Light of Day (17 page)

“A brilliant student with about enough self-esteem to fill a shot glass. He was always doing stupid kid stuff.”

“So there were other occasions when he behaved irresponsibly?” Marty smiled and said, “I just turned cop on you, didn't I?”

“Just a little.” Jack took a sip of whiskey. “A student in one of his father's classes paid C.J. fifty dollars to steal a copy of a final exam for her.”

“That's pretty serious, don't you think. Did it bother you that he and Danny were friends?”

“No. C.J. isn't bad or malicious. It had more to do with how he feels about his father. He's pretty guileless actually, the only one he ever hurts is himself. The really sad thing is, if his father had known how desperate that student was for a good grade, he would have cut a deal of his own.”

“You don't like him,” Marty said flatly, and lifted his glass to his
mouth. “Let's just say I don't approve of him, which, I know, stinks of self-righteousness. But he's just so goddamned irresponsible. And he always, I don't know—”

“Gets away with it?”

“Gets away with it.”

“I bet he's also one of those guys who doesn't do more than just enough to get by on the job.”

“He's managed to get tenured. But he hardly distinguishes himself in his department. For him, work is an extension of the country club.”

“Unlike you.”

“That's not what—I'm not drawing any comparisons.”

“But if you did. You've distinguished yourself wherever you taught.”

“There's no professional rivalry,” Jack answered, not defensively. “We're not in the same department, and he certainly isn't the only one on the faculty phoning it in. But he's the only one who goes out of his way to flaunt it. At me.” He took another sip of his drink, and then another.

“So you resent this guy for getting away with it and also rubbing your nose in it. That sounds fair enough.”

“And I'm sure Ainsley thinks I can be the most judgmental, pompous asshole that ever lived. And maybe he's right. But I resent that he thinks I am.”

“Maybe you wish
you
could get away with something once in a while.”

“I don't know what I wish.”

“I'm sure as far as he's concerned, you
are
getting away with something. Your son never sold you out, not for any amount of money.”

“Ainsley used to make bad jokes about my coming to Gilbert. How I was slumming. He never missed a chance to jab at me because I took my job seriously, as if there wasn't a downside to what—I gave up a lot when I moved here.”

“Don't you think he knows that? Why do you think he made the jokes? He resents you just as much as you resent him, for the way you
conduct yourself. I suspect what he really resents you for is for being the man that you are.”

“What
I
really resent has
nothing
to do with Ainsley.” Jack emptied his glass. “Maybe all I've done is make up my own rules and they were about making Danny's life whole, teaching him to have self-respect and a sense of self-worth. Ainsley, if he has any rules, breaks them all, and C.J. knows all about it. Danny killed himself. C.J. winds up in the hospital all banged up and barely alive. That's what I resent, Marty. That Ainsley and I get tossed into the same mix regardless of how we behave. Maybe what I resent is that there aren't any rules.”

“I don't think that's what you resent at all,” Marty said. “Everything you believed in and trusted, including your low opinion of Ainsley, has been called into question. That's what you resent.”

They were about to begin the formality of ordering supper, but they didn't get the chance. Detective Hopewell stopped by the table. He was with a woman only slightly old enough not to be mistaken for his daughter and dressed more for a seaside clam bar than Marlowe's. Hopewell gave Jack a perfunctory nod as though he wasn't quite sure where they'd met before and asked Marty if they could talk for a minute.

Marty answered, “Sure,” and excused himself.

The two detectives walked to the far corner, over by the pay phones and restrooms, leaving the date looking bored and unhappy. She shrugged her shoulders at Jack and said, “Tell Earl I'll be at the bar.”

Marty and Hopewell talked for a few minutes, more accurately, Marty listened while Hopewell did the talking, slowly, describing something with his hands which made Marty shake his head, listen awhile longer, turn and look at Jack.

