Second Chance (4 page)

"If you're not seeing her, then I guess you
won't mind if I look in your apartment."

"Of course I'd mind. I don't know who you are or
why you're asking me these questions. Maybe if you told me what this
was about . . ."

"Kirsty's been missing since last Thursday. Her
father hired me to find her. I'm told that she's been seeing you. "

"Told? By whom, told?"

I didn't say anything.

Stein got an ugly look on his face. "It was that
roommate d' hers, wasn't it? She put you up to this. Christ, what a
joke!" He laughed bitterly.

"
I don't think it's funny," I said.

"That's because you don't know what's going on."
He laughed again, a smoother laugh, full of confidence. "It's
okay. I see what it's about now. I think I can clear this up."

He tried to edge past me, toward his apartment door.
But I didn't budge.

"I'm not going to run
away," he said calmly. "Let's go down to my apartment, have
a beer, and talk this over like civilized people."

* * *

Stein's front room was a couple of steps up from
Marnee Thompson's Spartan digs. But just a couple. The bookshelves
were varnished pine, instead of brick-and-board. The chairs and sofa
were cheap Naugahyde copies of top-grain Italian originals. There
were a few more ferns, hanging in baskets. Classier artwork on the
walls. But it still had the feel of respectable poverty—the
assistant professorial kind.

Two archways opened off the living room. One to a
lighted matchbox of a kitchen, the other to a dark bedroom. I glanced
at the kitchen as I came through the door. The plastic drainer
sitting by the sink had one plate in it, one cup, and one saucer.
There were no dishes on the counter. No food or drinks, either.

The living room was just as tidy and unpromising. An
open book, Snap by Abby Frucht, sat on an ottoman in front of an
armchair, a stack of papers on the Hoor beside it. The rest of the
furniture looked unlived in, as if it had just been delivered the day
before. The only item in the room that smacked of Kirsten Pearson was
the overflowing ashtray on the windowsill. And that was just as much
Stein as it was Kirsten. He'd already lit another by the time he shut
the door.

"Have a seat," he said, walking into the
kitchen. "You want a beer?"

"No, thanks"

"I thought guys like you always drank beer,"
he called out.

He came back with a can of Bud in his hand. and the
cigarette drooping from his lip.

"You're a detective, aren't you? A private cop?"

"Let's talk about you, instead."

Stein laughed—a real laugh this time. Popping the
tab on the beer can, he plopped down on the couch and slung his leg
over the armrest. He was obviously feeling a lot safer inside his own
apartment, and whatever edge I'd had in the hall was just as
obviously gone.

"Tell me the truth," he said. "It was
Kirsty's roommate who gave you my name, wasn't it?"

"
No."

He grinned. "It had to be her."

"And why is that?"

"
Because she's insanely jealous of anyone who
comes near Kirsty. The whole world knows Marnee's gay. Except Kirsty,
maybe." He took a sip of beer. "Kirsty doesn't think like
that. She sees people in terms of her own needs. But she doesn't see
their needs." He took another sip of beer and scattered
cigarette ashes on the couch. "I wouldn't get seriously involved
with a kid like her. I couldn't if I wanted to. Sex scares the hell
out of her. Men scare the hell out of her. "

"You're telling me you two didn't have an
affair."

"That's what I'm telling you."

"Then why'd she have a breakdown last spring?"

He shrugged. "Kirsty's crazy, Stoner."

"Crazy enough to fake a relationship with you?"

"Crazier than that. Look, I did take her out a
few times, after class. But there was no great romance between us.
That was just her fantasy—or her roommate's. Kirsty didn't really
want romance."

"What did she want?"

"A daddy. Someone to look after her, someone
with a little more spine than her old man. I mean that kid's need for
affection is tremendous."

I said, "Empathy doesn't seem to be one of your
strong points either, Stein."

His face flushed angrily. "Kirsty has a long
history of emotional trouble dating back to her childhood. There was
nothing I could do about her past except encourage her to write about
it. And that's exactly what I did."

"
What about her childhood?"

"Her father didn't tell you?" he said,
looking surprised.

"Kirsty's mother was schizophrenic. In and out
of mental wards all her life. When Kirsty was six, the mother killed
herself. Violently." The man ducked his head as if he was
embarrassed by his own avid gossip. "When you're carrying around
that kind of genetic baggage, there isn't a whole lot anyone can do
to help. I've tried to be a friend to her, but that's not always an
easy thing. Kids can . . . misinterpret."

"Try somebody other than a kid."

He didn't say anything.

"
When's the last time you saw Kirsten?" I
asked.

"Last week. Thursday morning. She came over here
to talk."

"About what?"

Stein sat back in the sofa, clasping his hands behind
his head. He was tired of me and the conversation. "Her brother,
Ethan, came to town. He wanted to see Kirsty, but she wasn't sure she
should go."

"Why would she have a problem seeing her
brother?"

"Because he's crazier than she is. He drags her
back to the past, and that's a place Kirsty doesn't need to visit,
especially now."

"You've talked to the brother?"

"Once. When he came through Chicago last year. I
don't think I've ever met anyone that intense. But then writers
aren't exactly a relaxed bunch."

"Ethan's a writer, too?"

"Journalist. At least that's what he calls
himself. He looks like he's a step above homelessness to me. I think
his wife is the only thing that keeps him grounded. That and his
weird obsession with his mother. That's really all he and Kirsty
share—the mother. Neither one of them has been able to come to
terms with her suicide. If you ask me, they never will."

There was a knock at the door. Looking relieved,
Stein stood up.

