A Measure of Blood (13 page)

“Could I interview you, too?”

“Sure.”

Jan is relieved when Marina leads the young woman to the marble-topped radiator in the lobby, where they sit. All publicity is good publicity, as they say.

Friday

“I CAN RELIEVE YOU,”
he said to the girl behind the desk. She looked surprised. He wasn't due at work until noon. “If you want.”

“You kidding? Really?”

“It's okay. If you're tired.”

“Well, all right. Thanks. I'll get you back sometime.” She grabbed her backpack uncertainly. “You're sure?”

“Yep.”

Work was better. It just was. He heard her on her cell phone saying, “I guess he didn't have anything better to do.”

Fuck her. Unappreciative type.

But … ha. She was still logged on.

He looked up Arthur Morris in the course catalog online and saw that Professor Morris taught Victorian Poetry in a graduate seminar on Wednesdays and that he taught Shakespeare on Monday and Wednesday mornings. He went to faculty profiles and learned Morris wrote books—another professor, just like Old Arne. And Janet Gabriel—articles, plays directed. Busy, busy people. Yes, he knew about people like that.

Now he wasn't breathing well at all. He went to various weather sites. Pittsburgh, Miami, Rio, Puerto Rico, Los Angeles. Then national news. Then YouTube. Covering his trail. Nobody would notice, nobody would care.

“Hey, it's you.”

He looked up. It was the woman he helped the other day. “Hey, how's it going?”

“Better than I thought. You were right. I'm not the only old person in class. And I'm not the dumbest either.”

“What classes?”

“I have a writing class, anthropology, sociology, and planetary science. I was afraid to tackle more than four.”

Yes, she was very good looking. She didn't have a scarf on her hair today.

“I don't know where to work, though. When I go home, I get distracted and nervous—I don't know why, just other associations with home, I guess. If I sit in the lab here, I take up a computer for too long. The library isn't quiet anymore. People talk.”

He didn't know what to tell her. “Try … maybe try the study areas in the hallways at Posvar. Or. There's, like, that little restaurant on the second floor. Or like today, when it's nice, you can study outside.”

She laughed, a nice burbly laugh. “Believe me, I tried that. All the tables and benches were already taken. One girl was stretched out trying to get a suntan. And the cell phones! I couldn't hear myself think.”

Again he didn't know what to say.

“Thanks for the counsel. And adieu. I hope you have a great day.”

He wasn't a terrible person. She liked him.

CHRISTIE TELLS HIS
SMALL GROUP
of select detectives, “Keep at the Corolla registration and purchases. It's not a strong lead but it's all we have. The kid is smart. He's visual. Let's go with it.”

The detectives look at him hopefully.

“Potocki and Dolan. Toyota dealers. Any maroon car sold in the last five years. The rest of you, fresh eyes on the surveillance tapes. And the DMV lists. Just keep spelling each other. Give it one last go.”

They stand and go to their posts. Colleen holds back a bit, then begins to move to her cubicle, then comes back to him. “You like Matt.”

He shrugs.

“Well, you won with the judge. Kept him out of the system and got him into a good home.”

“Yep. I have to do something else today,” he tells her. “Actually this is prompted by the judge. I guess she thinks I'm frivolous. She wanted to know if I've been back to see the Philips kids.”

“Oh, wow. Like you're supposed to be taking care of eight families at once.”

“No, she's right. I should have been back regularly.”

“That's expecting a lot.”

“Let's go see them now.”

“You want me to come?”

“Yes.”

THE DAY STARTED
OUT
cloudy but the sun is breaking. There are a few children on the streets since the elementary and secondary schools have yet to start; these are the last precious days of summer. So maybe the Philips kids will be home.

They were supposed to call him if things were bad and they haven't so maybe, hopefully things are okay—but then, they are proud.

He pulls up in front of their house, a small four-room place. A front window is open and there are sounds of pots or pans being put down inside.

The door is opened by a kid in a ponytail and glasses. She pushes the glasses up. “Oh. Hi.”

