The Boy Who Stole From the Dead (12 page)

P
RISONERS AT
R
IKERS
were allowed unlimited visits from their attorneys. When Johnny arrived ten minutes before noon, he did a double take at the line forming in front of the prison. A striking young woman with a perfect oval face stood first in line. More than an hour before visiting hours started. Now that was devotion, Johnny thought. She stood a few steps apart from the rest of the line, closer to the lot where Johnny had parked.

She looked familiar. At first Johnny thought he might have seen her in a Victoria’s Secret ad or in
Sports Illustrated
. Then it hit him. It was Iryna. Bobby’s girlfriend. She caught him staring at her. She soured and looked away. Men must have stared at her all the time. She probably thought he was leering at her. Instead of looking away, Johnny smiled and approached her. In her modeling shots, fully made up, she looked like a mature vixen. Up close, in person and
au naturel
, she looked like a kid. A sweetheart.

“Iryna?” he said.

She looked horrified a strange man was speaking to her.

“You’re Bobby Kungenook’s friend, aren’t you?”

She frowned as though confused.

“I’m Johnny Tanner. Bobby’s attorney.”

Relief washed over her.

“I’ll tell him you’re first in line,” Johnny said. “I’m sure that’ll cheer him up.”

“But I’m not first.”

Johnny looked at the door to the visitor’s center. No one stood in her way. “What do you mean?”

“You’re first.”

Johnny laughed. “Attorneys can go in whenever they want. They don’t count.”

“They’re the only ones who count.” A shadow fell on her face. “Is Bobby going to be okay, Mr. Tanner?”

“Call me Johnny. I’m going to do everything possible to help him.”

“He’s not going to stay in jail the rest of his life, is he?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“I want to give you my card. In case there’s something I can do.”

Iryna picked and probed inside her bag but couldn’t find one. She blushed. Then she fumbled with her wallet. She was trying so hard—she wanted to help so badly, Johnny thought—the entire situation became awkward. Johnny felt his own temperature rising. When she found a business card, they both exhaled. She scribbled a number on the back of it.

“My cell is on the back. If there’s something I can do to help Bobby.”

Johnny took the card. “Iryna Stasiak. Elite Modeling Agency.”

“He didn’t do this thing, Mr. Tanner.”

“You seem certain. How long have you known each other?”

“About two months.”

Johnny smiled. “But it doesn’t take long when you connect with someone, does it?”

She blushed. “No. It doesn’t.”

“Did you know the victim?”

Iryna blanched. “Excuse me?”

“Did you know the victim, Jonathan Valentine?”

“No.”

“Did you ever see him before you saw his picture in the paper?”

Iryna froze.

“Like at a hockey game, for instance?”

“Bobby told me not to tell anyone but the police came by. I couldn’t lie to the police. I love this country. I don’t want to be sent back to Ukraine.”

“No one’s sending you back anywhere. You did the right thing.”

“I did?”

“Absolutely. Can you tell me what happened?”

Iryna repeated her story. It matched the version he’d heard from his friend in the NYPD.

“And you never dated Valentine?”

She looked horrified. “No. I didn’t date him. I didn’t know him. I never spoke to him except for those ten seconds in the stands.”

“And Bobby?”

“He never mentioned him.”

“Not once?”

She set her jaw and locked eyes with Johnny. “Not ever. I know it looks bad. But he didn’t do it. He couldn’t have done it. He’s too sweet to hurt anyone. When he sees a bug in his room, he won’t even step on it. He says every living thing matters.”

“You guys sound like you have a special connection.”

“We have a very special connection.”

“Why?”

“Why do we have a special connection?”

“Yes.”

“We’re both damaged goods.”

“How so?”

“We were both raised by strangers. Neither one of us ever knew our mothers. Did you know Bobby carried a screwdriver and flashlight everywhere he went?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know he slept with them under his pillow?”

“I heard about that.”

“Do you know why?”

“No. Do you?”

