4 The Killing Bee (17 page)

"What can I do for you?" she said briskly, moving away from her c
omputer keyboard. She didn't exactly have a calming, nurturing manner, and it was hard to picture her helping troubled kids.

But maybe that didn't matter. Despite her job title, giving therapy to kids didn't seem to be a major part of her job description. She spent most of her time giving tests, scoring tests, writing memos on tests, and referring kids to places where they could take still more tests. Terra Nova tests, CAT tests, reading tests, psychological tests. . . . Sometimes it seemed like our school was more about testing than teaching.

"Ms. Topor, I'm Jacob Burns. My sons Latree and Charizard go to school here."

"Latree and Charizard?"

"Excuse me. I mean Nathan and Daniel. I'm here because I'm fearful for their safety."

Her eyes narrowed. "Their safety?"

I nodded solemnly.

"Why?"

"Do you know a boy named Mark Robinson?"

Irene pursed her lips. "Yes."

"Mark beat up Nathan on the bus today. Gave him a black eye."

"I'm very sorry to
hear it. That kind of thing happens more often than we'd like. I would talk to the principal about it."

And not to me,
she was saying.

"We don't have a principal now," I pointed out.

"I'm sure we'll have a temporary one by Monday or Tuesday."

"I'm worried about my own safety, too," I said. "Mark's father just finished beating
me
up."

"How did this happen?"

"I went over to his house to talk to him, and—"

"That wasn't a good idea. You shouldn't physically confront the other parent."

How could I get through to this woman? I tried to come up with some tricky angle, but my brain drew a blank. In the absence of any good lies, I tried the truth.

"Look, Ms. Topor, let me put my cards on the table. I suspect Mark and Lou Robinson
—and Sylvia, too—of killing Sam Meckel and Hilda Helquist."

She looked at me like I had just barfed on her desk. "What, you think the three of them marched into Sam Meckel's office and
—"

"I think
one
of them did, I'm not sure which. I need you to tell me what’s going on with these people. What are we dealing with here?"

"Why would any of the Robinsons want to kill Mr. Meckel?"

"As you know, there was a great deal of outrage about the ADHD diagnosis."

Irene looked down. She picked up a pen and began doodling. I do that too sometimes, when I need to relax. "This seems rather far-fetched."

"Maybe you don't realize how much the diagnosis upset them. They felt you were all a bunch of drug dealers who were doing tremendous damage to their child."

She kept doodling. "Have you gone to the police with these suspicions of yours?"

"I need more before I go to them. That’s why I'm here."

"My contacts with Mark, and the tests I did on him, they're all confidential."

"You had extensive contact with the parents, too. That’s
not
confidential."

"I'm not so sure. Listen, I'm beginning to feel very uncomfortable with this whole conversation."

"And if Mark or Sylvia or Lou goes out and kills a
third
person, how comfy will you feel then?"

"Mr. Bums, I'm going to ask you to leave."

Whoa
. "Why are you so uptight? This is about more than just confidentiality, isn't it?"

"Maybe you don'
t appreciate how important confidentiality is—"

"Are you scared of a scandal? If people believe your diagnosis led to murder?"

"Mr. Burns—"

"Just tell me what I need to know, and I'll try to keep you out of it."

She reached for the phone. "If you don't leave right now—"

"Never mind. I'm going."

I stood up, readying a snappy exit line. But then I sat down again. I had just noticed what Irene was doodling.

A skateboard.

"Why'd you draw that?" I asked, pointing at it.

She brought the piece of paper toward her, trying to hide it from me. "No reason."

"That’s Mark's skateboard you just drew. Why's it on your mind?"

"Look
—"

"He stole it back from Meckel, didn't he? And Meckel told you that."

The phone rang. Irene hesitated, then answered it and started talking to somebody about some memo or other. Maybe she figured the pause in our conversation would give her time to figure out how to deal with me.

But the pause also gave me time to look around. On the far corner
of her desk, I saw a weekly appointment calendar. I looked closer. What was that word underlined in blue, on the section of the calendar devoted to this past Tuesday?

