Act of God (2 page)

“Well, Abe was a great boss, he took the people for drinks, dinner at this local place, Grgo’s, you know it?”

The name came out “Gur-go’s.” “I don’t think so.”

“Well, you’d have to look good for it, he don’t advertise much. I’ve only been there a couple, three times because we live in Sharon, it’s easier to head up to Dedham, but all the people from the District eat at Grgo’s. The thing is, though, there were too many receipts in Abe’s papers from there and some bars and other restaurants I don’t remember him ever mentioning to me.”

I wasn’t nuts about the direction this was taking. “Mrs. Rivkind—”

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but would it be okay … Is it still professional and all if you call me ‘Pearl’?”

I looked at her, the big eyes brimming a little.

She said, “The last two weeks, I’ve been having everybody call me ‘Mrs. Rivkind this’ and ‘Mrs. Rivkind that,’ and it’d just be kind of nice to hear my first name from a man.”

I leaned back. There was no come-on in what she said, just a sincere request. “Sure. And I’m John.”

The tears stood down. “Thank you, John. Now, you were going to say what?”

“I was going to ask you what you thought the extra receipts meant?”

“I don’t know what to think. If Abe didn’t get … dead, I never would have seen them, and he’d know that. He took care of all the bills, always did. But—it’s not that we … that I don’t have the money to take care of them. It’s just … I don’t understand them.”

“Pearl, are you sure you want to?”

The jaw jutted. “You think he was having an affair on me.”

“I’m just saying, are you sure you want to know?”

“John, my Abe and me were together thirty-one years. You get to know a man pretty well, thirty-one years of watching him get up and go to sleep and head for the bathroom. You ever married?”

I thought of Beth and said, “Once.”

“How long?”

“Not long enough.”

Rivkind looked at me. “Oh, John. She died, too?”

“A time ago. It … passes, mostly.”

The woman became almost animated, maybe distracted from her own grief by being concerned for someone else’s. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …” Then Rivkind seemed to remember why she was in my office. “Anyway, I knew my Abe pretty well. The last couple of months, it was like …” Rivkind turned her head, as though she were concerned about the State House dome, too. “This is very embarrassing to have to say.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

Rivkind came back to me. “Abe and me, we always had a good marriage. I mean in … in the bedroom. The last couple of months, though, it was like he didn’t have his usual … pep, you know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“I asked him, was he worried about work, he said no. I asked him, was it me, he said no. I already went through … the change, five years ago, so I didn’t think it could be that. I even bought some magazines said they had articles about men when they’re older—don’t get me wrong, Abe wasn’t old, he was only fifty-seven—but these articles, they talked about ‘testosterone’ so I thought that might be it. I even asked him once. …” Rivkind looked down toward her hands, maybe at the band and diamond on her left ring finger. “I said to him, I said, ‘Abe, you being unfaithful to me?’ and he said ‘No,’ and so I figured that was that.”

“Pearl—”

“You see, my Abe, he never lied to me. Never, not once. He survived the camps, John, the Nazi camps. Buchenwald. To live you had to lie, every day, every way. He never, ever lied to me once during our marriage, John. He never lied to anybody. Ask his partner, Joel, ask our son, Larry. Everybody called him ‘Honest Abe.’ The store didn’t already have a good name when they bought it, they would have changed it to ‘Honest Abe’s.’ Believe me.”

“Then I don’t see what you want me to do.”

Rivkind deflated a little. “I don’t know, can you find out who killed him. It’s so … random. Joel, he said to me, ‘An act of God, Pearl. An act of God, who can explain these things?’ But maybe you can, and if you can, I want to know. I want to know who killed my Abe.”

“Pearl, the police are a lot better at that sort of thing than a private investigator. They have the resources.”

“Resources?”

“Squads of detectives, laboratories, access to other criminals who might give the killer up to cut a better deal for themselves. I’d have to get awfully lucky.”

“Okay then. Like I said, I don’t know from murder, except what I see on TV. This kind of thing, it never … touched me before. So you don’t find out who killed my husband, I’d understand. But it seems to me there’s one thing you can find out. You can find out did my Abe lie to me. You can find out, was he having an affair on me.”