“No. I asked but he wouldn’t tell me. He doesn’t like to talk about his past.”

“He’s not the only one.”

“But I think his past may have something to do with all this.”

“Why do you say that?”

She shrugged. “When a girl gets to know a boy, she has a feeling about him.”

Johnny thought of Nadia. Wondered what feelings she had for him, if any.

He thanked Iryna, said good-bye and entered the jail. A guard escorted him into the private room where Johnny was waiting. The bruises on his face appeared lighter. The first time they’d met, Bobby didn’t say a word. Didn’t make eye contact. He just sat in his chair the entire time staring at the wall. Looking as though he’d given up on life.

“How do you feel?”

Bobby didn’t answer.

“You sleeping better?”

Bobby ignored him.

“There’s been a new development in your case. Actually, it’s old news to you.” Johnny told him the police had learned about his previous confrontation with Valentine. “Tell me what happened that night after the hockey game. Did you have words because he hit on Iryna? Is that why you guys met up in the Meatpacking District? To fight it out once and for all?”

He said nothing.

“How am I supposed to defend you if you don’t communicate with me?”

Bobby stared at the floor.

Johnny stood up. He paced back and forth in front of the table for twenty seconds.

“Okay,” Johnny said. “Here’s how I see it. You won’t talk to Nadia, the person who cares more about you than anyone else. You won’t talk to me, your lawyer, the person between you and a life in prison. There’re only two explanations. First explanation, you’re an idiot and a moron. We know you’re not stupid. So that’s out the window. Second explanation, you’re protecting someone. Most likely Nadia. Your thing with Valentine wasn’t about Iryna. It’s something else. Something much more dangerous than a fight over a girl. Something so dangerous that you don’t want Nadia poking around in it, the way you know she will. So you go deaf and mute on us, for fear you might put her life in danger, the way yours was that night with Valentine. How’d I do?”

Bobby’s lips tightened a fraction of an inch. If Johnny hadn’t been staring at them he wouldn’t have noticed the kid’s reaction. It struck fear in Johnny’s heart. It meant a threat of some kind was still out there.

And his girl was alone on the other side of the ocean.

CHAPTER 16

G
RAY SKIES COVERED
London but Nadia couldn’t have cared less. She had a special fondness for England, as did most Americans, even if they didn’t care to admit it sometimes. Although the Corvette trounced the Jaguar around the track, it was forever searching for the elegance in the rearview mirror. She sat opposite the headmaster of Jonathan Valentine’s secondary school. Rain drizzled against the window of his office. The headmaster wore a gunmetal and brown patterned suit. The seams were fraying.

“I love your pottery collection, Mr. Darby,” she said, nodding at the bookcase filled with ceramic figurines.

“Why thank you.”

“Toby mugs?”

His eyes widened. “Yes.”

“Royal Doulton.”

He brimmed with delight. “Do you collect?”

“My mother does. Or rather did until it became fashionable. Once other collectors started hoarding new releases for speculative purposes, she gave up.”

Darby came alive. “So did I. What a shame, I tell you. One of the great joys of my life ruined by opportunists. They’re not true collectors. They don’t appreciate the craftsmanship or the whimsy.”

“I see your Alfred Hitchcock has a pink curtain. Not a gray one, which is the common variety. That’s rare, isn’t it?”

“It’s the jewel of my collection.”

Nadia stood up to take a closer look. “It’s spectacular.”

Darby blushed. “Why thank you, Ms. Tesla.”

“Call me Nadia, please. I’ve heard they exist but I’ve never seen one. I appreciate your giving me a glimmer of joy during what is sure to be a grim visit to London.” She sat back down.

“We heard the news about young Mr. Valentine. It’s a tragedy. The faculty—the entire institution—we’re all devastated.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darby. I hope it wouldn’t be too painful if I ask you some questions.”

“Questions? About what?”

“About Jonathan.”

“Forgive me for being so blunt, Ms. Tesla, but what is your connection to Jonathan?”

