Guilt (23 page)

Peter caught the sarcasm. “Cop. Homicide detective. Yeah, anyone like that.”

The minute Peter hung up his phone, it rang. It was probably Gloria wanting to know where he was. Their meeting should have started five minutes ago.

He picked up the phone. “Hold on to your shirt. I'm on my way.”

“You don't have to get snippy with me.” It was his mother. “And I wasn't expecting you.”

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else. Listen, I can't talk. I'm in a rush.”

“So I gather. This won't take long. Sunday is Sophie's birthday. So we're throwing her a little party, and she most especially wants you to be there, though I'm sure I couldn't say why. So you should be here at noon. You can help me decorate.”

Decorate? Definitely not Peter's strong suit. “I need to check—”

“So check. Then you'll be here.” Click.

*   *   *

Peter wasn't surprised when Ravitch called him the next afternoon. In the two hours since the police had been to his house and questioned him, Ravitch had started smoking again, and downed three beers to beat back the anxiety that built up inside him.

“Why are they after me?” Ravitch's voice was slurry. “I didn't do anything. They're asking me about where I was this other day, it's like a month ago. How should I know? Then I realize they think I'm the bomber. That I'd kill my own friend.” Peter could hear Ravitch blowing his nose.

“I doubt if you're being singled out. They're probably checking everyone.”

“The worst thing is, I feel like”—he hiccupped—“I feel like I did it. Like I should have noticed something or someone that wasn't normal.”

They continued talking. Peter's other phone line beeped, but he ignored it. If Ravitch had done nothing wrong other than go out for a smoke, then of course there was no basis for these intense feelings of guilt. But guilt didn't require a reality base to thrive.

Peter had his own share of guilt at the moment, not quite as undeserved. True, he hadn't given MacRae Ravitch's name, or divulged anything from their therapy sessions. But it was because of Peter that the police were grilling security guards. He knew police scrutiny would only exacerbate Ravitch's already tenuous state, and that Ravitch had a tendency to somatize, to act out his issues. Smoking, turning to alcohol, becoming depressed—those were predictable outcomes. Peter hoped the investigators would quickly eliminate him as a suspect.

Now Peter's red message light was blinking.

“You know the cognitive behavior therapist I referred you to is great at dealing with this kind of stuff. Call him.” Peter said, trying to extricate himself from what he knew could turn into an hour-long therapy session if he let it.

“But I'll have to start all over at the beginning, explaining—” It sounded as if Ravitch was weeping.

“I'll call and fill him in.”

Peter extracted a promise that Ravitch would schedule an appointment with the new therapist as soon as possible. After he hung up, he checked the message. It was MacRae.

“Thought you'd like to know, Rudy Ravitch was taking a lunch break when the law school was bombed.”

Damn. Was a lunch break long enough to get from the courthouse to the law school and back? Easy if you had a scooter.

*   *   *

Annie took a cab to the Registry of Motor Vehicles first thing the next morning. She had the cabbie wait while she renewed her registration, then had him continue to family court where she retrieved her license from lost-and-found, then on to the tow lot just off the Southeast Expressway. Fifty bucks for the registration, nearly a hundred in towing charges, sixty-five for the taxi, and there was still the damned ticket. For that she'd have to show up in court. At least she had her car back.

It was late morning when Annie parked on the street, a block from the post office on Harvard Street in Brighton. She'd come equipped with quarters to feed the meter all day. She'd hoped to get there earlier to stake out Brenda Klevinski's PO box.

Annie slipped a high school yearbook photo of Brenda out of her bag. She'd gotten it from an Internet company that specialized in yearbook photos. Give them a name, a year, a high school, and a credit card to charge the hundred-dollar fee, and back came a digitized image. At seventeen, Brenda had been pretty, with wide-set mascaraed eyes and dark hair teased into the pouffy bangs they all wore back then. Annie's god-awful high school graduation picture with her hair done up the same way could be zinging around on the Internet, too. Pretty scary. She wondered if Brenda had done her hair in the girl's john before school, and rolled up her skirt like Annie's friend Charlotte whose father never let her out of the house without a head-to-toe inspection. Mr. Florence forbade Charlotte to wear makeup, short skirts, high heels, or lacy underwear. He wouldn't have his little girl dressing like a slut.

