Текст книги "Missing You"

Автор книги: Harlan Coben

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Chapter 18

Brandon was waiting on a bench by Strawberry Fields near 72nd Street. Two guys competed for attention (and handouts) by strumming guitars and singing Beatles songs. One went with the obvious, “Strawberry Fields Forever,” but he wasn’t doing nearly as brisk a business as the guy in the Eggman T-shirt singing “I Am the Walrus.”

“Let me explain that text,” Brandon said. “The one Detective Schwartz said my mom sent.”

Kat waited. Stacy was there too. Kat was already feeling too close to this. She wanted someone with a little distance to give her perspective.

“Wait, I’ll show you.” He hunched over and started fiddling with his phone. “Here, read it for yourself.”

Kat took his phone and read the message:

Hi. Arrived safely. So excited. Miss you!

Kat handed it to Stacy. She read it and handed it back to Brandon.

“It came from your mother’s phone,” Kat said.

“Right, but she didn’t send it.”

“What makes you think that?”

Brandon almost looked insulted by the question. “Mom never says ‘miss you.’ I mean never. She always finishes with ‘love you.’”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m dead serious.”

“Brandon, how often has your mother gone away on her own like this?”

“This is the first time.”

“Right, so naturally she might use ‘miss you’ at the end, no?”

“You don’t get it. Mom always signed her texts with x’s and o’s and with the word Mom. It was like a running joke. She always announced herself. Like if she called me and even though I had caller ID and knew her voice better than my own, she would always say, ‘Brandon, it’s Mom.’”

Kat looked at Stacy. Stacy gave a small shrug. The kid always had an answer.

“I also saw the surveillance video,” Kat said.

“What surveillance video?”

“Of the ATM.”

His eyes widened. “Whoa, you saw it? How?”

“Detective Schwartz was more thorough than I would have been. He got the tape.”

“So what did it show?”

“What do you think it showed, Brandon?”

“I don’t know. Was my mother on it?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You think I’m lying?”

“What was she wearing?”

“A yellow sundress.”

She saw his face fall. The guy in the Eggman T-shirt finished singing “I Am the Walrus.” There was a smattering of applause. The guy bowed deeply and then started singing “I Am the Walrus” again.

“She looked fine too,” Kat said. “Your mother is a very beautiful woman.”

Brandon waved away the compliment about his mother. “Are you sure she was alone?”

“Definitely. The camera has views from down low and overhead. She was by herself.”

Brandon fell back in his seat. “I don’t understand.” Then: “I don’t believe you. You just want me to stop. You could have known about the yellow dress some other way.”

Stacy frowned and finally spoke up. “Come on, kid.”

He kept shaking his head. “It can’t be.”

Stacy slapped him on the back. “Be happy, kid. She’s alive and well.”

He shook his head some more. He stood and began to pace, cutting across the tiles that made up the Imagine mosaic. A tourist yelled, “Hey!” because he had ruined their picture. Kat hurried after him.

“Brandon?”

He stopped pacing.

“You said you found something about Jeff.”

“His name isn’t Jeff,” Brandon said.

“Right. You said he called himself Jack online?”

“That’s not his name either.”

Kat sneaked a glance at Stacy. “I’m not following.”

He took his laptop out of his backpack. He flipped it open. The screen came to life. “It was like I said before. I Googled him and found nothing. But, well, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. It should have come to me right away.”

“What should have?”

“Do you know what an image search is?” Brandon asked.

She had just done one on his mother, but there was no reason to tell him that. “It’s when you search for someone’s picture.”

“No, not that one,” he said, a hint of impatience in his voice. “That’s pretty common. You want to find, say, a picture of yourself online, so you click IMAGE and you type in your name. What I’m talking about is a bit more sophisticated.”

“Then no, I don’t know,” Kat said.

“Instead of searching for text, you search for a particular image,” Brandon said. “So, for example, you upload a picture onto the website, and it searches for anyplace else where that picture might exist. More sophisticated software can even find a person’s face in other photographs. Stuff like that.”

