A Measure of Blood (17 page)

Tuesday

THE HORN TOOTS
lightly once and Colleen is ready. She agrees with Christie that five a.m. is a good time to start a trip. They'll be there before ten in the morning, giving them a whole day to find this Ziad “Thomas” Zacour with time to get back home.

If they find him. If he's home.

She tosses her satchel into the backseat—requisite overnight kit—and takes her place in the passenger seat. Nice and early and they are on their way.

“Spent the day with Matt yesterday. He's a tough little bugger.”

“Mind some music?” She holds out the CD.

“I mind it. I'm sorry. I can't think when there's music on.”

“Oh.” And no iPod to entertain herself. She digs in her bag. “Here's his picture. We printed it out from an ad for a music duo. It's a couple of years old. But he doesn't look like a nut.”

Christie studies the photo as well as he can while driving. “He looks okay. Not that I'm banking on one photo to tell me. He looks … like Matt.”

“Yeah. Good looking, both of them.”

She twiddles her thumbs for a while, thinks about this and that. “Do
you
think they're the same guy? Zacour and the killer?”

“Don't think so but hopefully we will know more today.”

“Right. I tried to come up with some wild scenarios about how he knew, how she knew, and all that. Didn't quite work.”

They drive in silence for a while. “Take a nap if you want,” he says.

She reclines her seat and tries. Light glances off her closed eyelids, giving her something close to a hallucinatory light show. She throws an arm over her eyes to block the light. What she'd really like is to stop for a nice big breakfast, because that's how she thinks when she travels. She digs in her bag for a cereal bar, a poor substitute for pancakes and sausages. She's brought two bars. “Want one?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“How are you feeling lately? Do you get your checkups?”

“I'm doing well. They think I'm a miracle.”

“We all think that.”

“Don't flatter me, I hate it.”

She feels herself flush. She puts her seat back up. “I wasn't trying to flatter. You have that look again, jumping over mountains, and I'm trying to understand it.”

He waves her aside. “Something's going on with me.”

Are they over it, their attraction to each other? She thinks they are. She hopes so. But she's always one for diving right in. “Are you and Marina okay?”

He's surprised and then not surprised. “We're good. Very good. She's all up and excited about work. She has enough stuff right now, the play and the teaching. It's filling up her life and it makes me see she has to have a lot of work to do in addition to taking care of the kids and indulging me. She's smart. She needs to have challenges.”

“Smart people do.”

“Right. But the teaching is time limited, so when it's over, she might be pretty down.”

“You know what the folks at AA would say? That you're living the future problems instead of staying in the moment. You need to do the one-day-at-a-time number.”

Christie laughs. “You always have advice.”

“I thought that was good advice.”

“It is.”

“So there. Take it, Boss.”

How things change. She was in love with him and now she isn't but she still sort of
is
in a muted way, as if there is always that old dream under the surface.

THE OFFICE MARINA
USES
is small, practically two by four but with a glorious window, a great view of the lawns and university buildings. And because she has time and privacy in this small place, she types in inquiries again about the police academy. No sense bothering Richard with it before she's sure. He will just say no, no, too dangerous. But she can't go on envying his work and the weekend has whetted her appetite again. She'd be good at it, and it isn't as if she is going to have one role after another. And the two things might not be mutually exclusive.

She brings up the site.

Just reading it gives her butterflies. She would have to drive north for the academy. But it's doable. She fits the requirements: US citizen at least eighteen years old, high school diploma, able to pass a physical exam, valid Pennsylvania driver's license, pass a personality test (ha!), pay a fifty-dollar fee.

Okay, that's the easy part. A bit harder is coming up with tuition, but she can use what she makes from teaching plus a bit more. So the big commitment is $3,123 and twenty-three weeks of her time, from eight in the morning till five thirty in the afternoon. Richard would have to make adjustments. Meals on the table—not quite as easy, but she's organized, so she can probably do it.

She can start in January or July, full-time training.

Her secret.

“UPSCALE BUILDING,” COLLEEN
SAYS,
toeing the hall carpet in front of Zacour's door. They had to slip into the building behind a resident, but it worked fine. They took the stairs to the third floor like old regulars.

Christie nods, knocks on the door. There are sounds of someone inside moving toward the door. Finally the door opens to a man in a T-shirt and pajama pants and bare feet. He is running a hand through his hair.

Christie shows his ID. “Police. May we come in?”

The man looks as if he will cry. “My visa is good. I have papers.”

“This isn't about the visa.”

“Oh? Not the visa? What? Is Kate okay?” He looks around them to the hallway.

“Not about Kate,” Christie says. “We're from Pittsburgh.”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Sorry to wake you.”

“No, no, I was working.” He indicates a table stacked with books and papers. A thin thread of steam rises from a coffee cup there.

“We need to ask you some questions. Please, can we all sit down?”

“Yes, I'm sorry, yes. Here.” He indicates a seriously nice living room, very adult, chairs and sofas with throws, beautiful reading lamps, small objets d'art on the tables.

Colleen cannot deny it—there is a pleasure in being around a beautiful man. This one is very beautiful. This one is … Omar Sharif in a bathroom. She watches him move to sit across from them as she and Christie take seats on the sofa.

“Would you like—?”

“Please don't trouble yourself. This is about Maggie Brown.”

He shakes his head slightly, frowns, waits.

“Do you know Margaret Brown?”

“I can't think—student? Colleague? The name doesn't come to me.”

“I see. What kind of car do you drive?”

“A Nissan.”

“Year? Color?

“White. A 2000.”

“You live with someone here—there was another name on the mailbox.”

“My fiancée? Kate?”

“Kate McCauley?”

“Yes. Is she okay?”

