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Authors: Gary Braver

GRAY MATTER (33 page)

BOOK: GRAY MATTER
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Greg watched the limo pull out of its spot by the edge of the grass. Lisa was sitting at a rear window. He gave a little wave and watched the car pull down the lane.
Nova Children’s Center
. The words spread through his mind like a crack.
T
he Whitman home was located in an upper-middle-class neighborhood of Hawthorne where stately Colonials and Tudors reminded Greg that he was an outsider.
On Friday afternoon around two, he pulled in front of a handsome brick garrison with a slate roof, two stately chimneys, and black shutters with white trim. A gold Maxima was parked in the driveway. Because it was next to an open lot, he could spot an elaborate wooden play structure in the backyard. He had a mental flash of the Dixon place with its redbrick box, front yard of scrub and dirt, the tire swing. It was this place, but a couple decimal points to the left.
A bed of daylilies and groundcover neatly lined the flagstone walk to the front door. He rang it and a woman who looked to be in her thirties answered. She was very attractive with shoulder-length shiny black hair, and jagged bangs, and large amber eyes. He had seen her and her husband yesterday at the Wattses’ funeral.
“Mrs. Whitman?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Greg Zakarian. I’m a detective from the Sagamore Police Department.” He handed the woman his card. She looked instantly concerned. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Vanessa and Julian Watts case.”
“But I’ve already spoken to the police.”
“I understand, but there are some elements in the case that may have
bearing on another case.” Understandably she looked puzzled but let him inside.
He followed her through the living room, attractively decorated in bright colors and oriental rugs. On the coffee table sat copies of
The New Yorker
and
The Quarterly Review of Wine.
She led him to a screened-in porch that was furnished in white wicker and floral cushions. Large pots of red geraniums sat on the floor. Some children’s books were piled neatly on a chair. From the porch he could see that the backyard climbing structure was an elaborate redwood system with ropes, hang rails, and a large yellow sliding tube. Not your basic tire swing. A little boy sat digging in a nearby sandbox.
Mrs. Whitman offered him some coffee or a soft drink, but Greg declined. She glanced at his card as she sat down.
“Eench bess ess?”
she said.
“Shad lav em,”
he replied in Armenian to say he was fine. “I’m impressed. You’re the first person in two weeks who hasn’t take me for a space alien.”
The woman smiled. “My roommate in college was Armenian—Sue Ekezian. Lovely people and wonderful food. I still on occasion go to Watertown for the rolled grape leaves, the lamejuns and pastries.”
“Eastern Bakery has wonderful paklevah.”
“Yes, and my son just loves that,” she said, smiling. And she glanced toward the little boy.
“Handsome boy. What’s his name?”
“Dylan.”
“Am I hearing things, or is he really singing ‘There is Nothing Like a Dame’?”
Rachel laughed. “Yes. His father has a collection of Broadway shows. I’m afraid the lyrics aren’t very liberated.”
“Gee, why would you think that?”
She laughed as the boy reached the finale, which he belted out with amazing gusto and dramatics:
There ain’t a thing that’s wrong with any man here
That can’t be cured by puttin’ him near
A girly, womanly, female, feminine dame!
Greg quietly applauded. “Bravo, bravo,” he called out to the boy.
Dylan, who was wearing huge sunglasses and a crooked Red Sox cap,
looked toward the porch, then, grinning widely, he rose to his feet and took a dramatic bow, still standing in the sandbox. Then he went back to his digging.
“A spirited little guy.”
“Thanks … and a born ham,” said Mrs. Whitman, beaming.
His instinct was to look away, to get to business, but he couldn’t help staring at her. The feathery black eyebrows, the jagged spikes of hair on her brow, the warm spark of light in her eyes, the high cheekbones, the fullness of her mouth. She was very attractive.
“How old is he?”
“He just turned six. Do you have children, Officer?”
“No. My wife died before we could have kids.” As soon as his words hit air, Greg wished he could have edited them out. A simple
no
would have done it. In fact, he did not know why he had said that. Widowerhood was not how he identified himself to others. He almost never mentioned losing Lindsay if for nothing else than to avoid the mood slump and obligatory condolences. But for some reason, he wanted this woman to know.
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.”
The mood lightened when outside, Dylan had switched to
The Sound of Music
and his rendition of “My Favorite Things.” As he listened, it struck Greg just how good a singer the little boy was. Not only did he have a beautiful voice, but he also had a fine ear. With remarkable accuracy he had captured Julie Andrews’s delivery, right down to the British dialect and inflection. In fact, Greg couldn’t help but comment on the boy’s talent.
Mrs. Whitman got up to refill her coffee and Greg agreed to a cup of black. When she returned they chatted some more about Dylan and his interest in Little League. His first game of the season was this coming Saturday.
While Mrs. Whitman described how excited the boy was in anticipation, Greg listened with admiration. She was engaging, her manner was open and warm. And regarding her son, she was manifestly devoted and adoring. When the boy passed through the porch for a cookie she could not help but pull him to her and plant kisses on his sandy red cheeks.
As he watched her, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her. He quickly snapped off the thought.
