Out of Order (2 page)

Sriram looked up at the ceiling, his hands coming up to cover his face then dropping back down to his sides. “Not everything in life is so simple, Jason. I don’t expect you to understand, but this is an important Hindi tradition and it absolutely must be hand delivered. Vidya would agree—I must take this to India.”

“Why doesn’t she go with you? I’m sure the school district could get by with one less substitute for a while.”

“It’s something I must do alone. Part of the tradition. Sons go to great lengths to hide the sari from sight, never letting on to anyone where he’s hidden it, never telling anyone about it.”

“But you’re telling me all about it. Don’t I count?”

Sriram didn’t say anything but smiled in a way that Jason could read many ways. Jason looked at the package, “Well, if it’s that important to you….”

“It is truly that important to me.”

“Just make sure you get it tomorrow and don’t tell Vidya I had it.” Jason turned to open the service room door.

“You have my word, my friend,” Sriram said. “I will never tell a soul. Just be sure that you do the same.”

Chapter Two

When Jason Talley saw the police cars in the parking lot in front of his apartment building the first thing he thought about was his bathroom window.

That morning after showering he had opened the lone window over the tub, the wet, steamy air forced out as the cold spring air poured into the room. Now, with six white and green Corning police cars and two dark blue state trooper vehicles bunched near the apartment walkway, he couldn’t remember closing the window when he left for work.

The day had been as busy as he had predicted. He started off with fifteen file folders on his desk, each needing columns of numbers verified and a half-inch thick stack of forms and releases customized before it could be shipped off to the proper attorneys who, with pens flying and papers shuffling, would turn innocent couples into thirty-year mortgage holders. If the correct paperwork was in place and if the real estate agents and loan processors had done their jobs right, he could knock out three loans an hour, a pace that had twice earned him a certificate of merit from the home office. But each file came with problems—missing bank statements, misspelled names, addresses that didn’t match, illegible hand-scrawled notes with unknown words underlined a half-dozen times and a string of exclamation points that ran off the page. His reputation for speed and accuracy meant that Jason was assigned the “tough” loans, ones involving short-tempered agents and condescending lawyers, the kind who made some of the younger women cry with their cutting remarks. They were no less condescending when dealing with Jason but, surprised to find a male on the other end of the phone, their comments lacked their usual sting.

The last loan—passed to him at four by a harried co-worker two cubicles down, a yellow Post-it note with HELP! written under a smiley face stuck to the plastic cover—dropped into the completed pile just as the Fed-Ex man came in for the day’s final pickup. By the time he straightened up his desk, washed out his coffee mug, and shared his horror stories with the other loan closers in the office it was almost five-thirty. What passed for rush-hour traffic in Corning was long over and he made it home in five minutes, only to find the lot filled with police cars.

The apartment buildings were bunched together like covered wagons huddled in a circle around the parking lot. As if it had wandered off during construction, Jason’s building stood apart from the others, backed up against a steep, wooded hill that was crisscrossed with hiking trails and access roads. With the building as cover, you could unload an entire apartment out a rear window. Jason tried to remember if he had turned the latch and had wedged the security bar into place, but his mind kept calling up images of his stereo, computer, and flat-screen TV disappearing up the hillside. He parked as close as he could and as he headed up the walkway to his building, the glass door swung open and the town’s sheriff stepped out on the landing.

Jason was still in high school when patrolman Frank Neville ran for sheriff. Back then he was known to most students as Officer Frank, dropping in every year around prom season to talk about the dangers of drunk driving. Although they knew the message by heart, the students enjoyed his visits since it got them out of class and they got to see the wonderfully graphic videos designed to scare them into sobriety. In the ten years since he had won the election, Sheriff Neville had put on a few pounds and had lost much of his already thin hair, but he still had the easy smile that made you want to confide everything. As he started up the steps Jason noticed that that easy smile was missing from Sheriff Neville’s face.

“You must be apartment D,” Sheriff Neville said, extending his hand as he spoke.

Jason shook the man’s hand, surprised by how large and soft it felt. “That’s me. Jason Talley. I guess they got my TV, huh?”

The sheriff tilted his head to the side as he looked at Jason, his handshake slowing with each pump. “Who?”

“The people who broke in.” Jason used the corner of the briefcase in his left hand to indicate his apartment. “I think I left my bathroom window open and that’s probably how they got in.”

