“No, this is just regular anxiety.”
He patted my hand and then went to the stove to get his breakfast. “I know it’s rough. But we’ll get through it, Hana. We did last month, and we will now.”
“Okay. But I can’t stop thinking—poor Will Kodaly didn’t get through it. He should have had the chance.”
He scooped some eggs onto a plate. “Toast is in the oven,” I said. He claimed his warm toast, turned off the oven, and came back to the table, where he sat across from me.
“You’re right: Will Kodaly should have had that chance. Someone in this world decided that they could deprive a man of his very life. That’s evil. The work of the devils in the fairy tale you gave me.” He gestured toward the refrigerator, where my Hana tale still hung under his dinosaur magnet, but his green eyes were on me when he said, “And that’s why we send those people to jail.”
* * *
It was strange to be back in William Kodaly’s house, although not as dreadful as I had feared. The place had a sterile feel now, and the life of the man was no longer really in evidence, since Falken had turned the upstairs into a sort of warehouse, separating art from linens and tools from tableware. “How unfair, to have people rifling through your things,” I said, listlessly touching a box labeled “Books and Magazines.”
Falken shrugged. “Someone will go through all of our things in the end, Hana. It’s what we guarantee by spending our lives accumulating possessions.”
Erik agreed with a nod of his head. He wore a suit jacket over his sweater now. He looked around the living room, where Falken was doing most of the sorting and boxing, and said, “I know he had lots of papers and journals and things. Where did those go?”
Falken pointed to a large trunk under a window. “I’ve started accumulating them in there.”
“Hana?” Erik said, looking at me. “Could you look at them? See if anything seems significant to you?” His phone rang, and he said, “Wolf. Greg! I’m glad you called. I’m at the Kodaly place now . . .” He walked out of the room, talking in low tones to his partner. When he came back a few minutes later, he said, “I’ve got to run. Check in with me if you find anything significant.” He bent to kiss me, and then he was gone.
I turned my attention back to the room full of boxes. Falken was busy winding the cord of a Tiffany lamp that glowed, even when not illuminated, with shades of blue, green, and purple. He met my gaze and nodded. “You were right, Hana. The man’s house is a treasure trove. He had the eye of a collector.”
“Yes. And you saw his paintings?”
“Amazing.”
“There’s something ethereal about them, isn’t there?”
“I can’t even determine his technique. How he got the effect he did. But it’s remarkable.”
I sat down next to the trunk and flipped through some notebooks, letters, legal pads, sheet music. There was a lot to go through.
“I suppose the police catalogued all this?”
“My understanding is that they took photographs of everything. But I don’t know how they would process those. How would anyone know if something was a clue, or even if anything was?”
I shrugged. I started going through the stack of letters in the trunk. Several of them were written in Hungarian and bore the postmark of Keszthely. Not surprising—Kodaly’s family had once been there. I set them aside and looked at the postmarks of the other letters. Some were from art organizations or universities—a quick glance in some envelopes told me that they referenced either awards Kodaly had won or requests for him to visit campuses as a speaker or an artist in residence. One notified him of an honorary degree that had been bestowed upon him. Kodaly really had been well-known; how had I never heard of him?
Time passed. After half an hour I was nearing the end of the pile. I noted bits and pieces of personal correspondence, although these were few; no one wrote letters anymore. My eye caught on a plain white envelope labeled “Békéscsaba.” What connection did Kodaly have to that town?
I lifted the envelope, and my hand grew hot. “Oh no,” I whispered, half fearful to see what was inside. The envelope contained a printed e-mail, dated about a year earlier. It was written in English, on professional stationery that bore a centered company name: Portnoy Investigations.
Dear Mr. Kodaly,
Thank you for your business. We have been unable to find out anything else about Natalia Kedves beyond our initial report about the child’s abduction and return.
We did determine several things about her personal life, which I will enumerate here. Her husband, Imre, died in the Hungarian Uprising in November of 1956. She had one daughter, Juliana, whom she raised alone. She did not remarry. She lived in Békéscsaba until 1978, when she and her daughter moved to Budapest. In that city, the daughter met a young man named Andras Horvath and married him two years later. They had three children: Zoltan, Magdalena, and Luca. Eventually the whole family emigrated to the United States. We could find no one in Békéscsaba who remembered Natalia or had heard the rumors about her. We did find the old policeman, Joseph Rohaly, in Budapest. He verified the story and spoke highly of Mrs. Kedves, saying that she was the most astounding person he had ever met.
We plan now to close our investigation in Hungary. Please let us know if you would like us to extend the search or if we should send you the final invoice.
Sincerely,
Alexander Portnoy,
Portnoy Investigations
I lowered the letter; Falken appeared at my side, touching my arm with a warm hand. “Hana, you’re very pale. Are you all right? Are you going to faint?”
Wordlessly, I handed him the letter. He read it, saying, “Oh, my,” every few seconds. Then he gave it back to me. “He was investigating your family.”
“My great-grandmother in particular. She was psychic. I’m guessing that’s what he wanted to know more about, but why?”
Falken shrugged, nonplussed.