“My name is Greg,” he said to Dylan and put out his hand.
Dylan slapped him five. “Do you like ca-ter-pil-lars?”
The boy’s enunciation was measured, and he flashed a glance at his mother who smiled and nodded approval. Maybe he had just learned the word. “Caterpillars?” Greg said. “I love caterpillars.”
The boy smiled and handed Greg a jar with some leaves and a bright orange caterpillar inside. “That’s good. You can have her and watch her grow wings.”
“Thanks. That’s very nice of you. But what do I feed her?”
“Leaves and butter.” With that, Dylan went into the house for his cookies.
Mrs. Whitman looked at the jar in Greg’s hand. “Lucky you.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said, staring at the length of orange fuzz. “We’re going to be fast friends. Leaves and butter. That makes sense.”
Mrs. Whitman made a puzzled smile. “Yeah, I guess it does. In fact, I never quite noticed the
butter in butter
flies before.” And she laughed to herself.
“There may be a lesson here about how kids see the world.”
She made a curious expression and nodded. “I guess.”
Greg could have gone on chatting with Mrs. Whitman. She was easy to talk to, and he also liked looking at her as they conversed. She was beautiful, and her large expressive eyes were flecked with gold, making them appear as if in kaleidoscopic motion, drawing him dangerously in as she spoke. He opened his notebook. “I hate to downshift, but I do have some questions,” he said, trying to feel cop-professional again.
“Of course.” She glanced through the porch screen. Dylan was back outside eating a cookie.
“How well did you know Vanessa Watts?”
“Really, not well at all.” She explained that they were members of the same country club, having seen each other only on occasion. But, yes, she had attended the party on that tragic night.
“Did you know her son?”
“I had met him once.”
“Can you tell me a little about him—what he was like?”
She hesitated at first, measuring her response. “Well, as I said, I really didn’t know him. But he was very smart and a talented artist.” And she went on to describe his ability to create images of photographic exactness and how he had taught himself Italian and Spanish by listening to speeded-up language tapes.
“Did you know anything about his medical condition?”
Instantly her expression clouded. “Medical condition?”
“That he had epilepsy.”
“No. I didn’t know he was epileptic.”
“Then you weren’t aware that he had seizures.”
“No.”
“Or that he had had medical operations as a child to alleviate the condition?”
“Operations? No.” Her face was full of concern. “Officer, may I ask what this is all about?”
Greg pulled out the schematic and briefly explained the circumstances of the two sets of skeletal remains. “One was six when he was kidnapped, the other about the same plus or minus a year.”
“And you think they all had epilepsy?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine.”
“I didn’t know epilepsy was treated with surgery.”
“Neither did I, but I guess a small percentage of cases necessitate the removal of lesions.”
“Then how are they connected to Julian?”
“I’m not sure they are,” Greg said. “I was just curious about the configurations on the skull. And why the remains of two missing children with similar drill holes showed up in Massachusetts coastal waters.”
“I wish I could help you.” She glanced at her watch.
“Would you know any other friends or acquaintances of the Watts family that I might speak to?”
She hesitated for a moment. “Not really.”
“How about your husband?”
She made a flap of her hand. “He wouldn’t know.”
There was something dismissive in her gesture. “I was just wondering if he was a friend of Mr. Watts and might have some useful insights.”
“No. He’s very busy with work and not around much. I know he doesn’t know Brad Watts and only met Julian once.”
“By the way, what does your husband do?” The question had nothing to do with the investigation, and they both knew that, Greg thought.
“He has a recruitment company.”
“And what do you do?”
She smiled. “I’m Dylan’s mother.”
“And from all appearances, doing a fine job.”
“I hope so,” she said, and looked into the backyard again. Dylan was on the swing singing to himself.
Greg knew the question was a long shot and out of line, but he asked anyway: “This being a small town, I’m wondering if you’d know who Julian Watts’s pediatrician was.”
“His pediatrician?” Her eyes suddenly took on a curious cast. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t got a clue.” She glanced at Dylan then her watch again.
It was Greg’s cue to wrap things up. Greg got to his feet. “I know this is off the wall, but would you know if Julian was right-handed or left-handed?”
She thought for a moment. “I remember he did his pictures with his left hand.”
Greg nodded. “One more question, if I may.”
She hesitated. “Okay.”
“Have you ever heard of the Nova Children’s Center?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, she answered, “No.” But there was something in her eyes.
He thanked her for her time and waved good-bye and thanks to Dylan for the caterpillar.
Some time later, while he was driving back to Sagamore, Greg’s cop instinct kept bringing him back to that final look in Mrs. Whitman’s eyes—a look that said she was lying.
“
B
rad told him Julian was treated for epilepsy,” Rachel said to Martin.
“We don’t know that he wasn’t.”
“I called Dr. Rose. Only a small percentage of epilepsy patients have surgery, and those are extreme cases.”
“So?”
“It may just be a cover story.”
It was later that evening, and Rachel was in the kitchen fixing a dinner of lamb shish kebab, bulgur pilaf with toasted pine nuts, and a string bean, onion, and tomato stew. She hadn’t cooked Armenian for years, but meeting Officer Zakarian earlier had inspired her. She had even dug up a gift cookbook her old roommate had sent her one Christmas.