The Sheriff turned to look where Jason pointed. “I don’t think so. But if you don’t mind we’d better take a look in your apartment.”

“Sure, no problem.” Jason dug his keys back out of his pocket. “What’s going on?”

The sheriff looked up to the roofline of the brick building, adjusting the glossy black bill on the front of his cap before he spoke. “It’s the apartment upstairs.”

“Something happened to Mrs. Dettori?” Jason said and suddenly felt guilty for not stopping up to check on the old woman as he had promised her he would when he first moved in.

“No, she’s fine. It’s the husband and wife.” The sheriff looked down at his notebook, sounding out each syllable of the strange words. “Sundaram. Sriram and Vidya Sundaram.”

“Sriram and Vidya,” Jason said, smoothing out the sheriff’s rough pronunciation. “What’s wrong?”

The sheriff turned to meet Jason’s stare. “I’m afraid they’re dead.”

Jason felt his mouth open, felt his lips trembling, felt his tongue move but no sound came out. He dropped his briefcase, the cheap locks snapping open, spilling manila folders down the steps. He felt the sheriff grab his upper arm and heard him say something about being careful and taking deep breaths, the man’s voice muffled by the roar in his ears. A metallic-tasting bile rose up his throat and Jason fought to keep down his late lunch.

“Here, I’ll get this stuff. Why don’t we go sit inside. You don’t mind us going in your apartment, do you?” Sheriff Neville stuffed the papers back in the briefcase.

“No,” Jason whispered. “No, it’s okay.” The sheriff handed him the briefcase and they started up the walkway. As he stepped through the front door he could see the yellow police tape across the open doorway. The sound of low, deep voices that didn’t belong in his friends’ apartment filled the hallway, a half-dozen police radios squawking in surround-sound. From the angle of the stairs he could only see the ceiling and part of a painting that hung on the living room wall. He tried to remember what the painting looked like, tried to crystallize every memory of their home, realizing he’d never be in the apartment again.

“Why don’t we come down here,” Sheriff Neville said, guiding Jason down the stairs. “Hey Derrick,” he shouted up the stairway, one of the low, deep voices answering back through the open door.

“Derrick, we’re going to be down in Mr. Talley’s apartment. Why don’t you stop down in a bit?” The sheriff stepped out of the way as Jason unlocked his apartment door. Inside Jason dropped the briefcase by the coffee table, only one of its locks popping open this time, and slumped down in the recliner that stood across from his new TV.

“Mind if I have a seat?” The sheriff, not waiting for a reply, moved a pillow off to the side of the couch. He pulled a pen from his front pocket and clicked the point out. “How long did you know the….” He flipped back a page in his notebook. “The Sundarams?”

Jason had to count back through the months, adding up the exotic meals, foods he had never tried before and would never have again, before answering. “About nine months.” He was surprised. It felt like they’d been neighbors for years.

“Did you know them well?”

“Yeah,” Jason said. He paused and started again, “I guess. I mean I saw them about once a week. We had dinner together last night,” realizing that, other than those weekly dinners, he seldom saw them in the building.

“What were they like?” The sheriff looked up as a pair of police officers entered the apartment. One was a Corning cop Jason had seen around town a hundred times, the other wore the slate-gray and blue uniform of a state trooper. They nodded first to the chief, then to Jason before glancing around the apartment. “You don’t mind if they look around, do you?” Sheriff Neville had his easy smile back in place.

Jason had seen a thousand episodes of
Law and Order
and knew all about warrants and probable cause and how the smallest thing might be seen as incriminating evidence. He nodded anyway. The sheriff told the men to check the windows in the other rooms but as soon as they rounded the corner he could hear them opening closets and dresser drawers.

“What I mean,” the sheriff said, clarifying the unanswered question, “is how did they get along? They fight much?”

Jason laughed but, slouched in the chair, it sounded like a deep cough. Did they fight? They fought all the time, he thought. Fought like Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn, like Nick and Nora Charles, like Burns and Allen. They fought like he dreamed of fighting, with a beautiful woman, all witty comments and clever retorts, each threat delivered in a matter-of-fact tone that couldn’t disguise the all-consuming affection that shouted a love so profound it seemed magical. He smiled as he recalled hearing Sriram, locked out of his apartment, singing Hindi movie love songs in the hallway, convincing Vidya it wasn’t some Himalayan bandit at the door, her laughter even louder than his wavering falsetto. “No,” he said smiling. “They never fought.”