"
If you don't mind, I've got some company."

I stood up, too. "What did you tell Kirsty to do
about Ethan?"

"I told her not to see him. To go home to
Cincinnati. Apparently she didn't take my advice."

"
Did she tell you where her brother was
staying?"

"Somewhere in town, I guess."

"Can't you do better than that?"

"
I've answered enough questions," he said
sharply.

Stein went over to the door and opened it. A pretty
girl was standing outside with a bottle of Chianti in her hand. She
cou1dn't have been more than nineteen or twenty.

"
C'mon in, Lucy. Mr. Stoner's just leaving."

The girl smiled at me winningly as she came into the
room.

I walked over to the door. "Stein, if you're
lying to me about Kirsty Pearson, I'm going to get your ass fired.
That's a promise."

The girl gasped, as if she couldn't believe anyone
would speak to a professor like that.

"Don't threaten me," Stein said, reddening
furiously. "If you come here again, I'll call the police."

He slammed the door in my face.

5
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

The trouble with a dramatic exit is that you can't go
back and ask to use the phone. I had to walk two blocks south on
Kenwood to find a booth. By then I was so cold that I figured it
would be worse to wait for a cab than to keep walking. So I pushed
down the icy, gaslit sidewalks, head ducked against the wind, until I
got to 56th Street.

Arthur Heldman's house was on the comer of 56th and
Blackstone—a Prairie-style bungalow, L-shaped, parasol-roofed, with
dark, glistening curls of frozen ivy climbing its board-and-stone
walls. The front door was off to the side, down a driveway. The
windows were lighted on that side of the house, as was the lamp above
the door.

I knocked hard on the door and could barely feel my
fist I through the glove, I was that cold. A tall, heavyset man of
about fifty with ruddy cheeks and silvery hair and beard answered my
knock. He was wearing wire-rim glasses, a black turtleneck sweater,
and checked wool slacks that made him look, rather winningly, like a
spiffy St. Nick.

"Can I help you?" he said in a friendly
voice.

"You can if you're Professor Heldman."

"I'm Art Heldman. And you are . . . ?"

"My name is Stoner, Professor Heldman. I'm
searching for a student of yours, Kirsten Pearson."

"She's lost?" the man said with alarm.

"She's been missing for four days. I've been
hired by her father to find her."

"Poor kid," he said, shaking his head.
"Please come in."

Heldman ushered me down a hall to an oak-paneled
study. The room was furnished with Georgian pieces—a stately
armoire, a desk like a three-tiered ship of the line, two mahogany
armchairs with embroidered backs, and several bookshelves with
mullioned fronts and leaded glass panes. A facsimile of Dr. Johnson's
dictionary sat on a stand in one corner, spotl it like a shrine.

Heldman was clearly proud of the room. On his salary,
a lot of scrimping and saving must have gone into fitting it out. He
let the knickknacks work on me for a moment, then went over to the
armoire, took out a bottle of Dewar's, and poured two fingers of
Scotch into a tumbler.

"Here." He handed the drink to me. "You
look frozen."

"Close to superconductivity."

Heldman laughed hoarsely.

I swallowed half of the drink, and my eyes clouded
up. Another couple of swallows, and I started to feel my body again,
as if I were putting it on piece by piece like a suit of clothes.

Heldman seated himself on a chair beside a small
cherry wood table. There was a second chair across from him. I sat
down on it.

"You say Kirsty's missing?" he said.

"For four days."

"You've tried her apartment, of course?" he
said, leaning forward with the air of a friendly neighbor.

"That was the first place I looked. She wasn't
there. Her roommate suggested that she might be with a man named
Stein."

"Jay?" Heldman drew back slightly, as if
the neighborhood had changed.

"I was told that Kirsty had been seeing him on a
regular basis. He claims that she hasn't been."

The man nodded slowly. He'd started to look less like
St. Nick and more like St. Sebastian, as if the mere mention of Stein
caused him physical pain. I figured it was because I was talking
about a colleague, but it was also possible that he knew the truth
about Stein and Kirsten and wasn't happy about it.

"You've spoken to Jay?"

"About twenty minutes ago. He hasn't seen Kirsty
since Thursday morning. Apparently she stopped at his apartment
before leaving town. Stein says to discuss her brother."

"She stopped here too. The same morning. And she
did mention her brother."

He said it like he was trying to back Stein up. But
it was clear from his tone that Ethan Pearson hadn't been the only
topic of conversation.

"She was thinking about going to see Ethan while
he was in town," Heldman went on.

"Did she say where he was staying?"

"No, just that he was eager to talk to her."

"Do you know what about?"

He shook his head. "Kirsty's always been a
little vague when it comes to Ethan. At least, she has with me. I
don't think he's a healthy influence on her—if that's what you want
to know. At least, he doesn't seem to be from what I've read of her
novel."

"Which novel is that?"

Heldman spread his hands as if he were opening a book
in front of me. "Kirsty's been working on an autobiographical
piece for the past couple of months. A kind of therapeutic exercise
to help her put her life in order after this past summer. She calls
it Second Chance."

"Why Second Chance?"

I thought of the sign on Kirsty's door.

"Because she doesn't believe in them," he
said wryly. "At least, not for her."

"Is Stein in the book?"

Heldman sighed. "Yes. She hasn't finished the
last chapter yet, but he'll be a large part of it—and so will her
father and her brother, Ethan. You see, Kirsty believes in living out
what she writes—or writing what she lives. Sometimes it's hard to
tell which."