“So you uploaded, what, a picture of Jeff?”

“Exactly. I saved the images from his profile page on YouAreJust MyType.com and then I put them in the Google image search.”

“So,” Kat said, “if any of those pictures were somewhere else on the web . . .”

“The image search would find them.”

“And that’s what happened?”

“Not at first. At first it came back with no hits. But here’s the thing. Most search engines only look through what is currently on the web. You know how parents are always trying to scare us kids by telling us that anything on the web is on it forever?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s true. It becomes a cached file. This is getting more technical, but when you delete something, it isn’t really gone. It’s like you’re painting your house. You’re just painting over the old color. The old color is still there if you take the time to scrape off the new paint.” He thought about that. “That’s not really a perfect analogy, but you get the point.”

“So you scraped off the new paint?”

“Something like that. I found a way to search through deleted pages. A buddy of mine who runs the computer lab at UConn wrote the program. It’s still beta.”

“What did you find?”

Brandon spun the computer toward her. “This.”

It was a Facebook page. The profile picture was the same photograph Jeff had used for YouAreJustMyType.

But the name listed on the top was Ron Kochman.

There was nothing much on the page. The exact same photographs had been posted. There were no posts, no activity, since the day the page was created four years ago. So the pics were four years old. Well, maybe that explained why Jeff aka Jack aka Ron looked so damned young and handsome. The last four years, Kat thought, had probably aged him a ton.

Yeah, right.

But of course, the greater question remained: Who the hell was Ron Kochman?

“May I take a hopeful shot in the dark?” Stacy said to her.

“Sure.”

“Are you certain that’s your old fiancé and not some guy who looks like him?”

Kat nodded. “It’s a possibility.”

“No, it’s not,” Brandon said. “You instant messaged him, remember? He knew you. He told you that he needed a fresh start.”

“Yeah,” Kat said, “I know. Plus, Stacy knows better too, don’t you, Stacy?”

“I do,” she said.

“How?” Brandon asked.

Kat ignored him for now, trying to put it together with Stacy. “So eighteen years ago, Jeff moves to Cincinnati. He gets in a bar fight. He changes his name to Ron Kochman—”

“No,” Stacy said.

“Why no?”

“You must think I’m the worst private detective on God’s green earth. I checked through the databases. If Jeff changed his name to Ron Kochman, he didn’t do it legally.”

“But you don’t have to do it legally,” Kat said. “Anyone can change their name.”

“But if you want a credit card or a bank account . . .”

“Maybe he didn’t want one.”

“That doesn’t really add up, though, does it? You think, what, Jeff changed his name to Ron. Got married. Had a kid. His wife died. Then he went on YouAreJustMyType to look for dates?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Stacy thought about it. “Let me run a full background check on Ron Kochman. If he was married or has a child, I’ll find something.”

“That’s a great idea,” Brandon said. “I started doing Google searches on him, but I didn’t find much. Just some articles he wrote.”

Kat felt her heart go thump-thump. “Articles?”

“Yeah,” Brandon said. “Seems Ron Kochman is a journalist.”

 • • •

Kat spent the next hour reading his articles.

There was no doubt in her mind. Ron Kochman was Jeff Raynes. The style. The vocabulary. “Ron” always had a great lead sentence. He pulled you in slowly but consistently. Even the inane was woven into a rich narrative. The articles were always well researched, backed up by several independent sources, thoroughly investigated. Ron worked freelance. There were pieces with his byline in almost every major news publication, both in print and on the web.

Some of those publications featured photographs of their contributors on the editor’s page. There was none of Ron Kochman. In fact, no matter how much she searched, she couldn’t find one article on Ron Kochman. His biography merely listed some writing credits—no mention of a family or residence, nothing about his education or background or even credentials. He didn’t have an active Facebook or Twitter account or any of the now standard promotional tools all journalists employ.

Jeff had changed his name to Ron Kochman.

Why?

