Blameless (29 page)

When she told Mitch about Jill’s repossessed car and Adam Arell’s reference to a problem Jill had had in Des Moines, he suggested that Norman devote one of his hours to Jill. “Just because the police eliminate her as a suspect,” Mitch said, “doesn’t mean that we have to.” Norman could check into the seriousness of Jill’s financial problems through some national credit databases and run her name through some criminal databases to which he had access. Diana was skeptical about the possibility of Jill having a criminal background. But she agreed with Mitch: They might as well check it out.

They also decided Diana should go to Ken’s Pub.

By two o’clock Diana had completed her work commitments for the day. Her borderline group had just finished and she had no more appointments. If she left the house immediately, she could be at Ken’s by two-thirty—the perfect time, according to Mitch, to get information from someone working in a restaurant. “They’re tired and bored in the mid-afternoon,” he told her. “Most apt to speak to a stranger. Most apt to let down their guard.”

Diana wanted desperately to find Ethan. She
had
to find him, for she and Mitch had agreed that Ethan could very well be her only chance. But Diana didn’t want to go to Ken’s. She didn’t want to find him. The truth was, she was a little afraid of Ethan—maybe more than a little. And she always had been.

Pulling open a file drawer, Diana ran her finger along the tabs until she came to the one she was searching for: “Borderline Group Session Notes.” She pulled the file from the cabinet and brought it to her desk. Without sitting, she quickly sifted through the contents, searching for a photograph that had been taken almost exactly a year ago.

Sandy had brought a camera to group—a gift from her new boyfriend, a photographer—and had been so excited and anxious to show off its features, that in an attempt to calm Sandy’s mania, Diana had asked the group if Sandy could take a few pictures. It was right after Ethan had joined, during those short weeks when openness and affability had reigned and everyone was still optimistic, so no one objected. When Sandy suggested a group shot using the automatic timer, even Diana had agreed to be photographed.

The picture was facedown at the back of the file. Gingerly, Diana lifted it without turning it over and held it away from her for a moment. She remembered the afternoon clearly: Ethan clowning as they waited for the timer to release; the serious case of the giggles they had all caught; how warm James’s arm had felt across her shoulder.

She took a deep breath and slowly turned the photo over. Looking down at it—at them as they had once been—she felt such a bittersweet stab of nostalgia that she almost winced. They looked so happy. So carefree. So hopeful. How could only a year have passed?

Now James was dead. Ethan had disappeared. Sandy was more lost than ever, Bruce was still fainting, and Terri couldn’t bring herself to go anywhere near the subway. And she? Diana narrowed her eyes and studied the laughing woman in the picture. She had aged a decade in the past year.

Diana forced herself to look at James, at the perfect line of his cheekbone, at the deep happiness in his eyes as he rested his arm on her shoulder and his chin on top of her head. Ethan stood next to James, almost the same height and of comparable build—even their hair was a similar chocolate-brown color—but the look that glinted from Ethan’s eyes could not have been more different from James’s. Ethan’s eyes were hard and cold, almost colorless. A shiver ran down Diana’s back. Ethan’s eyes were empty.

“Sometimes I think there’s nothing inside Ethan,” James had once confided to her. “Like he’s hollow. Just a shell pretending to be a human being.” He had stared silently at her for a moment, then added, “Sometimes he scares the shit out of me.”

Diana dropped the picture into her purse, reminded once again of James’s uncanny perceptiveness. One of the most common characteristics of Ethan’s illness—antisocial personality disorder—was the inability to experience emotion, particularly guilt or empathy: Ethan was a truly hollow man.

Diana took her coat from the rack and buttoned it, but it did little to ward off the cold that emanated from the marrow of her bones. She was afraid. Afraid she wouldn’t find Ethan. And afraid that she would.

For although it wasn’t unusual for people with Ethan’s disorder to die young, she wasn’t worried that Ethan was dead—he was far too cunning and street-smart for that, and he had left a message on her machine just last week. What Diana feared was that he had caused another to die. And that if backed into a corner, he would have no qualms about doing it again.