“So far as I know she is fine. She works?”

“She's a doctor.”

“She's at work now?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of car does she drive?”

“A Nissan, but newer, 2007.”

“Color?”

“Silver.”

“We're homicide detectives.”

He freezes.

“We need to ask you where you were weekend before last, Saturday and Sunday of ten days ago. Can you tell us where you were?”

“Saturday? Last Saturday? Here in the daytime. Working … on my dissertation.” He points to the books and papers. “Are you—is this about an alibi for me?”

“We need to know your movements. Take your time.”

Christie lets him worry out the whole day, though daytime isn't much an issue from the police point of view; Saturday night and Sunday morning are.

“My God. Oh. Let me think. Supper here with Kate. At night, a club. We played until maybe two. That's the usual.”

“Then what?”

“Came home.”

“Anybody see you?”

“Kate.”

“Anybody else?”

“I don't know—it was late. You're scaring me. Did someone accuse me of something?”

“Just think of this as clearing the decks. Sunday morning?”

“Slept until maybe ten. Then we went out to brunch.”

“You went out?”

“Yes. To brunch. A place we like. Please tell me what this is about.”

“People saw you at brunch?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Can you write down the name of the place?”

Colleen can see the poor man's hand shaking as he writes.

“This isn't about my visa?”

“I could care beans about your visa. If this alibi checks out, you're clear.”

Ziad shakes his head. “Margaret Brown, you said. Who is she?”

“A woman who was killed last Saturday. Murdered.”

He catches his breath. “And you think I did this?”

“We have to do a few things to clear you in the case. Are you willing to give us a DNA sample? It's easy. Just a swab.”

Zacour shrugs. “Yes. But I don't even know who she is.”

“We think she's the mother of your son.”

He shakes his head. “I don't … what are you saying?” Realization begins to dawn.

“Did you ever hear of the Family Fertility Clinic on Bleecker Street, New York?”

“Yes. I went there three times. When I needed money.”

“We think you have a son. We're going to check to confirm it. This is a complicated situation. The mother of the boy has been murdered. The boy is being adopted. They've engaged an attorney. What they're going to want to know—the courts, the lawyer, soon as we clear you of any suspicion and should you turn out to be the father—is whether you have any medical conditions they should know about that would affect your son. And second, whether you will sign a paper giving up any claim to the boy. They want to make sure everything is legally smooth.”

“I never knew.”

“Right.”

“I was a student. I needed money. I'm … I'm sorry now that I did it, now that—”

“Well, it made a woman happy. She wanted a child. Nobody could have guessed she'd be killed.”

“She has a husband?”

“No husband.”

“I see.” Ziad casts his eyes down and pushes one fist into the other. “And you have papers to sign?”

“I don't have them. If I make a phone call, they'll be sent to you tomorrow.”

“There are people who will take care of this boy?”

“Yes. People who want to adopt.”

“And they're … all right?”

Christie says, “I would call them upstanding, yes.”

“Medical—there is nothing bad except the bad arteries that all people from my country have. High cholesterol, I mean. Otherwise, I'm healthy.”

There is a long silence.

“What are you writing?” Christie asks, indicating the table full of books.

“A dissertation.”

“What subject?”

“Music. Composition. Disharmony and harmony.”

“And you have a fiancée? A medical doctor?”

“Yes. We're getting married … when I finish—” He points to the table.

Colleen pulls out a kit and takes the swab quickly from the open mouth of the nice musician named Zacour. He's a fellow young in spirit, yes, maybe perpetually young, which fits with his chosen field. No track marks on his arms. Embarrassed, nervous. He wears it all well.

“THE LIBRARY,” NADAL
told his mother. “Right in front. I'll be working. I'll cut out.”

“Will that be all right?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.”

Today he doesn't really have work. He only wants to keep his mother away from his roommates. “Noon,” he told her. “You remember where the library is? No place to park usually so I'll be waiting for you.”

And he's as good as his word. He asks her to go around to the passenger seat and he gets behind the wheel. Her car is a red VW Bug, small and peppy, even though it's old.

“Don't I get to see your apartment?”

“Not today. I'm going to have to get back.”

“We should go have lunch together.”

“I don't think I have— Never mind. All right. Let's.” He drives to Atwood Street and, miracle of miracles, finds a parking meter. He takes her into the dark restaurant with the painted sign out front. Mexican food. She'll like that. Though she'll get plenty of it in Florida.

“Two weeks,” she says, looking around the place as if her vacation has already begun. “I can't believe I'm doing this.”

“It's okay. People take vacations. Enjoy.”

She studies him for a while. The restaurant is a noisy one, making talk an effort. She keeps asking him how he is. He keeps smiling and telling her he is okay. The food comes and he pulls out his wallet.

“I wanted to treat
you
, Dal.”

“My treat, Mama.”

Then he feels both impatient and sad as he drives her to the airport where he says good-bye at the curb. “You have anybody taking care of the house?”

“No. I don't want to bother anyone. I hope it rains though. For the garden.”

“I'll check on the place. Water your garden.”

“Oh. Oh, that's wonderful. Thanks.”

“Did you lock the top lock?”

“Yes.”

“Better give me that key. I don't have that one.”

THE WHOLE DAY
IS ABOUT NAMES, LISTS.
“Attention please. My name is Ms. Conti.” She points to a list on the board. It says:
1. Interview. 2. Schedules. 3. Reading. 4. Recess.

All around the room are lists. Tons of lists. How to behave. Names of animals. Names of people in the class.

“We'll go alphabetically today just to make remembering names easier. Other days we won't do things alphabetically.” She points to the girl in the first seat. “Come up.”

The girl is staring openly at Matt.