Brandon was in her apartment, working feverishly on his laptop. When she stood up, he asked, “Is Ron your old fiancé, Jeff?”

“Yes.”

“I checked some databases. So far, I haven’t been able to find when or how he changed his name.”

“It would be hard to find, Brandon. It isn’t illegal to change your name. Leave that to Stacy, okay?”

He nodded, his long hair falling into his face. “Detective Donovan?”

“Call me Kat, okay?”

His eyes stayed on his shoes. “I need you to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“My mom. She’s a fighter. I don’t know how else to put it. When my dad got sick, he gave up right away. But my mom . . . she’s like a force of nature. She pulled him through for a long time. That’s her way.”

He finally looked up.

“Last year, Mom and I took a trip to Maui.” Tears filled his eyes. “I swam too far out. I’d been warned. There was a riptide or something. Stay close to shore. But I didn’t listen. I’m a tough guy like that, you know?” He gave her a half smile, shook his head. “So anyway, I got caught in the riptide. I tried to swim against it, but there was no way. I was done. It kept dragging me down and farther out. I knew it was just a matter of time. And then Mom was there. She’d been swimming near me the whole time, you know, watching, just in case. She never said anything. That was just her way. So anyway, she grabs me and says to hold on. That’s it, she says. Just hold on. And now the tide was pulling us both out. I start panicking, pushing her away. But Mom, she just closed her eyes and held on to me. She just held on to me and wouldn’t let me go. Eventually, she steered us toward a small island.”

A tear escaped his eye and ran down his cheek.

“She saved my life. That’s what she does. She’s strong like that. She’d never just let me go. She would have held on no matter what, even if I took her down with me. And now, well, it’s my turn to hold on. Do you get that?”

Kat nodded slowly. “I do.”

“I’m sorry, Kat. I should have showed you the texts. But if I had, you’d have never listened.”

“Speaking of which.”

“What?”

“You only showed me the one text. There were two.”

He pressed a few buttons on his phone and handed it to her. The text read:

Having a wonderful time. Can’t wait to tell you all about it. I have a big surprise too. Phone reception is terrible. Miss you.

Kat handed him back the phone. “Big surprise. Any idea what that means?”

“No.”

Her cell phone rang. Talk about the perfect interruption—Kat could see from the caller ID that her mother was calling. “I’ll be right back,” Kat said.

She ducked into the bedroom, wondering how long her own mother would last in a riptide, and answered. “Hey, Mom.”

“Ooh, I hate that,” her mother said.

“Hate what?”

Her voice was raspy from too many years of cigarettes. “That you know it’s me before you pick up.”

“It pops up on the caller ID. I’ve explained this to you before.”

“I know, I know, but really, can’t some things remain a mystery? Do we really need to know everything?”

Kat held back the sigh but allowed herself the eye roll. She could picture her mom in that old kitchen with the linoleum floor, standing up, using one of those old wall-mount phones that had yellowed from ivory too many years ago. The phone would be tucked under her chin. There would be a half glass of cheap Chablis in her hand, the rest of the jug back in the fridge to keep it cold. A vinyl tablecloth with faux crochet would be covering the kitchen table. A glass ashtray would, Kat had no doubt, be perched atop it. The peeling wallpaper had a flower pattern, though many of the blooms had also turned pale yellow over the years.

When you live with a smoker, everything starts to take on a yellowish hue.

“Are you coming or not?” Mom asked.

Kat could hear the drink in her mother’s voice. It was not an unfamiliar sound.

“Coming where, Mom?”

Hazel Donovan—she and Kat’s father used to call themselves and sign all their correspondences H&H for Hazel and Henry, as if this were the cleverest thing in the world—didn’t bother to hide the sigh.

“Steve Schrader’s retirement party.”

“Oh, right.”

“You get time off for that, you know. The precinct has to do that.”

They didn’t—Mom had all kinds of weird ideas about the lax rules for cops, all gathered in the era of her father and her husband—but Kat didn’t bother correcting her.

“I’m really busy, Mom.”

