1 Runaway Man (11 page)

A group of big, husky young guys were seated in there. I figured them for Bruce’s high school basketball teammates. His Canterbury roommate, Chris Warfield, was there, too, yarmulke perched high atop his mop of curly blond hair. When Chris spotted me he came right over to give me a sympathetic hug. He was still under the impression that I was Bruce’s cousin—a deception that made me feel slightly soiled under the circumstances.

“Real sorry about what happened, bro,” he said softly.

“Me, too. It was real nice of you to come, Chris.”

“Hey, least I could do for my roomie.”

“Chris, will you please excuse us for a sec?” asked Sara. “Benji and I have to talk.”

She led me toward the kitchen, which smelled of fresh-brewed coffee and marble cake. A half-dozen women were bustling away in there. Working the phone. Slicing the cake. Getting plates, cups and silverware ready.

“Your mother needs you to unload the dishwasher,” one of them barked at Sara.

“In a minute, Aunt Stella,” she responded, leading me out the door that was next to the pantry.

It was a bit chilly out in the attached garage, but not too bad. The garage door was down. Two cars were parked inside—a Lexus SUV and a BMW convertible. One wall of the garage was lined with steel industrial shelving. Sara reached around behind a carton on the top shelf and came away with a small package wrapped in tissue paper. I thought it might be her dope stash but it wasn’t. That was on a different shelf, tucked inside of a Twinings Tea tin. She removed a joint from it and returned the tin to its hiding place. Then she started toward a cast-iron spiral staircase that led to an enclosed loft space over the garage.

That was when the kitchen door opened and out came Laurie, who wore a black dress that was so shapeless she looked like a stick figure inside of it. Her shoulders were hunched, her complexion grayish. “What’s going on out here?” she demanded.

“
Nothing
,” Sara shot back defensively. “We’re
talking
.”

“About what? What is this person even doing here?”

“I invited him.”

“How dare you? And how dare you sit shiva for your brother without wearing any stockings?”

“What the fuck difference does
that
make?”

“Don’t you talk to me like!—”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Weiner,” I interjected.

“Young man, I want you to leave my house right this second. You came here the other night with some cockamamie story about some cockamamie inheritance and now my son is dead.”

“You’ve had contact with Bates, Winslow and Seymour before, haven’t you?” I suggested.

Laurie lowered her eyes. “Why, no. Whatever do you mean?”

“Mom, he knows all about Bruce being adopted.”

“How would he know that?”

“Because I told him,” Sara answered.

Laurie took two steps toward her and slapped her hard across the face. It made a loud smack. “Young man, I want you to leave.”

“I want him to stay!” Sara cried out, a red splotch forming on her cheek.

“I do not have time for this right now. I have a house full of people. But we
will
talk about this later,” Laurie vowed, shaking her finger at Sara. Then she stormed back inside the house, slamming the door.

“I hate you!” Sara hollered after her.

“Maybe she’s right. I’d better take off.”

“No, please don’t, Benji.” Sara held her hand out to me. “Come upstairs with me, okay?”

There was a ton of clutter up in the room over the garage. Assorted half-finished craft projects that seemed to involve seashells, dried flowers, pebbles, bits of colored glass and a variety of X-ACTO knives, clamps and glues. I had no idea what any of them were supposed to be. I’ve never understood the concept of crafts. There was a desk in there. A daybed. One window that faced the street. Another that looked out over the Weiners’ backyard, which appeared to be at least two acres of snow-covered lawn and iron-gray bare trees.

I sat down on the daybed. Sara flicked on an electric space heater, then found a book of matches on the desk and lit the joint, toking on it deeply as she stood there. “This is supposed to be my mom’s studio. She has this lame idea that she’s artistic. Trevor and I come up here to bone if she’s home, which she almost never is because she’s out boning her boyfriend. Get this, he’s—”

“The principal of her school, I know.”

She gazed at me curiously. “How did you find that out?”

“Part of the job.”

“God, Benji, my life is
so
messed up right now that I-I…” She let out a sob and threw herself into my arms.

I sat there with her, hugging her protectively. I was starting to feel responsible for Sara Weiner. Bruce was gone. She needed someone. That someone was me.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to blubber all over you,” she sniffled. “That just keeps happening.”

“Let it happen. It’s healthy.”

She took a deep breath and let it out, composing herself. Then moved over to the desk chair and sat, crossing her bare legs.

