New England White (18 page)

“And he had this new project, too. Just in the last year or so. Very hush-hush. A new way of looking at an old problem. That’s all he would say. He was going to make millions. That’s what he said, Bruce. Millions.”

“I’m sure he was. But on the night he died, what did the two of you do?”

“We played chess. Then he just left.”

“What time was that?”

“It wasn’t late. I don’t know. Five. Five-fifteen. I asked Kellen—I asked him—I said, ‘What’s the hurry?’ He said he had an appointment. Now, Bruce, I knew his reputation, so I assumed it was with a woman. Probably a married woman. That was his preference, you know that, right? No? He used to say he liked married women better than single women, and preferably with two or three kids at home, the younger the better. It was less complicated, he said. Kellen was a little bit—I don’t know—commitment-shy, I guess. You can look at his preference for married women as a rational strategy for maximizing his sexual satisfaction while minimizing the risk of commitment. See, Bruce, commitment entails costs. There are opportunity costs—the consumption value of what you could be doing instead—and there are also considerable risks downstream. What we might call post-commitment risks. The risk of making a mistake, say. Of discovering you hate your spouse. Or that you love someone else more. Now, some people marry or make other kinds of commitment as a way of managing risk. The risk of a lonely life, for example. It’s a trade-off either way you do it, of course. Now, in Kellen’s case, the risk of being stuck was the one he wanted to avoid. Of course, there are multiple strategies available, and, actually, you can also look at his preference for married women as a form of insurance. Because, if you think about it, sleeping with married women is in certain ways more costly than sleeping with single women. That cost is the value of the risk of being caught—the harm if you really are caught discounted by the likelihood of its occurrence. That extra cost represents the amount that a person who is commitment-averse is willing to pay, we might say, to purchase insurance against winding up in a committed relationship that he—”

Again, very gently, Bruce Vallely brought his witness to heel. “If we could just get back to when Professor Zant left. He said he had an appointment, and you guessed a woman.”

“Right. That’s what I—”

“Did he clarify matters? Did he tell you if he was meeting a woman, whether married or not?”

They had made it all the way to the Science Quad, the grand, blocky monstrosity on which the university was betting its future as, a little late, it tried to position itself as a center for the new technologies. Students flowed around them in earnest, hurrying groups.

“No,” said Art Lewin, towering over Bruce because he had scrambled up a filthy berm of snow heaped against the side of the computer center by a plow driver who had decided, for an unfathomable reason, to remove the clean white blanket from the lawn. “No, he didn’t tell me. Except he made one little joke. He said he was thinking he might go to Jamaica.”

“Jamaica? That’s what he said?”

The economist nodded. “He said he had urgent business there. In Jamaica.”

“You’re sure he said Jamaica?”

Art was continuing to climb, as though the physical distance would grant perspective; or perhaps he had simply had his fill of interrogation. It wasn’t fun any more, and life for the Arthur Lewins of the world, raised to believe that all would be well as long as you just stayed smart, had to be fun, or it was not worth living. “That’s right. He said he was going to Jamaica, and that if I had half a brain in my head, I could figure it out. That was the kind of thing he used to say, Bruce. Half a brain.”

“He said you should be able to figure out where he was going?”

“Yes. Like it was just another of his games.” Art was all the way at the top now, his feet almost two meters above the ground, turning carefully in a small circle, lord of all he surveyed. He said, voice now softer, for Bruce had caught up, “I reminded him, if it was a puzzle, he was supposed to leave me clues to figure it out. Know what he said? He said, ‘I already did.’”

(III)

T
HEY HAD TRAMPED
back down the snowbank, and Art Lewin’s shoulders were freshening their slump. No, this was not fun. Bruce thought he knew what the young man was thinking. That his friend and mentor was really gone. Reliving the good times they had together—the formulas, the chess, the arguments, the competition—had brought home to him how much he had lost.

“Think hard.”

“I am thinking hard.” Art Lewin’s tone was now petulant.

“No note? A last-minute e-mail? Maybe even an equation on a blackboard? Are you really sure he didn’t leave you any kind of clue to what he meant by Jamaica?”

“I’m sure. I’m sure.”

“Well, how about something anonymous. A note from a source that—”

“There’s nothing, Bruce. Honestly. Do you think I haven’t been racking my brains trying to come up with one?” A boyish sigh. They had reached the sidewalk, where rushing cars sent up frigid showers of dirty slush. He perked up. “I did have an idea, though.”