I reached out and grabbed the calendar. Irene put out her hand that wasn't attached to the telephone and tried to grab the calendar back. We had a brief tug of war, but I won.

I examined the calendar. Sure enough, the underlined word was "Robinsons." And next to it was the word "Meckel" and a time: "4:00."

Irene had scheduled an appointment with Sam Meckel and the Robinsons for Tuesday afternoon at 4:00.

She hung up the phone. "Give that back."

"No problem," I said. I handed the calendar back. "But why were you and Meckel meeting with the Robinsons on Tuesday?"

"If you don't leave right now—"

"Let me guess. You and Meckel were gonna lay down the law to Mark's parents. You were gonna tell them the skateboard theft was further proof of his problems."

"Mr. Burns, you leave me no choice. I'm calling 911," she said, and true to her word, she began dialing.

"That won't be necessary, Ms. Topor," I
said getting up to go. "I've got everything I need."

Maybe I didn't quite have
everything
. But still, it wasn't a bad way to start the weekend.

13

On Friday evenings
it’s a Jewish tradition to say a prayer over a cup of wine. Translated into English, it goes, "Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who created the fruit of the vine."

Andrea and I aren't big wine drinkers, though, so we pray over a glass of grape juice. Meanwhile, Charizard prefers apple juice and Latree goes for milk. So we've invented our own family prayer, which goes: "Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who created the fruit of the vine, the tree and the cow."

That Friday evening, Laura and Adam Braithwaite were breaking
challah
with us. Laura had iced tea and Adam just wanted water. So our prayer that night blessed "the fruit of the vine, the tree, the cow, the bush, and the water faucet."

It was a cheerfully goofy way to begin the Shabbat meal, and we were almost able to forget all the recent death and destruction. Laura and Andrea discussed the finer points of bowling and the future of the women's pro tour. Latree, Adam, and Charizard tried to decide which
Pokémon would be the best basketball players, and what positions they would play. Charizard stoutly maintained that Pikachu, even if a little on the short side, would be every bit as good as Michael Jordan.

I chowed down on Andrea's delicious eggplant parmigiana and drifted lazily between conve
rsations, musing over which Pokémon would make the best bowler. But our dinnertime idyll was interrupted by the doorbell ringing. I tensed up instantly. Had the cops found some way to link me to Helquist’s murder?

Or maybe they h
ad come to pick up Laura. I wondered, if she had to go to jail for an indefinite time, where would Adam live? Probably with us.

I opened the door. Unless any of the local men in blue had taken to dying his hair purple, that was no cop standing there. It was Paul, Sam Meckel's sixteen
-year-old son. He shifted his feet nervously, and there was a scared-rabbit look in his eyes.

"Hi, Paul."

"I only have a minute, I'm supposed to be back home. I just wanted to tell you that—"

He stopped an
d looked around my shoulder. Behind me, Charizard, Latree, and Adam were all standing there staring. And behind them were Andrea and Laura.

"Guys, take off," I said.

"But we want to hear too," Charizard complained.

Andrea came to my aid. "Kids, get back in the dining room."

"Is it about the murder?" Charizard asked.

"You mean
murders,"
Latree corrected him.

"Th
at’s what I said," Charizard protested.

Paul looked skittish, like he was about to bolt. "Latree and Charizard, I'll give you up to three. One . . ."

"Dad ..."

"Two . . ."

"Okay, okay," they said, and ran out of there with Adam. It always amazes me that the counting-to-three ploy still works. What terrible fate do my kids imagine is in store for them if I count to three and they’re still there? I wonder how old they'll have to be before they start ignoring my counting. I guess that’s when I'll know their preadolescence has officially begun.

Paul was still standing there. "Do you want to come in?" I asked.

He shook his purple hair vigorously. "I have to get back home for the wake. Look, you remember the other day, when you came to my house?"

"Yes."

"And you asked my mom if she knew anything that might help you?"