It's Laurie. Christie still remembers their names. “Just visiting,” he assures her. “Nothing to worry about.” The kids fell in love with a guy named Nick who is now in witness protection. Before that
they
were his protectors. They were marvelous kids, all of them, generous and good to Nick, who was lost. “You're all home?”

“Well, no. Just, just two of us.”

“Busy? You seem busy.”

“I was just finishing dishes and I was going to take Susannah to the park. She likes the jungle gym.”

“You don't?”

“I'm getting too old for it,” she says.

“Can we come in?”

“Oh my gosh, I'm sorry. Sure.” She opens the door hesitantly. The place is pretty much the same. One new chair. A tablecloth in the kitchen. An old iMac on the hall table with a stool in front of it.

“Where's your mum?”

“Alison went shopping. Then she has work. She starts work at twelve.”

“Food shopping? Will she be back before work?”

“No, I think it was some other kind of shopping. And then straight to work.”

“Where's your brother?”

“Basketball, I think. I'm not sure. He took a book. He might be at the library. He likes the computers there.”

“How's this one?”

“Slow. We have dial-up. Meg's going to order Wi-Fi.”

“The computer might not take to it,” Colleen murmurs.

“I'd like to look into getting you guys a newer computer in the house.”

“Wow. That would be great!” Laurie says in her gravelly voice.

“Mind if I look around? I need to make sure you're all doing okay.”

She steps nervously aside. “Susannah,” she calls. “Come on down.” Her sister is at the top of the steps. She wears knee-length pants and a T-shirt. The clothes are clean, Christie notes. But that was the case before. Clean kids.

“Where's Meg?” he asks.

“Working. At Doug's Market.”

“What are her hours?”

“Days. Like nine to five.”

Not the typical teenage summer.

He opens the refrigerator. Not much, but more than before. Bread and milk and eggs. He opens a cupboard. Again, slender. He opens another. Crackers. A carton of cigarettes. He opens a lower cabinet. A bottle of whiskey. So Alison, their stepmother, was still not big on prioritizing food. Once more he wishes he'd been able to place them with Jan and Arthur.

He tries to keep his voice light. “What
do
you eat? What's for lunch?”

“Oh, we go to Doug's when we're done in the park. Meg buys us the special of the day. She gets a cut rate because she kind of makes the special.”

“That sounds good. And dinner? Who cooks?”

“We all do.”

“Very impressive,” he says. “Four good cooks.”

Laurie shifts from foot to foot, no doubt fretting that their
coping
won't be seen as good enough, wondering, is he here to ruin their lives?

“Maybe see you over at Doug's,” he says lightly when he leaves. He and Colleen walk slowly to the car. “I don't like it,” he says.

“Are we really going to Doug's?”

“Yep.” But he drives down to North first and then up Arch, stopping in front of the library. “In case.”

It turns out Joel
is
in there. He's at a table, head in his hand, reading. He, too, looks nervous to see them.

The library is brand new, everything ultra-blond wood and modern. The shelves … not very full.

The detectives sit down. “We're just visiting.”

“Is this about Nick?”

“No. He's okay last we heard. Sober. We have to hope it lasts.”

“He called us a couple of times.”

“Did he?” Witness protection. Not supposed to call. “And?”

“He sounded okay. But I got scared when you came in something bad had happened to him.”

“He's okay. I just wanted to check on your family. Schools working out, food in the house.”

“School doesn't start again until next week.”

“I know. Still on scholarship?”

“Yeah. Shadyside Academy. And Meg is going to CAPA.”

“That's fantastic. That sounds right.”

“Yeah.”

“But lots of transportation to work out, I'll bet.”

Joel allows himself a grimace. “You said it.”

“So everything is going fine? Alison comes home. Stays at the house?”

“Yes.”

“Good. What are you reading?”

Joel holds the book up.
When the Air Hits Your Brain: Tales from Neurosurgery
.

“Uh-huh,” Christie teases. “A little light reading, eh?
”

Next they go up to Doug's Market.