“Everyone will be there. The whole neighborhood. I’m going with Flo and Tessie.”

The Trinity of Cop Widows.

Kat said, “I’m working on a pretty big case.”

“Tim McNamara is bringing his son. He’s a doctor, you know.”

“He’s a chiropractor.”

“So what? They call him doctor. And a chiropractor was so good with your uncle Al. You remember?”

“I do.”

“The man could barely move. Remember?”

She did. Uncle Al had gotten worker’s comp for a work-related injury at the Orange Mattress factory. Two weeks later, this chiropractor healed him. It was nothing short of a miracle.

“And Tim’s son is so handsome. He looks like that guy on The Price Is Right.”

“Thanks for the invite, Mom, but I’m going to have to pass, okay?”

Silence.

“Mom?”

Now Kat thought that maybe she heard gentle sobs. She waited. Her mother called only late at night—drunk, slurring her words. The call could consist of many things. There might be sarcasm. There might be bitterness or anger. There was always a mother-daughter guilt trip.

But Kat didn’t remember ever hearing sobs.

“Mom?” she tried again, her voice softer now.

“He died, didn’t he?”

“Who?”

“That man. The one who ruined our lives.”

Monte Leburne. “How did you hear?”

“Bobby Suggs told me.”

Suggs. One of the two lead detectives on the case. He was retired, living not far from Mom. Mike Rinsky, the other detective, had died three years ago, sudden coronary.

“I hope it was painful,” Mom said.

“I think it was. He had cancer.”

“Kat?”

“Yes, Mom?”

“You should have been the one to tell me.”

Fair point. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“We should have gotten together. We should have sat at the kitchen table like we used to do, like we did when we first heard. Your father would have wanted that.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll visit soon.”

Hazel Donovan hung up then. This was how it always went too. There was never a good-bye. There was just a hang-up.

Dana Phelps had been missing a day or two before her son noticed and started to worry. Kat wondered how long her mother could go missing. Weeks maybe. It wouldn’t be Kat who’d notice. It would be Flo or Tessie.

She made a quick call to Joe Schwartz in Greenwich and asked him to e-mail her the ATM video. “Crap,” he said. “I don’t want to get involved. My captain chewed my ass off for taking it this far.”

“I just need the video. That’s all. Once Brandon sees his mother, I think it’ll help calm him down.”

Schwartz took a few moments. “All right, but that’s it, okay? And I can’t e-mail it to you. I’ll e-mail you a secure link. It’ll be good for the next hour.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Kat came back out into the living room. “Sorry,” she said to Brandon, “I had to take that call.”

“Who was it?”

She was about to tell him that it was none of his business but decided to go in another direction. “I want to show you something.”

“What?”

She beckoned Brandon toward her computer and checked her e-mail. Two minutes later, the message from Joe Schwartz came up. The subject read: Per your request. The message was only a link.

“What’s this?” Brandon asked.

“The ATM video of your mom.”

She clicked the link and hit the PLAY button. This time, she watched Brandon’s reaction more than the video. When his mother appeared at the ATM, Brandon’s face went slack. He never, not for a second, looked away from the screen. He didn’t blink.

Kat had seen psychos who could channel Daniel Day-Lewis when it came to lying to the police. But there was no way this kid hurt his mother.

“What do you think?” Kat asked.

He shook his head.

“What?”

“She looks scared. And pale.”

Kat turned back and watched the screen. Scared, pale—hard to say. Everyone looked drawn on an ATM surveillance video. The images were often less flattering than DMV photos. You are concentrating on a small screen and trying to push buttons and there is money involved and you are basically facing a wall. No woman looks her best under those circumstances.

The video continued. Kat watched more carefully this time. It did take Dana three tries to get her PIN right, but that didn’t mean much. When the money was dispensed, Dana fumbled with it, but again, those machines sometimes held on to your bills too tightly.

It was when Dana finished up and started to walk away that Kat saw something. She reached out and hit the PAUSE button.

Brandon looked at her. “What?”