“Go on.”

“Well, you know, he liked women, like I said. So I thought maybe he was planning, you know, to meet some woman. A Jamaican, maybe. At a motel or something, spend the weekend.”

“Why would he need to go to a motel? He lived alone, didn’t he?”

“That’s true.” Art Lewin was irritated to have missed the point. Then he brightened. “So—maybe he had a Jamaican woman coming to his house?”

Bruce glanced at him as they walked, an idea forming. The professor, sensing the scrutiny and not much liking it, increased the distance between them. They passed beneath a wrought-iron gate and were back to the Original Quad, as it was called.

“Did you and Professor Zant ever discuss Lemaster Carlyle?”

The economist’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his scrawny neck. “Oh, well, everybody has, ah,
opinions
about Lemaster. But we would just shoot the breeze.”

“Do you know if Zant might have had some grudge against him?”

“Well, Kellen was the kind of man who had lots and lots of grudges, but most of them were about people he’d never met. You know. Politicians, activists, syndicated columnists, people he thought wasted their influence.” Back on safe territory, he stood a bit taller. “You know, Bruce, there’s this whole political-science literature about the incentives of politicians? What turns out to be the best way to predict their votes? Answer: the desire for re-election. Standing up for an unpopular principle is such a tiny part of politics that most studies can’t even pick it up. Kellen hated people who’d do anything to get ahead, and anything else to stay there.”

Like Lemaster Carlyle, Bruce was thinking, but he wondered whether his own biases might be playing him false.

“What about Mrs. Carlyle—”

The objection leaped across the space between them as if determined to strangle this idea aborning: “No, Bruce. Don’t think that, okay? It was over a long time ago. Kellen liked married women, but he wasn’t crazy.”

“Crazy?”

“You don’t mess around with the wife of a man like Lemaster Carlyle. You don’t dare. No matter what rumors you might have heard about what is going on, or not going on, between them. And, besides, I know Julia is good-looking, but isn’t she like forty or something? That’s kind of old for Kellen. He liked them younger.”

“Why not?”

“Why not what?”

“Why don’t you mess around with the wife of a man like Lemaster Carlyle? Why is that such a crazy thing to do?”

Art Lewin’s facial expression said that perhaps Bruce was the crazy one. “Come on,” he said, and, with difficulty, laughed. “He wouldn’t take it very well, would he?”

“I suppose not,” said Bruce, certain he was missing something. They were standing at the heavy wooden door to the building. The old iron lock no longer functioned. Art was holding his electronic key to the entryway. Bruce had a master that opened every door on campus.

The economist looked up at the sky, and Bruce steeled himself for a disquisition on the causes of weather. Instead, the young man grew wistful. “You know what? It wasn’t just Kellen who hated Lemaster Carlyle. I don’t think Lemaster liked Kellen too much either.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you know, they had that disagreement in the papers. But even before that. I saw them together this one time, at the faculty senate, when Lemaster was still a law professor, before he went to Washington and all that. I was just out of grad school. Anyway, the senate was debating this committee proposal to amend the university’s code of ethics, to forbid sexual relationships between professors and students in all circumstances. Lemaster was a big backer. Kellen was one of the leaders of the opposition, because, well, he said grown-ups can make their choices, but let’s just say there might have been some spark of self-interest. Anyway, at the break, they ran into each other in the hallway, and Kellen asked Lemaster why he was fighting so hard when it was obvious to everybody that the proposal was going to be tabled without a vote. And Lemaster looked at him, gave him that steely-eyed glance of his, you know, like everybody’s disdainful father? And he said, ‘You’re against the rule. That’s enough reason for me to be for it.’ Kellen said, ‘Don’t make this personal’—or something like that. Lemaster was still looking at him like he was an interesting species of rodent. He said, ‘It’s not personal. It’s official. I just think you’re a dangerous man.’ Words to that effect.”

“Did anybody else hear this exchange?”

“I don’t really know. Could be. The hallway was pretty crowded. I mean, they weren’t shouting or anything, they were both pretty civil, but I don’t think they cared about being overheard.”

Bruce weighed the tale. Too thin, he decided. Even combined with what else Art had told him about the night of the murder, it was just too thin. “I see,” was his only comment.

