Face Time (12 page)

Ten
minutes until I’m supposed to meet Tek. I’m parked in front of the fortress-fronted state archives building, a haphazard sprawling boondoggle that looks like it was designed by committee.

Franklin had no luck working the phones yesterday, so he’s at the Swampscott PD checking on Tek’s old partner—the one Joe B. mentioned—and seeing if he can get a copy of the 911 call Dorinda made after finding her husband’s body at the bottom of the basement stairs. Or where she says she found it. Maybe we’ll hear something on that tape, something police missed.

I check to see that my cell phone is on, just in case Will calls to give me the good news about a visit to the Framingham women’s prison. Tucking the phone back into my tote bag, I check for pad and paper in case I need to take notes. My pager, in case there’s an emergency. Quarters, in case the copier is one of those ridiculous pay-in-advance numbers. And lipstick, in case Tek is as ruthlessly handsome as I remember.

Then I smile. This visit is all business. Pleasure comes later. I’m driving to the Cape tomorrow night to catch up with Josh, and Penny, and grill lobsters on the beach. My smile of anticipation fades as I imagine another audition in front of my preteen nemesis. I lock the door of my Jeep and step into the present. Story now, Penny-worry later.

I’m walking on tiptoe, trying to prevent my black leather sling-backs from getting chewed up in the too-wide spaces between the bricks on the pathway leading to the entrance of the archives building. I decided to wear jeans, in case it’s dusty or I have to sit on the floor, but I know I look better in higher heels and figured there’s no need to sacrifice style. With a click and a whoosh, the imposing glass doors automatically slide open, then swish closed behind me. A blast of air-conditioned chill replaces the July morning.

A marble-topped counter, waist high, stretches the width of the lobby. An ungainly metal detector, stuck in like an afterthought, blocks the entrance to the rest of the building. Behind the desk, a massive painted mural extends floor to ceiling, someone’s garishly outsize and perspective-challenged take on local history. Lobster boats, a galloping Paul Revere, the
Mayflower
and a huge codfish. The committee probably designed that, too.

And there’s Tek. Waiting for me. Black T-shirt, black jeans, his array of security badges around his neck, sunglasses on top of his head. He’s his own silhouette, stark and sleek in front of the color-saturated walls. He’s leaning on the counter, proprietary and serene, oozing ownership.

I give a casual wave, all business, as I walk toward him. I instantly hear my heels echoing through the cavernous lobby, so I go back to my tiptoe technique. The journey to the desk seems to take days. Though I’m keeping my expression upbeat, I’m regretting my shoe choice with every clackety step. Why does this guy make me so self-conscious?

“I’ve already signed in,” he says, gesturing to a computer keyboard on top of the counter. “You need to show ID, and then we’ll get started. Shouldn’t take long.”

The blue-coated security guard looks up from an array of tiny television screens arranged in a flickering patchwork in front of him. Beneath it, a single, smaller, separate screen, plugged into an extension cord snaking under the desk. The Red Sox game. “Bags,” the guard says, half an eye still on the game. “Have to lock ’em up. Electronics? Phone, pager, beeper? Metal? Has to stay here.”

“Playing the Yankees, right?” I’m trying to be congenial. “Not a big archive day, I guess.” I hand him my purse and tote bag, silently lamenting the loss of my connections to the outside world. I’d better not miss a call from Will.

“Yup,” the guard answers. He drags his eyes from the screen as he waves me to the metal detector. “Place is pretty deserted.”

I walk slowly under the metal structure without a beep, but the guard still brandishes another detector wand down my front, and up my back. From my quick tour through the Mass.gov Web site, I know the building holds three-hundred years of history, documents from the original thirteen colonies, Civil War muster lists, handwritten transcripts of the Salem witch trials. I guess the security is understandable. The guard, straining toward his tiny TV, seems more interested in hitting than history. I watch for Tek to pass inspection, but he flashes his attorney general’s ID, and the guard opens a metal gate and lets him pass.

“Here you go, gotta wear these at all times inside,” the guard says. He reaches under the counter and pulls out two pale blue packages, handing one to each of us. They look like just-washed shirts from a commercial laundry. I’m confused, but Tek rips open the plastic and shakes out a cotton dust jacket with buttons up the front, and long sleeves.