It was probably nothing, but then again, no one had studied the video closely. There had been no need. All they wanted to do was confirm that Dana Phelps had taken out the money on her own. Kat hit the slow-motion REWIND button. Dana started walking backward toward the ATM.

There.

Kat had seen movement in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. Something—or someone—was barely there, in the distance. That wasn’t too much of a surprise, but whoever it was seemed to move when Dana did.

The video quality had enough pixels for Kat to close in on the figure, clicking the magnifying glass until the dark dot grew into an image.

It was a man in a black suit with a black cap on.

“How would your mother have gone to the airport?” Kat asked.

Brandon pointed to the guy in the black suit. “He wouldn’t have taken her.”

“Not what I’m asking.”

“We always use Bristol Car Service.”

“Do you have their phone number?”

“Yeah, hold on.” Brandon started tapping his phone. “They picked me up from college a few times, you know, when I wanted to go home for the weekend. Easier than having Mom get me sometimes. Here.”

Brandon read out the number. Kat plugged it into her phone and hit SEND. The answering voice gave her two options. Press one for reservations. Press two for dispatch. She went with dispatch. When a man answered, she introduced herself and identified herself as a cop. Sometimes, this made people clam up and demand proof. Most times it opened doors.

When people are both cautious and curious, curious usually wins out.

Kat said, “I’m wondering if a woman named Dana Phelps recently booked a ride to an area airport.”

“Oh, sure, I know Mrs. Phelps. She’s a regular. Nice lady.”

“Did she book a car with you recently?”

“Yeah, maybe a week ago. For Kennedy airport.”

“Could I speak to her driver?”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, like, oh, wait. You asked me if she booked the ride to JFK.”

“Right.”

“She booked it, yeah, but she didn’t take it.”

Kat switched the phone from her left hand to her right. “What do you mean?”

“Mrs. Phelps canceled, maybe two hours before the ride. I took the call myself. It was kinda funny, actually.”

“Funny how?”

“She was apologetic, what with it being so late and all. But she was also, I don’t know, all giddy.”

“Giddy?”

“Yeah, like laughing or whatever.”

“Did she give a reason for canceling so late?”

“Kind of. I mean, I think that’s why she was giddy. She said her boyfriend was sending his own black stretch limo to get her. As a surprise or something.”

Chapter 19

Hoping cooler heads would prevail—and needing to make an official police request—Kat showed up at the precinct for work the next day. Her still-partner (ugh) Chaz, resplendent in a suit so shiny Kat reached for her sunglasses, stood by her desk with his fists on his hips. He looked surprised to see her.

“Yo, Kat, need something?”

“No,” she said.

“Boss man said you were on leave.”

“Yeah, well, I changed my mind. I just need to do one quick thing and then I want to hear what’s going on.”

Kat sat at her computer. Last night, she had used Google Earth to figure out what nearby surveillance cameras could give her a fuller view of the street near Dana’s ATM. She hoped to see what car Dana got into, maybe get a license plate or some other lead.

Chaz peeked over her shoulder. “This about that kid who was in here the other day?”

She ignored him, made the info request, and was prompted for her user name and password. She typed them in and hit RETURN.

ACCESS DENIED

Kat tried again. Same thing. She turned back to Chaz, who stood watching her with his arms crossed.

“What’s going on, Chaz?”

“Boss man said you were on leave.”

“We don’t disable someone’s computer access because they take a leave.”

“Yeah, well.” Chaz shrugged. “You did ask for it, didn’t you?”

“Ask for what?”

“You wanted a transfer, so I guess you’re getting one.”

“I never asked for a transfer.”

“That’s what the captain told me. Said you put in for a new partner.”

“I put in for a new partner. I didn’t ask for a transfer.”

Chaz looked wounded. “I still don’t know why you’d do that.”

“Because I don’t like you, Chaz. You’re crude, you’re lazy, you have no interest in doing the right thing—”

“Hey, I have my own way of working.”

She didn’t want to get into this now.

“Detective Donovan?”