Around the chin and mouth Annie could see Brenda's resemblance to her sister, Maureen. Brenda could have changed dramatically in the intervening years, but at least the photo was a start.

Annie stuffed her hair into a Boston Red Sox cap, zipped her leather jacket, put on a pair of sunglasses, and walked to the post office. The squat, gray granite building had wide double doors. She found the PO box where Brenda Klevinski's MasterCard bills were being mailed. She peered in through the little window. Looked like just a day or two of mail. That was good. Meant someone was checking it regularly.

“Excuse me.” She jumped at the sound of a woman's voice. It was an elderly woman in a pink quilted car coat. Annie stepped aside so the woman could get to her box.

Annie got herself a cup of coffee from the Herrell's on the corner and took it to her car. When a spot closer to the post office opened up, she moved into it. She was putting more quarters in the meter when a young woman got out of a minivan and walked toward the post office. Dark hair, slight build. She carried her shoulder bag clutched in front, like she needed it for protection. Could have been Brenda.

Annie followed the woman inside and pretended to address an envelope at one of the counters. The woman waited on line to buy stamps. When her turn came, she chatted with the postal clerk. She was a regular. She barely glanced at Annie, and left without opening a PO box. Not Brenda.

Thank God for Herrell's, Annie thought as she made her way over there two hours later. She didn't mind buying a chocolate chip cookie in return for the right to pee. When she came out, she ducked back into the post office, just to be sure the mail hadn't disappeared while she was relieving herself. It hadn't.

By seven o'clock that evening, her backside ached from sitting. Coffee cups, used napkins, and two empty bottles of water made the inside of her car look like a trash heap. She gave up and went home.

Next morning at eight, she was back. She put on her baseball cap again, got out of her car, and entered the post office, praying that the mail was still in the slot. She had no desire to do an overnight stakeout. She peered in. Looked exactly the same as it had the day before.

The post office was deserted. Windows didn't open until 8:30. She could see her car across the street, parked behind an old black Chevy wagon like her father's cherished car, perfectly positioned for the day. Time for coffee. Herrell's was open. This morning there was a line. She couldn't risk missing Brenda, so she turned to go. She'd come back when they were less busy.

She'd reached the door when she heard a familiar, harsh voice. “Takes a friggin' hour to get a cup a coffee in here.” She turned back. It was Joe Klevinski and he was holding a large coffee and coming right at her, head down, shoulders set like a charging bull. He muttered as he brushed past her. Her heart leaped as their eyes met briefly, and she could feel sweat prickling under her cap.

He didn't pause for an instant. There was not a flicker of recognition in his eyes. She watched him leave, then followed at a discreet distance.

Sure enough, he went into the post office. She didn't dare go in and watch. She went back to Herrell's and watched through the window. When he came out, he had a fistful of mail. He darted across the street. Then he paused and stood there for a moment. Annie couldn't see his face, but it looked as if he was gazing at her Jeep. He turned back toward Herrell's. Annie shrank back, her heart pounding. When she peered out again, he was gone.

Shaken, she made her way back into the post office. Brenda Klevinski's PO box was empty.

24

P
ETER WAS
in the middle of what felt like his first normal day in weeks. Morning meeting, walk rounds, interviews with a couple of applicants for the post-doc position they had open. He was about to break for lunch when MacRae called.

“I'm really sorry to bother you again,” he began. “We've got Harvard Harry down here, but he won't go in and look at the lineup.”

So?
Peter wanted to say.
Why is this my problem?

“You know how to deal with…” MacRae paused. Peter imagined the words he might have used.
Crazies. Nut cases.
“… oddballs.”

“I could have told you—” Peter started.

“I'm sure you could have, but it's too late for that now. Could you come down?” There was a long pause. “Please.” Another pause. “I've got someone coming over there to pick you up.”