“Government issue,” Tek says, putting his arms through the sleeves. He ignores the buttons. “Probably not up to your usual fashion standards. But it’s all about protecting our taxpayers. Can’t have people leaving here filthy with the dust from long-untouched document boxes.”

I hold up my archive-wear by the shoulders, imagining
I Love Lucy
in that candy factory scene. “Very retro,” I say. “Do we get special shoes, too?”

“Gloves,” the security guard says. We’re each issued smaller white packets. “Wear ’em if you want to, got to if you’re headed for the historicals.” He checks what looks like a schedule book, open on the counter. “You’re not registered for that, though.”

Tek tucks his gloves into a pocket, and I follow his lead. “No,” Tek says. “We’re only going to the attorney general’s section.”

“Dump ’em all in the linen chutes when you’re done,” the guard says, opening the door to the rest of the building. “Check out here before you leave. Getcher stuff.” He’s back at the ball game before the door closes behind us.

Tek and I enter a long straight corridor. White-painted cinder-block walls are interrupted by a series of doors, identical except for stenciled letter and number markings. Tek walks confidently, apparently certain of where he’s leading me.

“It’s a couple of pods away,” he says, as if I know what a pod is. I wonder how he can still look so cool, even wearing what could pass for a 1950’s housecoat. “We’ll have to dig out the boxes from an inside section, but that shouldn’t be too difficult.”

I accelerate to a little trot, working to keep up with his long strides. We walk through the archives’ institutionally monotonous and monochromatic halls. I see only a few other visitors, all dressed in identical government-issue blue jackets, some wearing the white gloves. “It’s kind of like the
Twilight Zone,
” I say, partly because it is and partly because it seems we ought to be having a conversation. “Or a hospital.” This reminds me I haven’t called Mom yet today. Next on my list.

We approach a stainless steel elevator and Tek swipes his ID card through a bracket by the doors. A square button lights up red, then flashes green. “You come here often?” I try again to connect, hoping he’ll be amused by what’s usually a pickup line.

“Swampscott PD files aren’t stored here, but I’ve been around,” Tek says, looking at his watch. “When the A.G. needs records, he usually just sends a messenger.” He cocks his head. Suddenly his demeanor changes. I remember the smoldering look he gave me in front of the statehouse. “You’re getting the special treatment, though,
Miz
McNally. Your tax dollars at work.”

The doors slide open, not to an elevator, but revealing a moving walkway like the ones between terminals at Logan Airport. “Hop on,” Tek instructs. “And hold the rail. Most visitors have to walk. But this takes us right to the annex. Like I said, your tax dollars at work.”

The walkway carries us past a bank of windows. At least now I don’t have to try to keep up. For someone I once thought was trying to win me over, even flirting, Tek’s now harder to read. Maybe he’s changed his tactics. Maybe he’s still devising them.

“Tek’s an interesting name,” I say, partly because I’m curious and partly because it’s the only thing I can think of that’s not business but not too personal. “Is it—short for something?”

The walkway is ending. With a quick motion, Tek steps off, and onto solid ground. He holds out a hand, offering to assist me.

“Detective,” he says. He keeps my hand infinitesimally longer than necessary as I hop off the moving conveyor. “
Tek
is short for Detective. And I’ll tell you my real name—if you tell me yours.”

Taking my hand back, I’m briefly flustered by his touch, and somewhat frustrated, because what should be an uncomplicated situation seems to be getting more complicated by the moment. And just to prove I’m right, now I have to go to the bathroom.

W
HERE
’
S
T
EK
? Frowning, I look both ways as the door marked
W
clicks closed behind me. Peering down the hallways, I realize that’s about the only door with an understandable designation. The others all have those letters and numbers. Except, of course, for the one marked
M,
which is probably where Tek’s gone.

I lean against the wall, waiting for him to emerge. The low-ceilinged hallways, lined with low-watt fluorescent tubing, are silent, uninhabited. I briefly wonder about the annex Tek was talking about. How long will it take to pull the documents and photos I need? My frown returns. This is taking too long.