“Pearl—”

“Look, I know what you told us before, about your conflict thing. And I know if I was sitting where you are, I’d be worrying, ‘Is this Darbra that one client wants me to find also the woman that my other client wants to know had an affair with her Abe?’ Well, I don’t care who the other woman is. I mean that now, and I’ll mean it all the way through. I just want to know did my Abe lie to me, and I got to tell you, John, I don’t think I can go through this with somebody else if you won’t help me.”

Pearl Rivkind crumpled what was left of the first tissue and dipped into her bag for another. With all the practice she’d probably had recently, she still didn’t do it very well, and somehow that kind of persuaded me.

I said, “How was your coffee?”

The corner of his lips curled a little more. “Excellent. I found the most charming hole-in-the-wall place with a hazelnut blend that was out of this world. I really would have been happy to bring you some.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“Mrs. Rivkind said she’d be back in fifteen minutes. The poor woman, you can just see how badly she’s taking all this.”

I watched William Proft. He spoke without emotion in his voice, as though he were reporting accurately rather than caring at all about her. It reminded me of how we used to talk in class during my one year of law school.

“Mr. Proft, can you tell me what you know about your sister’s disappearance?”

“Certainly. I got a call on Monday—yesterday—from the furniture store. I guess they had a line on their application form about ‘next of kin,’ and when Darbra didn’t show up for work after her vacation, the other owner called me.”

“Would that have been Joel Bernstein?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, not much. Just that Darbra was due back from vacation that morning but hadn’t shown up for work, and did I know where she was.”

“Did you?”

“No. In fact, I called a woman who lives in Darbra’s apartment building and sort of looks after things if she’s gone for a while. This woman—she’s actually a girlfriend of Darbra’s. You’ll want her name, I suppose?”

“Please.”

“Traci Wickmire. That’s T-R-A-C with an ‘I,’ last name W-I-C-K-M-I-R-E.”

“And what did Wickmire tell you?”

“Just that Darbra returned from vacation sometime Saturday, but never got in touch with her.”

“Address?”

He gave it to me, a building near Boston College.

“Have you been to the police?”

“Called them, actually. Started with headquarters, then got shunted around. The official message was that I’d have to wait awhile before I could file a missing-persons report. The unofficial message was that the matter would not be given a particularly high priority.”

His choice of words was precise, the way you might expect a lawyer to talk. I know pharmacists have to be precise, too, but Proft’s demeanor suggested he’d rehearsed this, not for fear of being too nervous to present it accurately, but rather because he wanted to be sure I had all he thought I needed.

“And so you decided to come to me.”

“Well, Mrs. Rivkind and I decided together, as we said.”

“Whose idea was it?”

Proft looked at me and blinked, as though he were trying to figure whether I would have asked Pearl Rivkind the same question. “Well, I suppose it was my idea that we go to a private investigator, and her idea, through her husband’s lawyer, that we come to you.”

Cute. “Tell me, Mr. Proft, did you ever study law?”

The lip finally uncurled. “Briefly. I found it too … uncertain for my taste, except for tax, which I found uninspired. There is a certainty in my current profession that is rather satisfying. Measuring the proper dosage for a prescription and knowing that you’re right.”

“Quantity over quality.”

The lip recurled. “If you like.”

A hard man to bait. “How long have you known Mrs. Rivkind?”

“Oh, a few years. Her old pharmacy closed, and mine in Sharon got most of the business from it.”

“You own the pharmacy?”

“No. I work there.”

“How well did you know Abraham Rivkind?”

“I didn’t. Never met the man. Mrs. Rivkind did all their business at my … the pharmacy.”

“Mr. Proft, now that we’re alone, I’ll ask you again. Do you have any reason to believe your sister’s disappearance is related to Abe Rivkind’s death?”

“Let’s say I have no real evidence, Mr. Cuddy. Traci did mention that Darbra was upset about his death and therefore really looking forward to her vacation.”

Traci mentioned. “You didn’t talk to your sister directly about Rivkind’s being killed?”

“No.”

“Are you and your sister close, Mr. Proft?”

“Evidently not, by your definition. But I am her brother, and I am concerned about her.”