“I was referred to you by the Office of Alumni Relations at the University of Nottingham. A kind lady there confirmed Jonathan was a graduate of Felshire. I thought he was because I found an old article online, from the school newspaper. It mentioned Jonathan Valentine was named Most Valued Player in a football match against Westminster. Was Jonathan a great athlete?”

Darby squirmed. “Yes, but you haven’t answered my question—”

“Was it just football for him, or did he have other interests beyond scholastics?”

Darby started to answer but stopped himself.

“You do get to know your students fairly well, I suspect,” Nadia said, “given how small the classes are. What did I read? Seventeen students on average per class at Felshire?”

“Yes, that’s about right—”

“Gateway to Oxbridge. I never heard that term before in America. I’ve heard of Oxford, of course. And Cambridge. But never the term ‘Oxbridge’. Was Jonathan’s family disappointed when he didn’t get into either and ended up at Nottingham?”

“Please, madam…Please stop talking for a moment and answer my question.”

“What was the question?”

“Who are you?”

“I told you. My name is Nadia Tesla.” Nadia had considered using an alias but decided against it. A lie would have to be perpetuated. That could become a problem if Darby led her to a person with whom she needed to be honest. The closer she stuck to the truth the better off she was. Besides, the odds Darby knew she was guardian to Valentine’s alleged killer were low.

“Yes. No. I mean, what is your connection to Jonathan? You’re an American. I suspect you’re not related.”

“No. And any such dream is dead now, isn’t it?”

Darby frowned. “I’m afraid you have me at a constant loss, Ms. Tesla.”

“Nadia.”

“Very well, Nadia. Please tell me why you’re here.”

Nadia thought of the time her father asked her if she’d be willing to take the Ukrainian Girl Scout survival test at age twelve. The thought of revealing her true feelings and saying no terrified her. But she felt compelled to do so. She needed to channel the same reluctance and sincerity. She’d concocted the story she was about to tell Darby on the plane to London. Rehearsed it countless times in the hotel. She knew the script. Now it was a matter of delivery. Reluctance and sincerity.

“I was Jonathan’s lover,” Nadia said.

“Oh.” He blushed. His tone eased. “I see.”

“We were going to get married.”

“He always did like older…I’m so sorry.”

“Until Jonathan found out I was pregnant with his child. Then he threw me out of his apartment in the middle of the night.”

“He did what?”

“He said he never wanted to see me again. Said I couldn’t be sure the child was his given I was a whore, and if I tried to sue him to get a DNA test I’d regret the day I was born. I’m just trying to get to know the father of my child a bit, in case he or she asks me about him down the line.”

Darby digested her comments. “Bastard,” he said under his breath. He stood up and closed the door to his office. Collapsed back into his chair. “May God have mercy on my soul for saying this. I know he was the father of your child but you’re better off with him gone. I hate to say it, but the world is better off with Jonathan Valentine dead.”

It was Nadia’s turn to be taken aback. “Why would you say that?”

“I’ve been headmaster here for thirty-two years. During that time I’ve seen some five thousand young men pass through these halls. Jonathan Valentine was the worst of the lot. And whoever the runner up is he’s a distant second.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I am most assuredly not kidding you.” Darby opened a drawer. He pulled out a bottle of single malt Scotch. “Will you join me?”

Nadia patted her stomach. “I’d love to, but under the circumstances…”

“Oh. Something else, perhaps?”

Nadia declined. He fixed himself a Scotch on the rocks.

“In what way was he the worst of the lot?” she said.

“In every way. He was a sociopath. Society’s norms meant nothing to him. He had no morals whatsoever. It would have been bad enough if he were merely a pathological liar with criminal tendencies. But no. He was a rogue, a cheat and a scoundrel, too. And he was charming. So charming. As you know. Or rather, as you knew.”

“Yes. Too well. What were some of the worst things he did, if you don’t mind my asking?”