As usual, Martin had gotten home late. Dylan was in the family room watching a video of
A
.
I
. that Martin had picked up. Rachel had not seen the movie and asked if it was appropriate for Dylan, vaguely recalling that it was something of a downer. Martin said it that was age-appropriate, a robot version of
Pinocchio—
nothing to worry about.
“If it is a cover, it makes sense: He’s honoring the nondisclosure agreement. Besides, Julian’s medical history is none of the cop’s business, or anyone else’s.”
“That’s not the point. Two other children with the same holes were kidnapped and murdered.”
“Rachel, that’s pure coincidence. The holes were probably from being in the sea so long.”
“And what if they weren’t?”
“Like what?”
“What if they were enhanced also?”
“But you don’t know those holes came from enhancement.”
“Malenko said it was an invasive procedure using stereotaxic needles.”
“Lots of people have stereotaxic surgery—kids included—and they aren’t enhanced. It’s an established neurological procedure to get into the brain for a thousand different reasons.”
His explanation was facile and unsatisfying. Still, he may have been right—that it was all a coincidence. But what were the odds of that?
“Did the cop give you his name?”
“His card is on the counter.”
Martin picked it up. “Wasn’t your roommate Iranian?”
“Armenian.”
“Whatever,” he said. Then he lowered his voice so Dylan couldn’t hear. “If he comes around again, you know nothing about Julian’s enhancement. Just play dumb. It could compromise our chances if Malenko hears some cop’s snooping around.”
The suggestion grated on a nerve. And, yet, she had yielded to that same protective instinct earlier when Zakarian had asked her if she knew Julian’s doctor or had heard of Nova Children’s Center.
She had later chided herself for not being forthcoming. Yet, Malenko had made it clear that he could get into an ethical imbroglio were the procedure to become public. And, as Martin said, if a police detective showed up at his door asking about holes in the skulls of dead children, that would be it for Dylan.
And, for all her misgivings, she still kept her foot in that door.
A little before nine on Saturday morning, two hours before Dylan’s baseball game and six hours before Rachel was scheduled to fly to Phoenix, Lucius Malenko telephoned.
He said he was out of town and called to wish her mother a full recovery from her operation. He expressed his condolences for the death of her friend Vanessa Watts and her son. “Unfortunately, I didn’t hear until after the funeral. Otherwise, I would have gone,” he said. “It was certainly shocking. Julian was a remarkably accomplished child. Such a waste.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I had not seen the boy for some time,” he added, “but when last he came in, he was doing very well. Top in his class and giving piano recitals. I had also heard that his paintings were on exhibit at his school.”
“Yes.” She did not want to talk to Malenko.
Martin was still asleep. Across the kitchen, Dylan sat at the table eating a bowl of Alpen muesli and studying the photo of a missing child on the side of the milk carton.
“Have you seen me?
”
Because she had to leave town, they would postpone their next meeting with Malenko until she returned—maybe the middle of next week if all went well with her mother.
Martin had marked the calendar that sat on the wall above the phone. He had circled it in black. That was when they were to give their final decision on enhancement: Friday July 3. The date hovered in her mind like some doomsday raven.
“We’ll call when I return,” she said, and walked over to the table where Dylan was eating. It was a little boy from New London, New Mexico. At the bottom was an 800 number and a Web address for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.
“That would be helpful since, as you may suspect, such a procedure requires considerable planning of material and staff.”
“I understand,” she said. “We’ll do our best to come to a decision, but I still have reservations, as you know.”
Her eyes rested on the carton photo—a little towhead with a bright smile and a missing front tooth.
And what if we go through with it and in a year he turns into a total stranger—brilliant, but no one I recognize?
“I understand, but as I’ve explained, we have an accomplished team and the finest equipment. And you have seen the evidence.”
“Yes, but I still need time to think it over.” She wanted to get off the phone. She did not want to corrupt the day with more anxiety.
“Of course. And while you do, please ask yourself what’s important to you as a parent: If you want to increase your son’s chances of having a full and productive life.”
The man was putting pressure on her and she did not like it. “I really have to go, but we’ll call when I get back.”
“I don’t mean to be so blunt, but don’t you think your husband deserves a smart son, Mrs. Whitman?”
“That’s not exactly how I view it, Dr. Malenko. In fact, I find your implication offensive.”
“I apologize, but under the circumstances, I believe you owe it to him to strongly consider the option.” He then said good-bye and hung up.
“you owe it to him
”
The bastard. She had confided in him the most painful secret in her life, and now he was using it against her like a cattle prod.
She put the phone down and went over to Dylan and kissed him on the head.
“Who’s this little boy?” he asked.
“His name is Sean Klein.”
“But how come his picture’s on here?”
“Well, he’s missing. He got lost.”
“He got lost?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But, Mom, you wouldn’t get me lost, would you?”
She put her arms around him. “Never, never.”
“Cuz then I couldn’t sing for you.”
BOOK: GRAY MATTER
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