The sheriff looked up from his notes. “You sure about that? There wasn’t a lot of tension between them?”

Jason shook his head. “They were the happiest people I knew.”

Sheriff Neville took in a deep breath, filling his cheeks before he let it out in a long stream. He flipped a few pages and paused while he re-read his notes. Jason stared out the open door of his apartment at the metal door of the laundry room.

“You say they were happy, huh?” the sheriff said, not looking up from his notes. Jason let the silence answer the question.

“You see the problem I’ve got with that.” The sheriff tapped his pen against the side of the notebook. “All the signs point to a domestic dispute.”

“Not possible,” Jason said, more to himself than the sheriff.

“We still got a lot of work to do but I gotta tell you it looks like a classic murder-suicide.”

Jason turned his head to the side until he could look straight into the sheriff’s hazel eyes, holding them steady for ten seconds before slumping deeper into the chair. “You’re wrong.”

Sheriff Neville sighed as he slid the notebook into his shirt pocket. “Maybe. I’ve been wrong plenty of times before. And like I said, we still have work to do.” He stood just as Derrick and the trooper stepped out of the hallway, each giving their head a tiny side-to-side shake, a signal that the sheriff returned with a quick nod. Jason considered standing but doubted his legs could hold him up for long.

“Jason, do you know of anyone who would want to hurt the, the….” He started fishing his notebook back out of his pocket.

“The Sundarams,” Jason said, saving the sheriff the effort. “No. No one.”

“All right. Last question—do you know of any of their family members we can contact?”

“Sorry, sheriff. They mentioned family in different parts of India but I don’t know of anybody here. You might want to check with Sriram’s boss over at Raj-Tech. They knew each other in India, he might know somebody.”

“We’ve already been in touch with Mr. Murty,” the sheriff said. “I’m on my way over to see him just as soon as we finish up here. He took the news a bit hard but he’s promised to do everything he can to help. Apparently there are all these Hindu religious rites.” He waved his hand to indicate scores of mysterious ceremonies, incomprehensible to the uninitiated. “Anyway, Jason,” the sheriff said, “if you think of anything, give us a call down at the station.”

“I will, sheriff,” he said, thinking there was nothing else to add. “And if you find out anything, can you let me know?”

“Sure thing,” Sheriff Neville said. Despite the smile and the assurances, Jason knew that the sheriff would never call.

For the next two hours Jason sat motionless in the leather recliner. He listened as the police wrapped up their investigation, listened as the apartment complex manager made arrangements to have the apartment painted, listened as Mrs. Dettori settled in for a night of high-volume Must See TV.

From snippets of police conversations in the hall, Jason learned that it was Mrs. Dettori who had first called 911. She had noticed the door of apartment A was open when she made her daily trek down the stairs to get the mail. In the twenty minutes it took her to get down and back, the door remained open. She was going to pull it shut on her way to her apartment and that’s when she saw the blood on the walls. He listened as the police questioned her yet again, asking if she heard anything unusual. “Not since 1992,” she shouted.

He listened for the correct final question on
Jeopardy
!—Who was Melville?—before getting up to close the door.

***

The second time he heard the noise, a sharp click that was muffled by the curtain, Jason knew someone was trying to open the bedroom window.

He sat up and eased himself across the bed, his eyes never leaving the dark corner, trying to pick up any movement in the curtain’s thick fabric. He sidestepped across the room and felt for his jeans, folded atop the wicker hamper by the closet as if dressed he would somehow be less vulnerable. The sound continued and Jason could envision the tip of a knife being pried under the frame of the screen, slipping off to click against the glass. He stepped into his jeans then slid his hand across the top of the dresser till his fingers found his cell phone. He flicked it open, feeling for the small keys with his thumb. He pushed down the nine, then ran his thumb up past the six to the three. The clicking stopped before his thumb found the one and in the heavy late-night silence Jason heard an impatient meow.

Jason turned on the bedside lamp and drew back the curtain with his hand. Outside Bindi’s eyes glowed green in the glare of the light. She fixed a single claw into the screen and gave it a tug, the click louder now with the curtain out of the way. When she was sure she had his full attention she gave a second commanding meow.

“Any other cat…” Jason said as he undid the lock and removed the security bar. Closed since late fall, the window needed an extra shove before it opened. Jason had the screen half off when Bindi squeezed her way through and leapt onto his bed. By the time he had the window closed, she had settled in at the center of the bed.