Delusion (14 page)

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Authors: G. H. Ephron

BOOK: Delusion
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Jimmy came over to us, an apron tied around his middle. “Peter? What's going on?”
I'd been coming to the Stavros for moussaka and spinach pie ever since my days as an intern at the Pearce. I explained about the notices that were being posted in men's rooms. Outraged, he fussed over Annie, who assured him that she was fine, just fine.
MacRae started to lead the young man out. “Hang on,” Annie
said. MacRae halted and gave her a questioning look. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
“Take a booth,” Jimmy suggested. “Coffee's on me.”
The five of us traipsed over to a round table tucked into the corner of the diner. The kid stared at the table, unsure what to do. He was a concave person, his forehead protruding, knees bent, while the rest of him was scooped out, his chest caved in. My mother would have insisted on feeding him.
“Slide in,” MacRae barked at the kid. “You in the middle.”
“Name?” MacRae asked him, when we were all seated like it was Saturday morning family breakfast at the IHOP. Jimmy brought coffees all around.
“Aaron Spatola.” He looked like he was hoping the red-plastic seat cushions would swallow him up.
“Well, Mr. Spatola,” MacRae said, “you got any ID?”
The kid fished a blue canvas wallet out of his back pocket, zipped open the Velcro, and handed over a card. I could see from across the table that it said MIT across the top. A student ID. It reminded me of the time I was doing about eighty through some remote part of Louisiana. I gave the officer who stopped me my Harvard ID along with my driver's license, hoping it would make an impression. It impressed him, all right. So much so that he brought me into their local jail to show the other officers what he'd caught. Kept me overnight. MacRae didn't seem overly impressed, either.
“So, what were you doing in the men's room?” MacRae asked.
“Nothing,” Aaron said. “I wasn't doing anything.”
“I caught you, putting up those disgusting ads,” Annie said.
“It's a job.”
“What do you mean it's a job?” MacRae asked.
“You know, like I get paid?”
“Who pays you?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“I never even met the guy. Hell, I don't even know if it's a guy.” He looked around at blank faces. “I get jobs off the Web. You know, the In-ter-net?” He pronounced it real slowly. “Bosjobs dot com. They advertise odd jobs in the Boston area—like, suppose you want someone to wait on line for you for 'N Sync tickets?” He must have realized he had the wrong audience. “Or maybe a Celtics game? Anyway, this guy wants someone to put up ads for him. In men's rooms. He's got a list of places. Easy money.”
“What guy?” Annie practically shouted.
“Hell, I don't know who he is. All I know is he's got an E-mail address and he pays me through the Net. I been doing this for him for weeks.”
“Weeks,” Annie moaned.
“What places?” I asked.
“It's in the bag,” he said, nodding at MacRae's partner. The officer pushed the canvas book bag over to Aaron. He rummaged around and came up with a piece of paper.
Annie snatched it from him. “Oh, God,” she said and handed it to me. It was a list of just about every nightspot and bar in Cambridge, Brighton, Somerville, and Allston.
“How'd you get the flyers?” MacRae asked.
“He E-mailed me the file. I printed it.”
“Can you prove—” MacRae began.
“Sure,” Aaron said, brightening. “I got all his E-mails. I got the file he sent me.”
MacRae gave Annie a perplexed look. “Want us to arrest him?”
“Aw, hell,” she said. “Just get the E-mail and let him go. But if I catch you—”
“Listen, lady, you don't have to worry about that,” Aaron said.
“Like, I don't need money this bad, believe me.”
As he was leaving, he added, “Problem is, if I don't do it, he'll just find someone else. The pay is real good.”
After Aaron left with MacRae and his partner, Annie snorted. “Lady!” Then louder, “Lady?”
“You'll have to bring your Harley next time, show him the real you.”
“It's easy for you to make jokes about this,” she said. “He didn't call you Mister.”
“Lay-dee,” I whispered, taunting. “Oh, lay-dee.”
Annie laughed. “Come on, this is serious. No one's ever called me that. And did you see that list he had?” She put her head down on the table and groaned. “How the hell am I going to make this stop?”