I looked back at the letter. “It’s so weird to see my family written about in this—scientific tone. Like they’re in an encyclopedia. My grandpa! No one calls him Andras. His friends on the railroad called him ‘Drosh,’ which got shortened to ‘Dosh.’ Then everyone called him that.” My eyes scanned the page again. “And they even investigated my uncle Zoltan and my aunt Luca! It’s crazy.”
Falken nodded. “It is odd. This man was a stranger to you, right?”
“Yes, but not to my mother and grandmother. He knew them . . .” I thought of the painting called Magdalena’s Eyes. Had I been wrong all along? Was Kodaly in love with my mother? Or had he been fascinated with my family for some other reason? I thought of the moment that he had shaken my hand and introduced himself. There had been a momentary burst of light, just as there seemed to be light around many of his paintings. He had said something about my family, and that he’d like to discuss them over coffee. What had he wanted to say?
I set the letter down and took out my phone. “Falken, give me a second, I want to make a call.”
I moved into an empty hallway of Kodaly’s sad house and looked for a number, then pressed call.
“Riverwood Chamber of Commerce,” chirped a woman’s voice.
“Henrik Sipos, please.”
“I’ll see if Henrik is in. Just one moment!” She disappeared, and I was treated to a Muzak version of Adele’s “Hello.”
“Good morning. This is Henrik Sipos,” said Henrik in a formal tone. He sounded once again like a Hungarian ambassador.
“Henrik, this is Hana Keller.”
“Oh, hello, my dear! How are you this morning? I am sorry to hear there was this event of vandalism at the dance. I hope you were having a nice time before then?” His voice was full of warmth and affection.
“I—it was lovely, thank you again, Henrik. I wonder if I could ask you a question.”
“Of course.�
�
“It’s about Will Kodaly, and his painting of your reunion with your mother.”
“Yes.”
“Did he—ask questions about that reunion? And about my great-grandmother Natalia?”
“Oh yes! He was most curious about it. Like many people, he seemed to have a fascination with the idea of the second sight, you know. And he wanted to know everything: how did the police find her? How did she work? Did she have a crystal ball or those fortune-telling cards? I laughed a good deal at this idea.”
“He wanted to know her methods? Why?”
“He could not imagine how this works. To simply know something. To see something. Like the blue barn. He decided he wanted to paint the barn, too, after he finished the reunion painting. All based on what he imagined, of course. I was at first surprised, but then I realized—it is a special story. Anyone would think so.”
“Yes. And—did he ask you anything else?”
There was silence for a moment. Then Henrik said, “He did ask something. He said, ‘Did it make her happy, this gift?’ I said I did not know.”
“Thank you, Henrik. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime you would like to call, dear Hana.”
We said good-bye, and I walked to Kodaly’s empty kitchen, where a lonely chair sat in the middle of the room. I slumped onto this and tried to gather my thoughts. Why had Kodaly wanted to know about Natalia? Was he in fact just fascinated by psychic phenomena? But would a general fascination extend to hiring a private investigator? And why had he wanted to know if she was happy?
I sighed, then picked up my phone to text Erik: Kodaly hired a private investigator to go to Békéscsaba and learn more about Natalia and her whole family!!!!!!!
He wrote back: That’s weird. I’m on it. About to question Talman again; then I’ll talk to Sofia and ask her about that. I know you didn’t talk to her yet, but this can’t wait.
With a sigh, I put my phone away and looked around Kodaly’s kitchen, from the lonely whisk on his counter to the postcard held onto his refrigerator with a magnet (just as Erik’s held my Hungarian fairy tale).
I got up and went to the refrigerator. The postcard was an art print of a Van Gogh field of waving wheat, a sensory blend of beauty, color, and feeling. I slid it from behind the magnet and looked at the back. It bore no return address, and only one scrawled word beyond Kodaly’s own address: “SOON.”
The police had most likely seen this, but I took a photo and sent it to Erik.
Then I went back to Falken and the task of looking through the possessions of a dead man.
Chapter 18
The Forest with Many Paths
Officer Tate picked me up in a police cruiser; it was a sort of intentional déjà vu, climbing into the same car from the same location. I gave him the address of Katie’s building. “You can just let me off at the entrance,” I assured him.
He shook his head and looked at me in his rearview mirror. “Detective Wolf gave me very specific instructions. I’ll be walking you in, and upstairs.”
“Oh—okay, thanks.”
“You two are an item, huh?” It was an inappropriate question, especially because Erik was his superior officer, but his face was friendly and eager, and I was guessing everyone at the station knew by now.
“Yes.”
“That’s cool. I saw a picture of you on his desk once.”
I felt an unexpected flood of warmth, then a ridiculous smile that I covered with my hand in a pretend yawn.
I decided to change the subject. “Who’s that little person on your visor? The little fireman sitting on a fire truck?”
He laughed. “That’s Aaron. He’s two, and he’s a real handful. We’re expecting another one.”
“Oh, congratulations!”
He said, “My wife gets all the credit. She’s great. I don’t know how she does all that she does, but she manages to do it all.”
“The miraculous modern woman,” I said. Then I thought of Natalia, and said, “But I guess women were always miraculous.”
“No argument from me,” he said with a smile.