Hopewell started to walk toward the table but Marty put his hand on his shoulder and pulled him back, said something and walked away. Hopewell stared sourly at the floor, then walked to the bar.

Marty sat down, reached for his glass and finished what was left in it.

“Hopewell says the other boy didn't kill himself. He says he was murdered.”

J
ack felt as though he were wreathed in numbness, as though his legs had vanished under him, as though he were helpless.

“Does it have anything to do with Danny?” he wanted to know.

“Hopewell needs to ask you a few questions. That's all he'd tell me.”

“Then Danny—”

“They're just questions, Jack. It doesn't mean—”

“He thinks Danny was murdered.” The words stuck dry inside Jack's throat.

“He didn't say that.”

Jack didn't give the waiter time to come over to take their order, he dropped his napkin, put down enough money to take care of the drinks and walked out of the dining room and into the street, as though Hopewell and the murder of young boys existed only inside the restaurant, that outside, the night owned its own existence.

Marty didn't try to stop him but followed along, across Main Street, through the parking lot, past their cars and behind the post office where the alley led to the campus, where the boughs of the trees hung heavy and low and the moonlight was all but lost.

They walked through the old campus, where the sidewalks were made of red brick laid down by the WPA workers who'd come to Gilbert College to build the Fine Arts building and paint murals, to plant bushes and trees and grass for the quadrangle, where gaslights glowed
along the paths and the windows throughout the campus hung empty and dark.

Marty looked at the darkness and said nothing.

“All summer,” Jack told him, “I've been trying to live with the idea that something went terribly wrong for Danny. Something I did, something I
didn't
do. That he was a troubled kid with a troubled life. Now I've got to change all that and try to believe that Danny was the victim of some piece of shit who arbitrarily killed him?
Christ
almighty. I almost feel like that should be a relief, in a fucked-up sort of way. Only Danny is still dead.”

“Hopewell's always looking for something big. I told you that the first day. He wants to get out of Gilbert and be a bigger fish in a bigger pond. Unfortunately, now you and the Coggins are caught in the crosshairs of his big-city dreams.” They walked a little further. “Not that he's completely out of line, but he should leave you out of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Coggins mentioned something that Hopewell doesn't think fits the profile of a suicide. He wouldn't give me many of the details. He didn't want to compromise the integrity of his investigation,” Marty said derisively. “But my guess is it has
nothing
to do—”

“Guesses aren't good enough, Marty.”

“I know.” Marty waited a moment before he told Jack, “Lamar got into a fight with a boy in his class the morning of the day he died. The medical examiner found marks on Lamar's arm and assumed that's how they got there. Hopewell isn't convinced. He thinks they could have happened out by Otter Creek. That Lamar could have struggled with his killer. That's not at all like Danny's death. That's all he would tell me, that and he thinks there's enough to merit taking another look at the case. There must be something to it. He wouldn't have been able to do this if our captain didn't agree with him. But none of this means Danny was murdered.”

“Then why does he want to ask me questions?”

“I don't know.”

“Don't know or won't say?”

“You're looking for reassurances I can't give you.”

“Was my son murdered?”

“It's not my case, Jack. I don't have all the facts, so I can't give you a definite answer. If you want my
opinion,
no, Danny wasn't murdered. I told you when I first came to see you, Danny's suicide has very little in common with Lamar's.”

They walked the stretch of sidewalk. Jack wanted to know, “How will he go about it?” meaning Hopewell.

“He'll do a more intense search over by Otter Creek, if he hasn't already. He'll go back and talk to people who saw Lamar the day he died, at school, afterward. He'll look for anyone who saw anyone out there the day it happened, try to find anyone who might have been out that way. It's possible that someone—homeless, crazy, who knows—might have done it. And he'll see if he can match Lamar's death with the death of other boys his age around the state.”

“Like a serial killing?”

“It's remote. I keep up with that sort of thing all the time. It's
more
than remote.”

“There's no terra firma,” Jack said. “That's what it's like to be mad, isn't it? When there's no terra firma.”