“Maybe they can track the E-mail.”
“Right. And you believe in the tooth fairy too. All you need is a mail account on Hotmail or Yahoo, and no one can tell who you are.”
“But he's got to do a funds transfer to pay Aaron, doesn't he?” I had no idea what I was talking about, but it sounded plausible.
Annie picked up her head. “Good thought.” Then she pointed her finger at me. “You're late.”
“Sorry, things ran over and it's raining.” Just then, lightning lit up the windows. My wet socks were beginning to rub against my feet, and wet pants were starting to itch as they stuck to my legs. “A monsoon, actually. So what's the news you were going to tell me?”
Just then, Jimmy came over with a plate of his famous olives, a couple of beers, and a basket of warm pita. It was the best thing I'd seen all day. We ordered stuffed grape leaves and shish kebab. Then Annie pulled a folder out of her backpack.
“They've analyzed all the prints and blood at the crime scene,” she said. “Blood all belongs to Lisa Babikian. Fingerprints
are either hers, or Nick's, or his mother's. There's not even a lot of background noise—you know, prints belonging to friends, the cleaning lady.” That didn't surprise me. Someone as distrustful as Nick wouldn't have lots of friends. He wouldn't trust a cleaning person in his house when he wasn't there.
Annie went on, “It's the bloody footprints that are interesting. We've got Nick's shoes. His mother's bedroom slippers. Lisa's bare feet. And look at this.” She opened the file and showed me a Xerox copy of a photograph of a footprint. “Boley let me have this.”
The wavery pattern of ripples looked familiar. “What is it?” I asked.
“Rubber soles,” Annie said. “Probably duck boots.”
“Duck boots?”
“Not the outdoor type, are you? You know, like from L. L. Bean. They're rubber, usually navy or green with brown leather, whitish rubber soles. High tops or low. They were originally made for hunting, slogging around in the swamp.”
“Gardening?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact. And they found dirt mixed in with the blood. It's not Weston dirt.”
“They can tell that?” I said.
“Apparently they can.”
I stared at the footprint, at the pattern. I remembered the green rubber shoes with whitish treads standing outside Teitlebaum's office door. The recently turned soil. The bushes waiting to be planted.
Was it just a coincidence? Kwan said Teitlebaum testified in the Ely murder case in Rhode Island. There were a lot of similarities between the Ely and Babikian murders. A controlling husband, acquiescent wife. A gruesome death scene. Mutilation. The husband's odd behavior after the murder. And a psychiatrist with a connection to both cases.
“What are you thinking that you're not telling me?” Annie asked.
“Lots of people have boots like these, right?”
“That's the problem. They were practically the uniform when I was in high school. They got passed from sibling to sibling, like ice skates only unisex. Even my mom had a pair. These are big. Probably a man's.”
“Nick?”
“Doesn't own a pair.”
“When I went to see Dr. Teitlebaum, there was a pair of duck boots outside the door to his office. And I just found out that Teitlebaum testified at the Ely murder trial down in Rhode Island.”
“Shit. Why didn't I know that?” Annie asked. “That's the kind of thing I'm supposed to know. Damn.” Annie thought for a moment more. “You've got to tell the police right away. They'll send someone over there to get the shoes, see if the treads match. Test for traces of blood.”
I fished Boley's business card out of my wallet. And I'd been so sure I wasn't going to trip over any evidence. I called and left a message. Boley called back a few minutes later, and I told him about the shoes. He sounded annoyed.
As I headed home, I recalled my meeting with Teitlebaum. From the beginning, I'd felt uneasy, that his relationship with Lisa Babikian had been too intense, too personal. Teitlebaum skated easily from disclosing information about the couples therapy, where he had permission, to disclosing information he'd gleaned from treating Lisa alone, where he didn't. Now, Teitlebaum had a pair of duck boots that might match bloody footprints found at the scene, and he'd played a role in a similar murder case.
I wondered if the police had already been to Teitlebaum's. Had the footprints matched? Had there been blood mixed with the not-from-Weston dirt? Would he be arrested for the murder of Lisa Babikian?