I nodded.

"Well, there was something she didn't tell you."

After a pause, I said, "What was it?"

"My dad was... he was…"

I waited. Paul was fidgeting so much I wanted to reach out my arms and steady him.

"He was accused of sexual harassment."

Huh?
"By who?"

Now that the cat was finally out of the bag, Paul started talking fast. "I'm not sure, but I heard my mom and dad talking on Monday night. They were in their room, but they were so upset they
were talking loud, and I could hear some of it. My dad said somebody at the school was making a complaint against him. He claimed it wasn't true. But my mom was, like… not so sure." Paul's face reddened. "I just thought I should tell you, because…"

"No, you're doing t
he right thing. But are you positive you have no idea who it was?"

"I think a teacher. My dad said something like, she was just accusing him of harassment because he wasn't going to rehire her."

Rehire her?
Most of the teachers at the school were already tenured. "Was it Elena Aguilera?"

"I don't know."

"Did your dad ever have any affairs?" Paul's face turned the color of an unripe cherry. "If you don't mind me asking."

"I don't think he did. I never really thought about it. I'm sorry, I don't know anything else. I really should go. My mom will be wondering where I was."

With that he hurried back to his Honda Accord—actually, it was probably his dad's—and got in.

I hated to ask him my next question, but I had to. Before he had a chance to drive off, I followed him down the path and tapped on his car window. He rolled it down.

"Forgive me, Paul, but. . . where was your mother on Tuesday morning?"

His eyes widened. "Getting me out of bed. Jeez."

Then he took off.

I went back into the dining room, where ten ears eagerly awaited my news. "Somebody accused Meckel of . . ."

Then I stopped. I didn't want to talk about sexual harassment in front of my kids.

"Of what, Daddy?" Charizard asked.

"Some stuff," I said.

Latree said, "I think that guy said something like 'sexual harassment.'"

The darn kid's ears are amazing. Ask him to put down his book, and he's deaf . . . but whisper something at the other end of the house that you don't want him to hear, and it comes in loud and clear.

"What
’s that?" Adam asked. Latree and Charizard looked puzzled, too.

"Listen, I have to go out. Ask the moms to explain
it to you." I was glad to leave that job to somebody else.

"Does 'sexual' mean, you know, that sex stuff?" Latree asked, frowning. Andrea and I had
conscientiously informed our sons about the birds and the bees, but they weren't too impressed by the whole business. They thought it was gross.

"Who did he harass?" Laura asked.

"I'm not sure
if
he did, and
who
he did. But my money's on Fidel Castro's compatriot." I was using a little bit of code here, because I didn't want the children to know Elena was a suspect.

Laura put her hand to her mouth. "My God." I understood perfectly what was going through her mind:
hope
that we would get her off the hook by nailing Elena for the murder, combined with year that we would nail Elena.

I turned to my wife. "Listen, Andrea
—"

"Go," she said, r
eading my mind. "I knew a peaceful Shabbat dinner at home was too much to hope for."

Elena and Luce Aguilera lived in a small apartment on the third floor of an old nineteenth-century mansion turned whorehouse turned apartment building. It was located in Franklin Square, a recently rejuvenated part of town just west of Broadway. I could smell the garlicky Cuban cooking before I even reached her floor.

It smelled like I'd
be busting up yet another peaceful Friday-night dinner.

Elena didn't look too surprised to see me when she answered the door. But she didn't look too pleased, either. Behind her, Luce was eating some kind of delicious-looking stew.

"Now what?" Elena asked. "I'm getting a little weary of this, amigo. You ask more questions than my daughter."

"I'm getting a little weary of people I thought were my friends lying to me."

Back at the table Luce made a choking sound, like some stew had just gone down the wrong way. After checking to make sure it was nothing fatal, Elena gave me a little push, edging me out into the hallway.

She closed the doo
r behind us. "What is your problem?" she said, waving her arms angrily.

"So you were sexually harassed by Sam Meckel?"

Her arms stopped moving, and so did the rest of her. "Where'd you hear that?"