Nice deflection. “Aside from Traci Wickmire, do you know any of the people in your sister’s life?”

“Not really.” A glint came into his eyes. “Darbra does fool around a bit, even in these plague-ridden times.”

“Might Wickmire be able to help me there?”

“Probably. And, of course, the people at the furniture store.”

Proft seemed to anticipate the question I didn’t want to ask him. “One thing, Mr. Cuddy. I didn’t know Mr. Rivkind, but I do know my sister. It would not be impossible for her to have some … beyond-business relationship with an older man. If so, so be it. If you wish to tell Mrs. Rivkind what you find out, that’s fine with me. I just want to know what may have happened to my sister.”

Very thorough, relieving me of any conflict I might be feeling. “Maybe you should have stuck with the law, Mr. Proft.”

“Perhaps. I would have been good at it, if not particularly happy doing it.”

“Any other relatives your sister might have contacted?”

“Contacted? No.”

“Any other relatives, period?”

“Our father … well, ‘ran out’ would be a polite expression for it. Our mother is dead. We do have an aunt who runs a curio shop up in Salem.”

“Her name and address?”

“Darlene Nugent. I believe she lives above the shop, and that’s called ‘Sixties’ on Bowdoin Street.”

He believes. “I take it you’re not too close to your aunt, either.”

The lips curled some more. “Closer than Darbra.”

“You have a recent photograph of your sister?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Any thoughts on where I can get one?”

“All roads lead to Traci Wickmire, Mr. Cuddy. She has a key to my sister’s apartment, and I’m sure you’ll find something useful there. If you decide to help Mrs. Rivkind and me, I’ll be happy to give you whatever authorization you need to do what you have to do and take what you have to take from Darbra’s place.”

“Your sister has an unusual first name.”

“I noticed that you’ve avoided using it.”

It troubled me somehow that he was right.

Proft got the glint back in his eye. “Something almost … sinister about it, isn’t there?”

I said, “Was she named after your aunt?”

“Partly. Darbra’s twenty-eight—four years younger than I am. I was named after our father, but my mother’s second pregnancy—with Darbra—was what caused him to ‘fly the coop,’ as I think they used to say. Accordingly, Darbra got her name partly from my aunt—my mother’s younger sister—and partly from my mother, who was named ‘Barbra,’ like Streisand. Could have been worse, don’t you think?”

“I’m sorry?”

The lips curled so much they nearly bowed. “Well, how would you like going through life as ‘Barblene’?”

I asked William Proft to wait outside until Pearl Rivkind came back. I turned in my chair, slid out my secretarial pull-tray and put my feet up on it. As always, there were a lot of people milling around the subway station. I raised my window a couple of inches.

Two sketch artists, maybe Cambodian, were sitting in sand chairs next to their easels out of the sun, hucking the people who walked past. “Hey, lovely lady, we do your portrait? Seven minutes, no waiting.”

An elderly black man, in broken boots with no laces, leaned against the wall of the station, talking loudly to nobody in particular. “No, I never
did
live there, man. Not in the
new
New York. Nossir, I lived in the
old
New York, the days gone by when New York was mostly white and all polite. My brothers and sisters of color, man, they ruint that city, ruint it for everybody.”

In front of the black man, a carrot-haired boy in his late teens was ballroom dancing with a life-sized female doll wearing a white gown. Her high-heeled slippers were strapped to the tops of his Nikes as he whirled her around their cement dance floor, smiling proudly at the passersby as he gracefully avoided them.

I went back to the notes on my desk. I don’t do divorce cases for the same reasons that Pearl Rivkind’s request troubled me, but I only had to think of Beth lying in her hillside overlooking the harbor in South Boston to know I’d already made up my mind in Rivkind’s favor. I could turn down William Proft, wanted to on personality grounds, but having a missing-person case as a cover would make it a lot easier to deal with the Homicide Unit regarding Abraham Rivkind’s death, and having Proft’s authorization would allow me to get into both problems faster and smoother.

The knock on the pebbled-glass itself had to come from Proft, and when I said “Come in” this time, he had to hobble himself to allow Pearl Rivkind to enter first. Without my saying anything, they took the same chairs they’d chosen the first time.