I turned onto my street feeling exhausted, looking forward to a hot shower and bed. I promised myself that the next morning, I'd walk over to the public library and look up news reports on the Ely case. Who had Teitlebaum testified for in the case?
I was jolted from my thoughts by emergency lights flashing at the end of the block, near my house. My tires peeled rubber when I downshifted and accelerated. I told myself it was probably another car accident. They happened all the time because the street was so narrow and had cars parked up and down both sides. By the time I got close enough to see that one of the cop cars was in my driveway, my heart was racing and my stomach had gone queasy with dread. Please, not a special-delivery package that I was too late to intercept.
I double-parked in the street, jumped out, and ran up the walk. My mother was out on the porch in her bathrobe, flapping her arms at a pair of uniforms. Pulsing in time to the police lights was a
whappa-whappa-whappa
sound. Took me a moment before I realized what it was—our newly installed alarm.
“There's my son,” she told one of the officers. The gauzy scarf she had around her head, knotted over the forehead, was coming off. She looked completely frazzled. “He knows the whatever-it-is to make this—you should excuse the expression—goddamned thing stop!”
I gaped. I had never in my life heard my mother use that word.
The door to my house was open. I hurried in, punched in the code, and the alarm went silent.
“New alarm?” said one of the officers, a craggy-looking fellow who looked as if he had an easy smile.
“Just had it installed,” I said.
“Sometimes they need to be adjusted. A blowing curtain can set it off.”
“I don't have curtains.”
“We can go in and check again,” he said. “Went in before and didn't find anything.”
“Nah,” I said.
“Peter,” my mother said sharply, giving me a gimlet eye.
“Sure. Please. That would be great if you'd have another look around.”
A white van from the alarm company pulled up and double-parked behind me. A guy in blue jeans and a T-shirt rolled out of it and trotted up the walk. “Everything under control?”
“Probably a false alarm,” I said.
“Such a noise,” my mother said. “I'm inside, minding my own business, and it starts. You think I could remember that code with that noise going on? I couldn't remember my own name.”
“Was my door open?” I asked.
“It was”—Mom glanced at my front door—“closed.” She felt in the pocket of her robe and came out with a key ring. “I used my key.”
“The door was locked and you unlocked it?” I asked gently.
She closed her eyes and thought about that. “Locked, unlocked, who knows?” she admitted. “I got distracted. While I'm trying to get it open, my phone starts ringing.”
“That was probably us,” the guy from the alarm company said. “Standard practice. An alarm comes in, we call the homeowner. No answer, we call the backup number you gave us, usually a neighbor. That was probably you.”
The cops reappeared in the doorway. “Looks all clear,” the second cop said, a freckle-faced kid who reminded me of Opie from the old TV show. When had cops gotten so young?
The guy from the alarm company asked, “You got a dog?”
“Nope,” I said.
“Any pets at all?”
I shook my head.
“No rodent issues at the present?”
Delicately put. “Not at the present.”
“Windows closed or open?”
“Closed?” I looked at the police officers. Officer Opie nodded.
The alarm company guy scratched his head.
“Maybe there
was
a break-in?” I suggested.
My mother's hand gripped my arm.
“If there was, he hightailed it.” The cop even talked like Opie.
“Probably just the alarm system's set too sensitive,” the guy from the alarm company said. “We'll adjust it.”
After they'd all left, I gave my mother a hug. We went over the code again together—her code was the same as mine.
“Maybe I should have it tattooed on my wrist,” she quipped. It was a grim joke. “This is the kind of thing that makes me feel old. Old and incompetent.” I tried to hug her again but she pushed me away. “But not pitiful.”
My mother went back to her side of the house, and I went to mine. The police had left the lights on in every room. I was relieved that they hadn't found anything, but I wanted to check for myself.
I went up to Kate's studio first. Everything seemed as I'd left it. I turned off the lights and came down to the second floor. I checked my study, the bathroom, my bedroom. I checked in the closets and even pulled the covers off the bed while trying to stay at a respectful distance. No horse heads.