A hiatus, each playing a bit of poker with the other.

“If you don’t need me any more, I’d like to get my bag and head home—” Art began.

“Wait.”

“I’m tired, Bruce.” The sullen child was back.

“Just one thing more.”

He sighed and looked around as if expecting help. In the course of their walk, a gray twilight had crept over the campus. The frigid wind promised worse to come. The professor thrust his soft hands into his pockets, looking balefully at the director of campus safety, and it occurred to Bruce that Art Lewin was a dreadfully unhappy man.

“Sure, Bruce, sure. One thing more.”

“When we were in your office, you said that you’d want to kill Kellen Zant.”

The youthful eyes widened. “Well, I didn’t mean it seriously. It was kind of…I was just trying to make a point.”

“Do you think you could elaborate?”

“It’s not a secret, Bruce. I went over this with the investigators. If you want to find a motive, just track down the husbands of all those wives he seduced. One of them is bound to be angry enough.” A pause. “Or hurt enough.”

Bruce saw it. Remembered the photograph on his desk: two children, no mother. He glanced down at Arthur’s left hand. No wedding band, but an indentation where one used to be.

“You’re divorced.”

“That’s right.”

“Did Kellen Zant have something to do with it?”

Art Lewin glanced away again, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he coped with whatever was stirring in him. His baby face was flushed and wounded. “You could say that.”

“Kellen…slept with your wife?”

“Stole my wife.”

“What?”

“A little miscalculation on his part.” A shrill laugh, half sane. “Carol left me, babies and all, to chase after him. It wasn’t part of his calculation.”

“Your wife left you for Kellen Zant? When was this?”

“Oh, nine, ten months. More. Almost a year now, come to think of it.”

Bruce frowned. He had heard nothing of this from any of his sources, not a whisper. He said, “Now, Art, let me understand this. Your wife left you for the man, and you still played chess with him? Every Friday afternoon?”

“It was only the man I hated. I didn’t love his mind any less.”

This was too much for Bruce to process, so he put it aside for later consideration. “So…your wife…Carol…what did Kellen do when she said she was leaving you?”

“Kellen? What do you think he did? I told you, he was commitment-shy. He sent her back. Said that wasn’t the deal.”

“He sent her back…to you?”

Art nodded. “She came banging on the door, the middle of the night, the day after she walked out. Crying, miserable, telling me she made a big mistake. I thought it was funny. I laughed my head off. I let her in, but the next day I told her I was moving out.”

Bruce’s head was whirling. Somehow he could not picture the laughter. Then, looking at the young man’s sad, greedy face, he could.

“You let her in but you moved out?”

“No. I just told her I was. I wasn’t going to, not really.”

“I see,” said Bruce, but he didn’t. “Maybe I should talk to Carol. Where is she now?”

“Home.”

“Home? Like, her parents’?”

“No, Bruce. Not home like at her parents’. Home like at our house. That’s why I have to go. Carol will have dinner waiting.”

“But I thought you were…uh…”

“Divorced. Right.”

“Then how on earth—”

“We’re just divorced, Bruce. That doesn’t mean we can’t live together. Doing it this way is a sensible exercise in rationally managing risk. There are no legal impediments if either of us wants to make a change, and, in the meanwhile, Carol and I have all the benefits of marital life. Sometimes she’ll want to stay out all night with somebody else. Or I will. Or we both will.” His winter pallor brightened in blush. “Then, you know, my mother-in-law takes care of the kids. Well, no, she’s not my mother-in-law any more, is she? I don’t think there’s a word for it. My estranged mother-in-law? I don’t know. Anyway, the point is, Carol and I are both free to see other people. If we want to do it, we do it. In that sense, what happened with Kellen has been good for us. I think you could say it has had a liberating effect on our rational faculties. We’re no longer bound by any artificial barriers. We can make choices with better information. We’ve become more efficient in the pursuit of happiness.” Art Lewin’s head was bobbing, his adolescent face was smiling, his voice had grown louder, and he seemed scarcely aware that Bruce at his side was trembling with a baffled fury. “You know, lots of people who aren’t married live together. It’s the coming thing. I’m not even sure there is a rational case to be made for traditional marriage any more. Without external pressure, religious or social, to compel marriage, no rational, welfare-maximizing individual would enter into one. As a matter of fact, at the rate the numbers are increasing, we can expect—”