I perched on the edge of the daybed, trying not to stare at her smooth white thighs. I reminded myself that she was seventeen, grief-stricken and vulnerable. I reminded myself that I was not the sort of horny, low-class boor who would ever take advantage of such a girl in her parents’ garage while they were inside sitting shiva for her dead brother. That wasn’t me. Nope, not me.

Sara relit the joint, toking on it. “Want some, Benji?”

I shook my head.

Now she held that small, tissue-wrapped package out to me. “I made this for you,” she said shyly.

I unwrapped it. Inside, I found a hand-woven purple-and-pink striped bracelet.

“It’s a friendship bracelet,” she explained, coloring slightly. “And see? It has a silver bunny-rabbit clasp. That’s because your mom calls you Bunny. I-I only make them for special people. I’ve never made one for Trevor, okay? Here, give me your wrist.…” She put the woven bracelet around my right wrist, fastening it in place with the clasp. “Now, remember, you can’t
ever
take it off. Not until it breaks on its own. Otherwise something heinous will happen to you. Promise?”

“I promise,” I said, admiring it there on my wrist.

“You think it’s totally girlie-girl and stupid, don’t you?”

“Sara, I think it’s the nicest present anyone’s ever given me.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me.”

“I’m not, I swear.”

Her big brown eyes searched mine. “Really?”

“Really. I feel honored.”

She smiled, showing me those dimples of hers. “Cool.”

“So, listen, I sat down with Charles this morning.”

Her face fell. “How is he?”

“A wreck. He’s going to stay with his mother for a few days.”

“That must be nice,” Sara said, fingering her splotchy cheek. “Being able to share his grief with his mother, I mean. Mine’s the total bitch from hell. God, it’s just so awful here. My mom and dad hate each other. And they don’t even know I’m alive, I swear. Can I go back to New York with you, Benji? I really need someplace sane to crash for a few days.”

“Your place is here, Sara. Your parents need you, whether it seems that way or not. Besides, you have school, don’t you?”

“I guess,” she acknowledged grudgingly. “They gave me today off. I don’t want to go back tomorrow. Everyone’s going to be totally weird about Bruce and everything. Staring at me like I’m some freak.”

“You have your friends. You have Trevor. It’ll be okay.”

“No, it won’t, Benji,” she said quietly. “It won’t ever be okay.”

I studied Sara carefully, not liking what I was hearing one bit. Because I’d heard it before. She was another runaway in the making. I wondered if she’d show up at my door some night very soon, even though I’d told her not to come. I wondered what I’d do if she did. “Charles told me that Bruce had been trying to find out the details of his adoption. Your parents wouldn’t talk about it.”

Sara nodded. “They never talk about it. Ever. You’d swear the stork just left him on their doorstep.”

“Have you ever seen any of his birth records or adoption papers? Anything like that?”

“Nothing, Benji.”

“Do they keep a safety deposit box at a local bank out here?”

“I really wouldn’t know.”

“That woman who you told us approached Bruce at the mall…”

“What about her?”

“She’d already approached him at Canterbury a week before Thanksgiving. Charles didn’t see it happen, but I showed him a couple of photographs anyway. I was hoping maybe he saw one of the women around campus.”

“And did he?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Did you bring them with you?” she asked anxiously. “Can I see them?”

I had the DMV photos tucked in my coat pocket. I held them out to her.

Sara peered at them—and immediately tapped one of the photos with her finger. “That’s her, Benji. She’s the one.”

“Are you positive?”

“Totally. She’s the woman who I saw at the mall. She looked messier in person, but it was her.” Sara lifted her gaze at me. “Is she Bruce’s real mother?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what’s her name? Who is she?”

“A great big pile of trouble.”

*   *   *

“SARA IDENTIFIED HER,”
I informed Mom over my disposable cell phone as I drove away from the Weiner house. “The woman who accosted Bruce at the mall was none other than Bobby the K’s sister—Kathleen Kidd.”

I could hear Mom draw in her breath. “She’s positive it was Kathleen?”

“I showed her two pictures. One was of Bobby’s wife, Meg Grayson Kidd, who Charles Willingham thought he recognized from the newspaper. The other was of Kathleen. Sara went right for her. No hesitation. I’ll pay a call on Kathleen as soon as I get back to the city. I have to talk to her. According to her driver’s license she lives at 131 Riverside Drive. That’s the Dorchester on the corner of West 85th, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“If she won’t see me I’ll stake out the building. She has to come out sometime. She’ll talk to me.”