She began to unbutton her coat. She couldn’t put herself in this kind of jeopardy. She couldn’t take this kind of chance with her baby’s life. Then, once again, she heard the grim bleating of the Middlesex horn prodding the sluggish prisoners into their tiny cells.

And Diana knew that she had no choice.

Diana was disappointed when she found a parking spot in front of a small Cambodian restaurant just a couple of blocks down from Ken’s Pub. She had been hoping there would be no spaces on Mass Ave. Then she would have to go home. Craig would never let her park on a side street in Central Square when it might be dark by the time she got back. Too risky, he would say. Much too risky. She smiled wryly at herself. In this instance she would have been more than happy to comply with Craig’s cautiousness.

Slowly she climbed from the jeep, wishing she were back at Molly Arell’s. Talking with James’s congenial aunt now seemed a picnic compared with looking for someone who might be a psychopathic killer. Stop it, Diana reprimanded herself. Aside from Ethan’s lengthy rap sheet—which she knew would include a number of DWI and petty-theft arrests, as well as one for “hurricane drag racing,” a variation on chicken in which both drivers must be loaded to the gills—there was no indication he was a killer. None whatsoever. She swung her purse over her shoulder and marched down the crowded sidewalk toward Ken’s.

Actually Ethan had always been particularly gracious to her. Congenial, polite, always calling when he disappeared to let her know where he was. Never threatening or mean, never the least bit dangerous. The only thing she could really accuse him of was oversolicitousness.

She smiled as she opened the heavy oak door of the restaurant, remembering a session when Ethan had reprimanded Sandy for interrupting Diana. “Eddie Haskell clone”, she had scribbled in her notes, a reference to an obsequious character from “Leave It to Beaver.” “Figure out what he wants.” Her smile disappeared when she realized that she never had.

Diana blinked into the dimness of the pub, the dark wood and glazed windows giving the place a clandestine, cavelike ambience. A small woman approached her from the dusky shadows, and Diana indicated her preference for a table near the bar, as Mitch had suggested. “Talk to the bartender,” he had instructed her. “They’re the ones who know everything that’s going on.” They had discussed the fact that she could’t sit at the bar—a lone pregnant woman on a bar stool sipping club soda was a bit too peculiar—so they decided on a nearby table from which she could easily rise and request some change.

Diana self-consciously settled herself in the chair, removing her coat and smoothing her jumper in a manner that emphasized her slightly protruding stomach. “Too bad you aren’t further along,” Mitch had said. “Nothing like a pregnant woman to elicit sympathy and loosen a tongue.” Disgusted as she was by the idea, Diana could appreciate the wisdom of his words.

Although she wasn’t hungry, she ordered a sandwich and picked at it as she watched the bartender enclosed in his large oval-shaped bar, her unease growing along with her scrutiny. He was a gruff and reticent black man named Marcel. He waited on his two customers with unemotional efficiency, running tabs, making drinks, even getting a pack of cigarettes from the machine, without moving a muscle in his expressionless face. One of the waitresses appeared truly afraid of him, and the other, a long-legged student type, joked with him, although Marcel’s response was invariably a scowl.

Diana knew this man wasn’t going to give her any information. How could he? she wondered, taking a tiny bite of her sandwich: She was never going to get up the guts to talk to him. Then she remembered the tightness around Detective Levine’s jaw when he said he didn’t believe in shitcans. She stood up.

“Could I please have change for a five?” she asked, holding out a bill toward Marcel while pressing a hand to the small of her back.

He glanced at her stomach as he took the proffered money and grunted in a somewhat friendly way.

“A dollar in change, please,” Diana added, not knowing what else to say. Mitch had told her to be pleasant and tentative. To try to elicit sympathy. When Marcel reached over the bar to give her the change, Diana dropped her hand from her back and sank onto a stool. She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice rich and low with concern. “Can I get you something?”

Diana felt heat rise to her face and the sweat of embarrassment prickle under her arms. “No, no,” she stuttered, horrified at what she was doing—and how good she was at it. “I’m fine. Really I am.”

Marcel looked at her closely. “My wife just had her second,” he said.

Diana nodded. “Maybe a little water?” she asked tentatively.

He quickly produced a glass of water. She took a few sips, and he watched her impassively until she emptied the glass.