Then I checked the basement. No signs of anything unusual. I brought a bottle of everyday red up to the kitchen. The adrenaline rush that had pumped me up had ebbed. I wanted to go from hyperaware to numb.
I foraged around in the drawer where I keep my corkscrew. It wasn't there. I checked the counter. Not there either. I started opening drawers. I found it where I keep my silverware.
I opened the bottle and poured myself a glass of wine. I leaned against the counter, swirling the wine in the glass. There
were crumbs on the counter. I tried to remember when I'd last had crackers or cookies out on the counter, and couldn't. Maybe it had just been a while since I'd wiped it down.
I picked up the morning paper, turned to the sports section, and went into the living room. I settled into my morris chair, leaned back, and almost spilled my wine. I sat bolt upright, dropping the paper to the floor. The chair back was set reclining farther than I ever keep it.
What was it Nick had said?
Bypassing that system—piece of cake
. He was right about one thing. If I had video surveillance cameras in place, now I'd know if someone had broken in.
I opened my briefcase and found the test protocol I'd been using with Nick. There in the corner was written Argus Security and a phone number. I called and left a message asking for someone to call me first thing the next morning.
Then I went through the house again, meticulously inspecting every nook and cranny, every closet from top to bottom. I pulled the blinds in every window and turned on the outside lights. That night, I barely slept.
The next morning, I went through the house again and opened all the blinds. I checked in on Mother. She looked as tired as I felt. “Don't forget, you can always beep me if you need me,” I told her.
“Fine. More numbers,” she complained.
I would have accepted her offer of French toast, but the man from the new security company had arrived.
“So, Nick Babikian recommended us,” said the good-looking man with graying temples and a ramrod-straight back that screamed
retired military
. He extended a hand. “Bill McCutcheon.”
Bill wore a white-knit collared shirt with lettering stitched
over the chest, ARGUS SECURITY, and the image of a small peacock. Argus. It was a name I knew from when I'd been obsessed with Greek mythology in grade school. A giant with one hundred eyes, Argus had stood guard over Zeus's mistress. This irritated Zeus's wife, who killed Argus, then she took his hundred eyes and gave them to the peacock. It was the perfect logo for a security company.
“Peter Zak,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Nick's one of our best customers.”
“Quite a setup he's got,” I said. “Did you folks do the installation for him?”
“We helped.” Bill looked around, like he thought someone might have overheard. “A little. Mostly he just bought the parts from us. Did the setup himself. The guy knows what he's doing as well as any pro.”
Of that I had no doubt. “I'll tell him you gave him a vote of confidence.”
“Uh, thanks, but … do me a favor, would ya? Don't mention I said anything. Likes his privacy. And like I said, he's a good customer.”
“Sure. No problem.”
Bill checked out my new system and proclaimed it “adequate.” Suggested a few ways to beef it up. Then he told me about the video surveillance cameras they could install to monitor the front and back of the house.
“We can hook it right into your cable system. You're watching TV, the doorbell rings, it interrupts with a picture of the person at the door. You don't even have to turn your head away from the TV.” Apparently a major selling point for couch potatoes.
“Sounds wonderful, but I don't think so,” I said.
“High-speed Internet? We can hook it up to your computer.”
“I'd really rather not.”
He looked crestfallen.
He wrote up an estimate for the surveillance cameras transmitting time-lapse images to their offices. I couldn't help gasping when I saw the price. Bill reminded me it included the cameras, the wiring, a year of service, and archiving of old data to CD. They kept it for six months.
As I wrote out a check for the deposit, I wondered why I was doing this—following the advice of a delusional paranoid. I hoped I wasn't fast becoming one myself.
No, I reassured myself. Someone who's delusional is convinced of threats that don't exist. The threats that haunted me were real. I had the broken pieces of Kate's pot to prove it. I wasn't paranoid, just cautious. I felt threatened and was protecting myself. Then it struck me. Wasn't this just the kind of rationale someone with paranoid delusions would offer up?
I'd hoped to get to the library that morning to look up Teitlebaum and the Ely case. But by the time the Argus Security van had pulled away, I had just enough time to get to the Pearce for my morning appointments.

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