They walked silently to the end of the sidewalk and crossed the street.

The silence held, reminding Jack of that evening when he and Marty sat in the car when they were still strangers. But they were strangers no more. When Jack said, “All I can think is: What next?” Marty knew what he was talking about.

Then they were walking over by the new dormitories with the deep patios and art plaza. Where the pavement was smooth and new and hadn't been laid down by the WPA. Where the postmodern sculpture sprang enormous and bold, like prehistory.

Jack said, “The first summer Anne and I went to France, she was working on her first show, and she used to talk about the blank spaces Cézanne left on his canvas. She said the blank parts suggest what's there as well as what's not there. That the absence of anything, some element, creates the presence of something else, and you have to be able to see what's missing to have any idea of what remains. Maybe it was the
blank spaces that made Hopewell decide Lamar had been murdered.”

“I guess you could say it was. Or maybe blank spaces don't necessarily mean that nothing's there, just that it isn't visible.”

They walked along the empty sidewalk. The reflection of the moon was framed in the dormitory windows. Their footsteps echoed cold and hollow against the concrete and cement.

Jack said, “I feel like I'm sliding down an endless, bottomless sluice.”

“It gets that way sometimes. But it's something you just have to cope with. Along with everything else you're coping with. I hate making it sound so cold, but that's just a fact.”

“A cold fact.”

“A cold fact,” Marty repeated solemnly.

“I wouldn't mind a few warm ones once in a while.”

“Well, for what it's worth, you seem to be handling both kinds pretty well. Under the circumstances.”

“
Seem
to.”

They walked a little further.

“You know what my problem is, Marty?”

“That's not the kind of question I ever try and answer,” Marty said, not at all humorously.

“I was always so damn busy,
seeming
to handle every damn thing, I never let anyone see how much help I really needed. And when it was offered, I didn't accept it. Not from my friends, not from my family. I allowed them to give me pep talks, encourage me, and then I pushed them to the sidelines”—he made a sweeping gesture with his left hand—“so they could watch me seize the day. Help must have been available, but I never showed that I needed it. I came close to asking you that night in the Palomino, and it made me feel so small inside I had to back down. Call it a martyr complex, or a hero complex. When Anne left Danny and me, I was like a boxer on the ropes shaking off the punches. I packed up my son and started life all over again. Without missing a beat. We had our softball games, our vacations. I could do it all and go it alone. And if I'd showed the slightest sign of indecision, in
com
petence—”

“Go easy on yourself.”

“I'd look like a failure, and I couldn't let that happen. If I know anything about myself it's this: I'm afraid to show pain or let myself look needy or, God forbid, in
com
petent.” He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “Maybe there are things a person shouldn't know about himself. Although
you'd
tell me a person can't know enough.”

“I'd also tell you—”

Jack put up his hand to silence him. “The point, Marty, is this: I'm scared to death right now. I've been scared to death since Danny died. I don't know what to think, or what to feel, or what to imagine. I've been asking for your help since the day we met, or just about. As crap-headed as it sounds, I've
let
you—”

“I'd also tell you,” Marty told him, not at all unkindly, “to cut yourself some slack.”

“There's some slack I can't cut myself. I've got a dead son who Hopewell refuses to let rest in peace and I can't stand by and let that happen. Danny's dead and I have to protect him. I guess I also have to protect myself.”

“You've been doing a good job of both since he was born.”

“I'm afraid.” Jack's voice sounded as though the wind had been sucked out of it. “And I need your help.”

Marty nodded his head slowly.

They were past the dormitories now, and off campus, walking along Elm Street, where the stores were all closed and the sidewalk empty.

Jack said, “Since I pulled you out of Marlowe's before you had your supper, how about letting me buy you a late dinner somewhere.”

Marty started to protest. Jack told him not to make a big deal about it.

“I'm treating you to supper. That's all there is to it.”