Kat looked behind her. It was Stephen Singer, her immediate superior.

“You’re on voluntary leave.”

“No, I’m not.”

Singer moved closer. “Voluntary leave is something that no one holds against you. It doesn’t show up on your record as, say, insubordinate conduct toward a superior officer.”

“I didn’t—”

Singer cut her off by raising his hand and closing his eyes. “Enjoy your vacation, Kat. You’ve earned it.”

He walked away. Kat looked at Chaz. Chaz said nothing. She understood what was being said—keep quiet, take the slap, it will all go away. That was the smart move, she guessed. The only move, really. She stood up and reached down to turn her computer off.

“Don’t,” Chaz said.

“What?”

“Singer said to get out of here. So do it. Now.”

Their eyes met. Chaz may have given her the slightest nod—she couldn’t be sure—but she didn’t shut the computer off. As she headed down the stairs, Kat glanced toward Stagger’s office. What the hell was his problem anyway? She knew he was a stickler for rules and regulations, and yeah, maybe she should have more respect, but this felt like overkill.

She checked her watch. Her day was somewhat free now. She changed subways three times on her way down to the Main Street stop on the 7 train in Flushing. The Knights of Columbus hall had wood paneling and American flags and eagles and stars and any other emblem you might loosely associate with patriotism. The hall was, as at every event, boisterous. Knights of Columbus halls, like school gymnasiums, are not meant to be quiet. Steve Schrader, who was retiring at the tender age of fifty-three, stood near a keg, handling the reception line like a groom.

Kat spotted retired detective Bobby Suggs sitting at a corner table overflowing with bottles of Budweiser. He wore a plaid sports coat and gray slacks so polyester they made Kat itch. As Kat started toward him, she glanced at the faces. She knew so many of them. They stopped and hugged her and wished her well. They told her—they always told her this—that she was the spitting image of her dear father, God rest his eternal soul, and asked when she would find a man and start a family. She tried to nod and smile her way through them. It wasn’t that easy. Their faces leaned in close to be heard, too close, smothering, as though the pockmarks and burst vessels were going to swallow her whole. A four-piece polka band led by a tuba started up. The room smelled of stale beer and dance sweat.

“Kat? Sweetheart, we’re over here.”

She turned toward the familiar raspy voice. Mom’s face was already flush with drink. She waved Kat toward the table where she sat with Flo and Tessie. Flo and Tessie waved her over too, just in case she didn’t know that Mom’s wave was indicating she should join them.

Trapped, Kat started toward them. She kissed her mother on the cheek and said hello to Flo and Tessie.

“What?” Flo said. “No kiss for your aunt Flo and Tessie?”

Neither woman was an aunt, just close family friends, but Kat kissed them anyway. Flo had a bad red dye job that sometimes leaned toward purple. Tessie kept her hair a gray that also had a tendency toward purple. Both smelled a little like potpourri on an old couch. The two “aunts” grabbed Kat’s face before kissing her cheek. Flo wore heavy ruby-red lipstick. Kat wondered how to discreetly wipe it away.

All three widows openly inspected her.

“You’re too skinny,” Flo said.

“Leave her alone,” Tessie said. “You look fine, dear.”

“What? I’m just saying. Men like a woman with a little meat on her bones.” To emphasize her point, Flo hoisted up her substantial bosom without the slightest sense of embarrassment. Flo was always doing that—adjusting her bosoms as though they were unruly children.

Mom continued to study Kat with not-so-subtle disapproval. “Do you think that hair flatters your face?”

Kat just stared at her.

“I mean, you have such a pretty face.”

“You’re beautiful,” Tessie said, as always the defiant albeit normal one. “And I love your hair.”

“Thank you, Aunt Tessie.”

“Did you come for Tim’s son the doctor?” Flo asked.

“No.”

“He’s not here yet. But he will be.”

“You’ll like him,” Tessie added. “He’s very handsome.”

“He looks like that guy on The Price Is Right,” Flo added. “Am I right?”

Mom and Tessie nodded enthusiastically.