I wonder if he’s all right. There’s no reason for him not to be all right, of course, and checking my watch, I see it’s only been five minutes. Maybe seven, since I came out. But that’s too long. If something is wrong, he’s sick, or he fell, or, I don’t know. And if I was just standing here the whole time…

I turn and knock, tentatively, on the door marked
M.
“Tek?” I say. I pause, waiting for him to yell he’s okay. But there’s no response. Maybe I didn’t knock loudly enough. Taking a deep breath, I knock again, louder, and again call his name. “Tek? You in there?” With a final breach of everything we learned in grade school, I push open the door, looking but not looking. Of course if anyone else is in there, they would have answered when I knocked. Probably.

The room is stark and silent. And empty. No sprawled body on the ground, no feet showing under the stall doors, no invasion of privacy for a surprised ex-cop.

Okay, fine. Plan B. So what’s the deal? I play back our conversation and remember Tek said we were “almost there.” Maybe he’s just gone on to the storage room. Thinks he told me where it is or figures I can find it.

I continue in the direction we were walking, examining the look-alike doors to see if there’s anything I recognize, or any sign of where I am or where I should be going. But all the doors are identical. Indistinguishable. And closed. No sign of anyone.

I try a couple of doors, at random, figuring someone might be inside, or there might be a phone, but one after the other, they’re locked. I’m having some sort of
Through the Looking Glass
moment, in a place that should feel safe and ordinary but instead is tauntingly surreal. Tek can’t just vanish. And what’s behind all these locked doors? I rattle each doorknob in turn, annoyed, frustrated, and getting angrier by the second. Damn Tek. He couldn’t wait two more minutes for me to come out? And now I’m—a door opens. And I take one step inside.

The murky and flickering fluorescent lights are on and the windowless room is filled with steely gray file cabinets, identical, floor to ceiling. I hesitate, listening. “Tek?” I say. The sound echoes though the room and I can hear it’s not quite my normal voice. No answer.

Leaving the door open, I check an elaborate fire exit chart in the hall. “You are here,” I read. “Right. I know that. Question is, where is everyone else?”

I head back through the warren of file cabinets, noticing they all seem to be labeled with numbers and dates. I give a halfhearted tug at one file cabinet handle. Locked. As the map in the hall promised, there’s another door in the rear. That opens, no problem, and I’m out in another hallway intersection. Left, right and straight ahead. Who the hell knows which way to choose?

Ahead it is.

I’m infuriated. The fronts of my thighs ache from trying not to slide on the linoleum-slick hallways. My heels are noisy. I’m starving. And I’m lost, lost, lost. In one more minute, I’m going to retrace my steps and head back to the guard’s desk. And there’ll be some explaining to do.

Was that—footsteps?

“Tek?” I call again. I stop, listening. No answer. The only sound is the buzz of the lights and some faint hum of air-conditioning. Shaking my head, I begin my trek back to the lobby—and then, unmistakably this time, footsteps.

My shoulders sag in relief. Tek’s probably looking for me, too. We should have made a plan. At least this will be a funny story. If we decide to tell it. “Tek?” I call out. “Not funny! Where’d you go?”

Trying to track the sounds, I walk slowly, one tentative step at a time, toward the footsteps. At the hall intersection, I see a fish-eyed traffic mirror, set almost ceiling high. Reflected from far down the dimly lighted hall, I see the blue jacket I know Tek’s wearing.

Shaking my head, ready to share our archives adventure, I feel my whole body relax. The blue-coated figure comes closer. Walking faster, then breaking into a trot. Then I see he’s also wearing the white gloves. And a ski mask. The man—I guess it’s a man—begins to run. Holding something. A gun? I’m not going to wait and see.

I turn, confused and terrified, and blindly run in the other direction. Down one hall, then another, my bearings, if I ever had any, completely lost. My damn shoes, clopping like castanets, amplify every step and echo thorough the corridors. I pause, catching my breath, and rip them off. Barefoot and terrified, and holding both shoes in my hands, I race around another corner, touching the wall to keep my balance as I careen through the maze of corridors. This has all got to come out somewhere. Someone’s got to be here.