“She won’t be doing any talking, Bunny,” Mom informed me. “She took a dive off of her sixteenth-floor balcony two hours ago. Kathleen Kidd is dead. It’s all over the Internet. According to a family spokesman she had a long history of emotional problems, which explains why she avoided the limelight all of these years. The Kidd family’s been shielding her. Hell, hiding her.”

I didn’t hear that last part real well. There was too much whirring going on inside of my head.

“Bunny, are you still there or did that cheap phone just crap out?”

“I’m still here,” I said quietly. “Mom, what in the hell have we gotten ourselves into?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t either. But I’m going to find out. And when I do…”

“Yes, Bunny?”

“Somebody’s going to be really sorry.”

*   *   *

“YO, HOW ARE YOU, LITTLE BUD
?
”

“I’ve been better, Legs.”

“Your message said you have something for me about our jumper.”

“That I do.”

“Then I guess you’d better lay it on me.”

“I guess I’d better.”

Detective Lieutenant Larry Diamond and I were hunched over cups of coffee at a Greek coffee shop on Broadway and West 89th Street, not far from where Kathleen Kidd had gone splat all over the sidewalk. It was 4:30 in the afternoon and the place was packed with grumpy, half-deaf old timers who were partaking of that day’s Early Bird Special—one-half of a roasted chicken, vegetable, potato, soup and complimentary glass of red or white wine. It was a bit like meeting up at a senior center.

My dad had been Larry Diamond’s rabbi back when Legs joined the force out of Brooklyn College, where he’d graduated with a degree in English literature. My dad changed his diapers and whispered in the right ears when Legs wanted to make detective. He saw a rising star in Legs Diamond. Someone who was super intense, super smart and wasn’t afraid to ruffle feathers. Someone who cared. Legs is six years older than I am and is like a big brother to me. A big brother who happens to be a homicide detective working out of the two-four, which encompasses the neighborhood where Kathleen lived. Since she was a Kidd I figured that meant Legs’s boss would assign his best man to the case. Legs Diamond is the two-four’s best man.

He sipped his coffee, waiting me out. Our young waitress passed by and topped off his cup for him, undressing him with her eyes. Legs is the kind of guy who women stare at that way. He has a lot of wavy black hair, soulful dark eyes and a goatee. He wore an aged leather trench coat over a black turtleneck sweater, blue jeans and motorcycle boots. To be honest, he’s kind of my idol in the looks department. The only thing I don’t envy about him is his wary restlessness. The man never relaxes. Ever. He also has some nagging name-recognition issues, as in he really, really doesn’t like to be called Larry.

“They’re calling Kathleen’s death a suicide,” I said over the din of fifty or more old people slurping their soup. “Is there any chance it wasn’t?”

He sat there, one knee jiggling. “Meaning you think somebody pushed her?”

“I’m just asking. It never hurts to ask.”

“Actually, that’s not true. It can hurt a lot.” Legs ran a hand through his hair, thinking it over. “I examined her body and it plays suicide all of the way. No fresh bruising. No scratch marks. Her fingernails were clean.…”

“How about her apartment?”

“She was an artist of some kind. Had abstract paintings taped all over the walls. And her living room’s strewn with tubes of paint, brushes, canvases. The place is a real pigsty. Dirty clothes and dishes everywhere. But there was no sign of a break-in or a struggle. No furniture overturned. No scuff marks on the tile flooring out on the balcony.” His eyes searched mine. “We’re family. I’ll recheck everything from top to bottom if you give me a good reason why. But so far I’m not seeing one.” He pulled a notepad from his coat pocket, flipping it open. “Her doorman told us she had no visitors in the time frame leading up to her death. He also said the lady was a recluse. Seldom went out. Had everything delivered. Her psychiatrist, a Dr. Joseph Schwartz, told us we’d likely find a combination of antidepression medications in her system. The medicine chest in her bathroom is full of them. She practically has a pharmacy in there. Wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol on top of what she was taking but we found a half-empty bottle of Bordeaux and one glass on the coffee table in her living room. Also several empties in the trash in the kitchen. We’ve got her mixing booze with powerful meds and no sign of a break-in or a struggle. What does that tell you?”