Kat asked, “Which guy?”

“What?”

“You mean the guy who hosts it now or the one who used to host it?”

“Which guy,” Flo repeated. “Never you mind which guy, Miss Picky. What, one of them isn’t handsome enough for you?” Flo hoisted up the bosom again. “Which guy?”

“Stop that,” Tessie said.

“What?”

“With the booby play. You’re going to put someone’s eyes out with one of those.”

Flo winked. “Only if he’s lucky.”

Flo was big and bouncy and still wanted to a catch a man. She caught their eyes far too often—but it never lasted. Despite a lifetime of evidence to the contrary, Flo was still a hopeless romantic. She fell in love hard and fast, and everyone but Flo could see the oncoming wreck. She and Mom had been best friends since elementary school at St. Mary’s. There was a brief period, when Kat was in high school, when the two women didn’t talk for maybe six months or a year—a fight over a houseguest or something—but other than that, they were inseparable.

Flo had six grown kids and sixteen grandchildren. Tessie had eight kids and nine grandkids. They had lived hard lives, these women—raising tons of children under the thumbs of uninvolved husbands and an overly involved church. When Kat was nine years old, she came home from school early and saw Tessie crying in their kitchen. Mom sat with her, in the stillness of that midday kitchen, holding Tessie’s hand and telling her how sorry she was and how it would all be okay. Tessie just sobbed and shook her head. Nine-year-old Kat wondered what tragedy had befallen Tessie’s family—if maybe something had happened to her daughter Mary, who had lupus, or if her husband, Uncle Ed, lost his job, or if Tessie’s hoodlum son Pat had failed out of school.

But it wasn’t any of that.

Tessie was sobbing because she’d just learned she was pregnant yet again. She cried and clutched tissues and repeated over and over that she couldn’t handle it, and Mom listened and held her hand and then Flo came over and Flo listened and eventually they all cried.

Tessie’s children were grown now. After Ed died six years ago, Tessie, who had never gone any farther than an Atlantic City casino, started traveling extensively. Her first trip had been to Paris three months after Ed’s death. For years, Tessie had been taking out language tapes from the Queens Library and teaching herself French. Now she put it to use. Tessie kept her personal travel diaries in leather binders in the den. Tessie never pushed them on anyone—rarely admitted what they were—but Kat loved to read them.

Kat’s father had seen it early. “This life,” Dad had told her, eying Kat’s mom standing over an oven. “It’s a trap for a girl.” The only girls Kat grew up with who stayed in the neighborhood had been knocked up young. The rest, for better or worse, had fled.

Kat turned around, her gaze heading back toward Suggs’s table. He was staring straight at her. He didn’t look away when she spotted him. Instead, he brought the bottle up toward her in a distant, sad toast. She nodded in return. Suggs took a deep long swig, his head back, his throat sliding up and down.

“I’ll be right back,” Kat said, starting toward him.

Suggs rose and met her halfway. He was a short, burly man who walked as though he’d just gotten off a horse. The room was warm now, the weak air-conditioning no match for the crowded hall. Everyone, including both Suggs and Kat, had a thin sheen of sweat on them. They hugged, no words exchanged.

“I guess you heard,” Suggs said, releasing her.

“About Leburne? Yeah.”

“Not sure what to say here, Kat. ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t seem appropriate.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I just wanted to know I was thinking of you. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thanks.”

Suggs raised his bottle. “You need a beer.”

“That I do,” Kat agreed.

There was no bar, just a bunch of coolers and kegs in the corner. Ever the gentleman, Suggs opened the bottle with his wedding band. They clinked bottles and drank. With all due respect to the Bob Barker or Drew Carey look-alike, Kat had traveled here to talk to Suggs. She just wasn’t sure how to begin.

Suggs helped her out. “I heard you visited Leburne before he died.”

“Yeah.”

“What was that like?”

“He said he didn’t do it.”

Suggs smiled as though she’d just told him a joke that he was pretending he found amusing. “Did he, now?”