Meg sees them right away. Her face brightens excitedly before panic sets in.

Christie hurries to assure her, too. “Everything is fine. Your friend is fine. We're just visiting.”

“Oh, good.”

She wears an apron and she's ladling chili onto a hot dog for a park vagrant who smells to high heaven.

“You work long hours.”

“It's okay. I like work.”

And she gets to feed her family.

“I think we might need a couple of your chili dogs.”

“Oh, great.” She blushes and busies herself making them. “With cheese on?”

Colleen says, “For me, yes,” and looks surprised when Christie adds, “Give us the works.” He's going to need pills.

“Does Laurie still babysit?”

“When she can.”

“And you?”

“The same.”

“That's a lot of working.”

“Sometimes babysitting is almost fun, like not working.”

“Did you see the news by any chance about a woman who was killed last weekend in Squirrel Hill?”

“Yes. We saw that.”

“She has a little boy.”

Meg wraps their hot dogs carefully and presents them. Christie pulls out his wallet. “You have to pay up front,” she says.

“You think you or Laurie might be able to babysit when the new parents need someone?”

“If we could get there.”

“I'm sure something could be worked out. They might even come for you or drop him off.”

“Okay.”

“The boy I'm concerned about needs to talk some … be encouraged to talk. He doesn't have any family left, and he's a bit stuck when it comes to talking about his mother or his feelings.”

“I could try.”

“That's all anybody can do.”

He and Colleen sit in the car eating their lunch. After a while, Colleen says, “I thought Matt was going to grief counseling.”

“The next session doesn't start until October.” If the idea is to put a kid with other kids who have had losses, he figured, why not arrange a little something himself?

“What are you thinking about the Philips kids?”

“They'll get by. They keep managing. It's lousy, lots of lemons, lots of lemonade.”

Colleen pretends to punch at his arm. “Getting creative,” she says, “with the words.”

ABOUT THIRTY PEOPLE
HAVE BEEN
invited to Sasha's house in Highland Park. It's a worn-down brick off the main drag. Most people have brought food. Because the day is muggy, windows are open and flies are at the food. A video of Maggie on a camping vacation with Matt and Sasha's family plays endlessly on a loop in the living room where a computer shoots the images to a screen. Sasha has been pulling all of this together for days. All around the three rooms that hold the memorial party are still photos of Maggie; propped against the walls are Maggie's paintings. The mourners (or
celebrants
, since the current terminology used is a
celebration of her life
) wander from one image to another as if they are in a gallery.

Arthur and Jan sit quietly in the living room, watching the video. Jan leans forward at times, thoughtful, studying certain moments. At one point, she gets up to follow Christie who is touring the paintings with Sasha. “Tell me about these,” he says to Sasha. “I'm not much of a gallery goer. They remind me of something.”

“In the end, she didn't think they were working.”

“I don't know how to judge these things. They're pretty.”

Jan smiles encouragingly at him.

Sasha says, “Mag didn't want pretty. She was trying to overlay images of people with tile patterns from the Middle East. She liked the art of the Middle East and the music and the people. She thought she could see the angles and colors of the faces and bodies in the mosaic patterns.”

“I can see what she was after,” Jan remarks.

Christie is squinting at something that looks like a mosque spire and also like a face.

“She didn't think she caught it. She said all she'd managed was Omar Sharif in a bathroom.”

The three of them laugh spontaneously, and other people look at them, both surprised and pleased that someone has found something to laugh about.

“Does Matt paint?” Jan asks. “Should we be getting him—”

“Never showed any interest.”

Out of the corner of his eye—and Dolan does this too—Christie watches people who have alibis and no motive and don't seem in the least suspicious—a mark of just how desperate the police are.

They have run all the prints through AFIS Local and State and then National and cannot get a match. They have canvassed the neighborhood and questioned all of Maggie's friends, asking about everything, including the maroon Corolla. They have checked all Toyota dealers in the area. They are following up on the owners of maroon Corollas with the DMV.