“You what?”

“I figured it would be easier. You won't have to find parking, and—”

There was a tentative knock at Peter's door. It pushed open and there was a police officer.

“He's here,” Peter said into the receiver.

“Be nice to Officer Brady. There's things he'd rather be doing than chauffeuring you over here.”

“There's things I'd—” Peter started, but MacRae had hung up.

Officer Brady drove with the blue lights flashing and the siren going. Peter rode up front, imagining what a thrill this ride would have been when he was a kid. They slowed on the approach to intersections, then zoomed through red lights, crossed over into the lane for oncoming traffic. The usual thirty-five-minute ride took fifteen. A dream commute.

MacRae greeted them in the lobby.

“I have to be back in forty-five minutes,” Peter said.

“We'll have you out of here in twenty,” MacRae said, and led Peter to an interrogation room. Harvard Harry was there, curled up in a chair pulled into a corner.

“Harry?” Peter said.

Harry gave a quick glance in Peter's direction and then tucked his head back down. “I hate raisins.” At least he remembered Peter. That boded well for him as an eyewitness. “They look like dead flies.”

Peter sat in the other chair. “All they want you to do is try to identify the guy who took your flag,” he said, trying to sound his most trustworthy.

Harry grimaced. He was letting his beard grow out, and he wore the same tweed jacket he'd had on the last time Peter saw him. His white oxford shirt looked rumpled but clean.

“Gestapo,” Harry muttered. “SS. They've got me, now they'll never let go.”

“No one's got you. They just wanted you to look at some suspects. Didn't they ask nicely?”

Harry snorted derision. “How do I know I can believe
you
? How do I know it's not a trick? And besides, why should I help them? All they do is harass me. They sent me to that place where I was a prisoner for weeks. They made me eat”—Harry's lips curled in distaste—“meat. And sugar. Sugar's poison. So's flour and so's rice. Isn't that why they call it ricin? It's got rice in it.” Harry snickered at his own joke.

Peter knew he was dealing with a delusional system, immune to fact. But it could be bent in other ways. “Didn't the police officer tell you? They're sorry for harassing you.”

Harry didn't look impressed.

“And the police want to help get your flag back for you, and get the guy who did it.”

Harry uncurled a little and narrowed his eyes at Peter, like he was using X-ray vision. Peter knew he'd scored.

“Just to prove it,” he said, pressing his advantage, “I can get the police detective to come in right now and tell you he's sorry.”

“Apologize?” Harry said, tasting the word. Peter could feel him hovering.

“Would that help?”

“A cop's going to apologize to me?” Harry's face broke into a broad smile. He thought that was a swell idea.

MacRae wasn't nearly as pleased. “Apologize? For what?” he said when Peter found him in his cubicle.

“It doesn't matter for what. It's not real. Just apologize for what Harry thinks the police did to him.” MacRae gave Peter a sour look that got sourer when Peter added, “Be nice, and do it wearing a uniform.”

“Humoring a lunatic,” MacRae muttered as he shrugged on a borrowed uniform jacket. “Ridiculous. Loony tune…” He fastened the buttons and tugged on the too-long cuffs. “This better work. How good an ID are we gonna get from him, anyway?”

“You'll get a fine ID if he really
sees
. I wouldn't put Harry on the witness stand, but he'll do as well as anyone identifying the person he saw, provided you can get him to cooperate. His memory is intact, attention and concentration just dandy. He's a schizophrenic. He filters what he sees through a distorting lens so it all fits into the grand conspiracy. The trick is to manage his paranoia about being in a police station. At every step, he's going to suspect it's a trap.”

MacRae trudged down the hall.

“Repeat after me,” Peter said, “I'm really sorry.”

“Would you shut up,” MacRae shot back.

MacRae sucked it up and managed to apologize without choking on the words. In fact, he gave a pretty good demonstration of official contrition. Enough to convince Harry, anyway, to look at the lineup.

Peter and McRae shepherded Harry down the hall.