We chatted about his son until the Chicago skyline loomed large and Officer Tate found his way to Superior Street. “It’s that giant building there,” I said. “Imperius is on the fifth floor.”
“Got it,” he said. He pulled into a slot that said “No Parking Any Time.”
“The perks of being the police?” I asked lightly.
He laughed, then said, “Look at this guy. We really need to address the homeless problem. Not just in Chicago, but everywhere.”
I looked where he pointed and saw a man slumped against a light pole, his long hair hanging around his face. He held a sloppily scrawled sign that said “They Are Coming.” This made me think of the sárkány, their giant wings beating. My heart started up the same rhythm as the dragons in my mind.
“You okay?” Tate asked.
“That man seems familiar,” I said.
“Him?” Tate dismissed him with a sniff. “Not the kind of guy you’d run into, I don’t think. Okay, I’m gonna do a quick look around, then we’ll move into the building.”
He got out. I texted Katie: I’m here. I looked back at the man who slumped against the pole. He wore faded brown corduroys and a flannel shirt, along with large, nondescript boots that seemed ill fitting. I couldn’t tell if he were awake or asleep or even unconscious.
My door opened and I jumped. Tate said, “We’re all set.”
I climbed out of the car, and he stood close by my side as we walked briskly to the entrance. We moved into the large marble-floored lobby with Art Deco light fixtures just as Katie was emerging from a central elevator. She ran over. “Perfect timing! I just took my lunch. Ed went out to get us some food; isn’t he sweet?”
“He’s very sweet. This is Officer Tate. He was nice enough to escort me here today.”
Tate’s eyes were flicking around the room, cop style. Katie shook his hand, and he said, “And I’ll be escorting you both up to your floor. The sooner we’re out of this open area, the better.”
It wasn’t fun to think of myself as a giant target for some random marksman. Katie led the way back to the elevator, and we climbed aboard with Officer Tate, who refused to let other passengers on with us. “Take the next one,” he said in a no-nonsense voice.
We stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor and into the impressive lobby of the Imperius Advertising Agency. The space was dominated by a long gray reception desk with the word “IMPERIUS” on the front in large white letters. A tasteful vase of autumnal blooms sat on one end of the counter, and a clipboard sat in the middle.
An attractive receptionist looked up at us from her desk behind the counter, where she had been typing something rapidly on her keyboard. “These your guests, Katie?”
Katie pointed at me. “Just this one. The police officer is her escort. She gets special treatment.”
The receptionist, whose name tag said “Persephone,” raised her elegant, sculpted eyebrows but said nothing as she stood up and moved to the counter. She pointed at the clipboard and said, “Sign in here, please. I’ll get your visitor badge.”
I thanked Officer Tate, who shook my hand and moved back to the elevator. When the doors closed, he was texting on his phone, and I imagined I knew who he was notifying. Persephone handed me a badge; I peeled off the backing and affixed it to my blouse.
Katie straightened her long silky ponytail and said, “Come on. We don’t have to squeeze into my cubicle; I did manage to sign out a conference room.” I followed her slender form down a blue-carpeted hallway, peeking now and then into offices where I saw people writing on computers and, in another room, exchanging lively dialogue while clustered around a whiteboard.
“This space I reserved is right by all the bigwigs,” she said with a mischievous grin. “
I think they might want to see two cute girls eat sandwiches.”
I laughed and followed her into a narrow room with a gleaming walnut conference table. “Grab a chair,” Katie said. “They’re really comfortable.”
The chair was comfortable, I noted. Moments after I settled in and spun myself around a few times, Eduardo appeared, looking handsome in a white button-down shirt and gray cardigan with black work pants. He sent a smoldering look to Katie, who blushed, and set a bag in front of me. “Sub sandwiches in there, and I grabbed a couple waters and Diet Cokes. I have a meeting in five, so sorry to miss you, Hana. Have a nice lunch.”
“See you around,” said Katie, her face still red.
His face was serious; only his eyes betrayed him. “Yeah, I think we have a conference together at three.”
“Got it,” Katie said.
Eduardo waved and left the room. She turned to me and said, “We’re keeping our relationship quiet for now.”
I nodded. “Very professional of you. But it won’t take a body language expert to see what you two have. I think the temperature went up a full two degrees when he walked in here.”
Katie’s eyes widened. “It’s so weird. Here, have a sandwich.” She handed me a Styrofoam plate and a wrapped sandwich. “Before, we could pretend to be platonic. I don’t know what’s different, but it’s different.”
I shrugged, unwrapping my lunch. “It’s because you both realized what you could lose, and it flipped a switch. Now you feel more desire.”
She smiled at me, a secret, happy smile. “No comment.”
“So what else is new at Imperius? What project are you working on?”
She rolled her eyes. “We are currently trying to find a way to make dandruff shampoo alluring.”
“That is a hard sell. But if anyone can do it, you can.” I took a big bite of the sandwich.
“Thanks for your confidence,” Katie said. “I’m having a water. Do you want one?”
“I’ll have a Diet Coke. Erik is getting me hooked.” I took another bite. “This is really good.”
Death of a Wandering Wolf Page 21