressed 0, then pressed it again, until an operator came on the line, and he asked for Tom Galvin’s office. A woman answered Galvin’s line and said he was out of the office and she had no information on when he was returning, and she had no way of reaching him, and would he like to leave a message? He did. He said it was urgent.

  He called Lucy, on the off chance that she might know something.

  “I haven’t talked to her,” Lucy said. “Was she upset about something?” Traffic noise was loud in the background wherever she was. On Danny’s end, in the school hallways, it was getting quieter.

  “No. Well, yes, maybe. I told her to come home after school and not go over to the Galvins’.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “She naturally wasn’t happy about that.”

>   “Did she refuse?”

  “Refuse? No.”

  “Did she sound upset?”

  “Annoyed, maybe.”

  “Angry at you?”

  “Probably, but what else is new?”

  “So maybe she took the T home.”

  “She knew I was picking her up, like always.”

  “Sure, but maybe she felt insulted. Belittled, as if you were questioning her judgment.”

  “Of course I was questioning her judgment. She’s sixteen.”

  “Maybe she felt infantilized.”

  Infantilized. Shrink talk. But he knew better than to point it out.

  “So she rebelled by taking the train home, to remind you she’s not a kid anymore. Or to punish you, show you she didn’t want to get a ride with you.”

  “Infantilized.” It just slipped out.

  “Danny. If she was on the T when you called and the train was underground, she wouldn’t have cell phone reception and you’d get voice mail. Just try her again.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He’d called her five or six times by now. Unless her train was stuck underground, she couldn’t still be on the subway. “If you hear from her . . .”

  “Of course. You’re not scared something might have happened to her, are you?”

  “Gotta go,” Danny said.

  But he couldn’t keep that image from violating his thoughts, that grotesque photo of Galvin’s chauffeur Esteban, horribly butchered. Abby was the most precious thing in his life, and what’s most precious to us is our greatest vulnerability. If someone had taken her, kidnapped her . . .

  But he couldn’t allow his thoughts to veer off that way.

  He felt oddly remote from the halls around him, covered with drawings and projects. Bulletin boards about club activities and games, and cubbyholes for the younger girls. Unsettling self-portraits on the wall, executed with creepily disproportionate features, a gallery of present and future body-image issues. It was like he was floating in midair, seeing everything through the wrong end of a telescope.

  He returned to his car and got in and tried to clear his head, to think of what to do. He checked and rechecked his phone for voice mails, for texts that might have popped up, might have slipped by unnoticed, but there were none.