“Thanks,” she said. “I guess I just stood up too fast.” He nodded and began to turn away. Diana knew if she didn’t speak up now, she never would. “Excuse me,” she called, her voice a little breathless with trepidation.

Marcel turned back to her. He said nothing, just waited, pokerfaced.

“I—I was wondering if you could please help me?” Diana asked. When Marcel took a step closer, the flicker of concern registering on his stolid face, Diana shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said, pulling the photo from her purse. “It’s something else.”

Warily, Marcel stepped back as she pushed the picture across the bar.

“I’m looking for someone,” she said, her nervousness adding just the right amount of shakiness to her voice. “I really need to find him.”

Marcel glanced down at the picture, then up at Diana. His face was expressionless. He didn’t move. “Never seen any of them.”

Diana pointed to Ethan. “Please,” she said plaintively, trying to make her eyes moist and sincere. “It’s really important.” She blinked rapidly and then looked down at the photograph, placing her hand lightly on her stomach. “I don’t know where he is,” she added softly, hating herself for what she was suggesting, while hoping that it worked. “I just need to talk to him.”

Marcel reached for the picture. He studied it for a while, then placed it back down on the bar.

“Ethan Kruse is his name,” Diana said, pointing again. “Do you know him?”

Marcel squinted at Diana. “You’re that psychologist,” he said, his voice deadpan, but his eyes reflecting his all-too-complete awareness of her situation.

Diana’s face flushed as she nodded. She felt naked and ashamed, unmasked for the liar she was. “Has he been in here lately?” she asked quickly to hide her embarrassment.

“Not since before that Hutchins guy died,” Marcel said, pointing a splayed finger at James.

Disappointed, Diana slumped on the stool. She twirled the empty glass on the bar.

Marcel’s eyes flickered over her face, and a flash of empathy passed through them. “That one’s been here since then,” he said, pointing at Sandy. “With the other woman and her boyfriend, the professor.”

“The other woman—was she tall with red curly hair?” Diana asked, figuring he must be talking about Jill.

Marcel nodded.

“But not Ethan?”

Marcel turned and picked up a rag, studiously wiping the counter along the other side of the bar. Then he pivoted back toward Diana and added, “Been a lot quieter since those two guys stopped coming by.”

“What do you mean?” Diana asked, leaning her elbows on the brass railing.

Marcel said nothing for a moment. He studied Diana, then seemed to come to some kind of decision about her. “Especially Kruse. He’s been a regular here for years. I’ve had to cut him off lots of times. Got into fights.” He poked the picture again. “Was yelling at Hutchins one of the last times I saw him.”

“Ethan and James had a fight in here?” Diana demanded. “Right before James was killed?”

“Don’t know about right before,” Marcel said, picking up the rag again. “And it wasn’t a fight. Just yelling.” He turned and walked down to the far end of the bar.

Disappointed, Diana watched his retreating back. Like so much of what she had learned about Jill, she already knew just about everything Marcel had told her about Ethan. His penchant for fights. His aggressiveness toward James. His disappearance. She was coming up empty again.

Slowly Diana climbed off the stool and gathered her things. She left money on the table with her check and headed toward the door. As she passed Marcel, who was engrossed in his scrubbing with his back to her, she called out her thanks. Even she could hear the frustration and tiredness in her voice.

“Try his landlady,” Marcel grunted without turning around. “He lives just down the street.”

When Diana stepped out of the restaurant, the winter sun was still above the buildings. There was enough time and light left to go to Ethan’s apartment—she had even brought the address with her, knowing it to be the logical next step. But, as before, she didn’t want to go. For the more she thought about Ethan—about what he was capable of, about what he might have done—the more frightened she became. She might be stalking a killer. Or, if the eyes were more than her overactive paranoia, he might be stalking her.

She glanced down at the piece of paper on which she had copied the address and phone number from Ethan’s chart. She had already called the number many times, listening to its hollow ring over and over again. And she knew the street. It was narrow and dingy and lined with seedy double- and triple deckers. It was in one of those “low-rent” districts in which poor people paid high rents to avoid security deposits and credit checks. The kind of neighborhood where everyone studiously minded his own business.