“In that case,” Marty said, “Let's go here.” He was standing in front of Ambrosini's…Home of Fine Italian Food.

“You're letting me off cheaply.”

It had been years since Jack was in Ambrosini's, but the place hadn't changed very much. The air inside was still thick with garlic and Parmesan cheese, the bar still stocked blended whiskies only and the wine
list was still the best in the state. Jack could only hope for Marty's sake, however, that the former chef had retired.

Marty gave the menu a quick look and before the waiter came over said to Jack, “A few days ago Lamar's parents discovered a personal item missing from his things, maybe it was a piece of clothing or something. All Hopewell would tell me is it was something Lamar would have taken with him when he left the house that day. Hopewell went back out to Otter Creek to look for it, maybe he missed it the first time. You know what a mess it is out there, plus all that rain didn't help, but he couldn't find anything. But whatever he's up to, I'm positive it has nothing to do with Danny.”

 

Jack was lying in the dark, there wasn't any breeze tonight and the air was heavy and it seemed like it was about to rain. It seemed as though all the summer's fragrances were in hiding, secreted on the other side of the field, and there was only the sweet smell of whiskey on his breath and the faint aroma of Ambrosini's dining room on his clothes and in his hair. They were not at all unfamiliar, the way a certain perfume rises in a theater, or at a party, and you remember the last time you breathed it and where you were and the person who'd worn it. Jack remembered the last time he lay in the dark and could smell the restaurant on his clothes and on his body, but that night they were mixed with the pleasant scent of a woman's perfume.

It was somebody's birthday, and they'd had a party at Ambrosini's. There were about twenty-five of them in all, Jack remembered, sitting around the large table in the big room. Lois was there with Tim. Lee and Cindy Hatfield. Jerry and Joy Parcell. And Maggie. There was a carnival set up in the parking lot across the street, the red and yellow sounds of the calliope, the smoky smell of hot dogs and greasy French fries came rolling through the open window. It was Jack who wanted to smuggle in carnival food at the risk of offending Mr. Ambrosini. But that wasn't why everyone was laughing. He couldn't remember why. Maybe it was the wine, a good Brunello from Ambrosini's private stock, or the end-of-semester release that happened to coincide with the party. Or the toast Maggie had made.

Someone brought music. A few people started dancing, a few people sang along. The tables were pushed out of the way. More people danced.

Maggie drew up next to Jack. She was moving in time to the song, her skirt pulled tight against her hips, showing them off. “Dr. Jack Owens,” she said in a husky whisper.

“Dr. Maggie Brighton.”

She leaned in close, rubbing her thigh against him and resting her head against his lapel. “Are you the kind of man who leads women on and then victimizes them?” she asked in the same husky whisper.

“I'm the kind of man who saves women from themselves.”

“Very noble, Dr. Owens.”

“Let's not jump to hasty conclusions.”

“Do you read much poetry, noble Dr. Owens?”

“Some.”

“I suggest you read more.” She may have had too much to drink. She may have just been acting like it.

“And why is that?”

“You have poetry within you.”

She looked as though she were about to kiss him. She didn't, which Jack regretted.

“
I
taught poetry this year,” she said in the deliberate way of the inebriate. “
I
taught poetry to non-English majors. Have
you
ever taught film for non-film majors?”

“I have.”

“I don't mind teaching them. Do you?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.” She hummed softly, her cheek pressed against his chin. “Do you know what excites them in Bloomington, Indiana?”

“You?”

“Basketball. Basketball on Friday night.”

“And you don't like basketball on Friday night?”

“I like
you
on Friday night.” She brushed her hips against him. “Dance with me,” she said.

“I thought we were,” and he took her in his arms.

He liked dancing with Maggie. It wasn't just the feel of her body, firm and confident against him, or the way her fingertips rested against his neck. It was the smell of her hair, the way she followed his lead, the way she knew when to play and when to take the music seriously, but never too seriously.