"What happened Tuesday morning, Elena? He came on to you again? And you had to defend yourself?"

"You've got it all wrong—"

"Don't be stupid, Elena. Eventually the cops will find out about this
—"

"No, they won't
—"

"Sure, they will.
I
did." I piled it on as thick as I could, trying to harangue Elena into making a mistake. "Play it straight and you've got a legit self-defense case. Especially if you already filed a harassment complaint. That'll back up your story—"

"Jake
—"

"How can you even look Laura in the eye, for God's sake? She's facing life in prison."

"Meckel never harassed me—"

"Bullshit."

"Bullshit, yourself. He was harassing Melanie Wilson."

That stopped
me. Melanie Wilson was Mark Robinson's sexy young fifth-grade teacher.

But was Elena just trying to throw me off track? "How do you know this?" I asked.

"Melanie told me. She was bringing a complaint, and she wanted to know if anybody else had been harassed, too. I told her, not me. If Meckel tried to mess with me, I'd've kicked him right in the
cojones."

Evidently Elena agreed with Charizard's views of justice. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Why should I? Melanie asked me not to. She may not be the world's most brilliant teacher, but I don't want her to get fired just because Meckel acted like a pig and she gets caught up in some big political mess."

"Listen, Elena, if you truly want me to keep Laura out of jail
—"

"I do."

"—then you have to trust me enough to tell me
everything."

"I don't trust anybody that much. Not even my priest when I go to confession."

"Do you think Melanie might’ve killed Meckel?"

Elena sucked in her breath. "She certainly hated the
hijo de puta."
I didn't know what
hijo de puta
meant, but I doubted it was anything too favorable. "But then again, so did I. And believe it or not, I didn't touch him. So if you'll excuse me, I spent two hours cooking Ajiaco stew and I intend to eat it while it’s hot."

Then she went back inside and shut the door in my face. But that was okay. It wasn't her I wanted to talk to now, it was Melanie Wilson.

Melanie also live
d in a recently renovated apartment, though hers was on the east side of town. She rented the bottom floor of a two-story house that was decorated in the traditional Saratoga style, with purple, white, and green paint and fancy Victorian trimmings.

When Melanie a
nswered my knock, she was decorated with some pretty fancy trimmings herself. Even in the relative darkness of the front hall, her golden earrings sparkled. She wore a shiny necklace with a ruby pendant that hung down to some serious cleavage. But she didn't have a wedding or engagement ring, I noted.

Melanie was in her midtwenties. Her dress was tight, black and strapless, and seemed to hold on to her body by sheer magic. She wore high-heeled leather sandals.

I felt a quick rush of sympathy for Sam Meckel. Now don't get me wrong. I'm a sensitive left-wing kind of guy, I've listened to Anita Hill's book about Clarence Thomas on audiotape, and I understand sexual harassment can be a devastating thing. I know sexual harassment is supposedly more about power than sex.

But having said that, I'm still glad I don't have to work at close quarters, day in and day out, with any insanely sexy women. I'd find it stressful as hell. Sometimes I wonder how people do it.

After all the domesticity I'd been part of, first at my own house and then at Elena's, it was kind of a shock to my system to find myself thrust back into the singles world. I couldn't help picturing myself dating this hot babe.

Ah yes, to be free and single again. I wouldn't be here trying to bust Melanie for murder, which is rather a lousy way to st
art a relationship. I'd be picking her up for dinner. Then we'd hit a romantic movie… coffee at some classy artists' hangout… and then we'd come back to her place... I'd find out once and for all how that dress of hers managed to stay up—

"Yes?" Melanie said a little petulantly, her hand on her hip, cutting off my reverie. She looked like she'd been expecting to find somebody else at the door, somebody much more interesting than me.

"Ms. Wilson, my name is Jacob Burns." I was a little unnerved by my useless attraction to her, so I fought it by acting a little more formal than usual. "I'm looking into the murders of Sam Meckel and Hilda Helquist."