Line of Vision Read online

  I know what the right thing to do is. Encourage her. I could help her with the kids. I could see her more often.

  But there will be a responsibility that I’m not ready for. Fuck, that I’ve never been ready for. Doling out some advice over the phone, that’s one thing. But being the father figure is another. Setting an example for someone, anyone. I have avoided it, not accidentally, my whole life. It is this fear of responsibility—more of a panic, really—that keeps my mouth shut now. Just a kid myself, frozen, mute, floating in the uncertain world of adulthood, feeling for the landing.

  Jamie realizes she has crossed a line, one that I invited her to cross. “It’s just a thought.” She smiles weakly. “Who knows?” She takes another sip of wine so one of us will be doing something besides feeling awkward.

  Jesus, I’m still off guard. She’s reaching out to me, gauging my reaction, and I sure as hell gave her one. Jamie, bless her heart, manages a little small talk for a few minutes before excusing herself. As she says good night, I pause for a moment, giving her a look that I hope conveys some measure of regret. Regret for being a self-centered asshole. She smiles sweetly at me. Forgiveness. She’s seen it before with me. She pats me on the knee and goes to bed.

  I sit there on the couch filled with shame. I replay that conversation over and over now; each time, the noble Martin Kiernan Kalish encourages his divorced, single-income sister, Jamie, to move her kids to his hometown. He offers to help her find a job. And he promises to help Tommy and Jeannette grow up. These words will never be spoken.

  I think of the bed in the spare bedroom, where I will sleep tonight. Rachel loves strange places. Tonight she will visit me, couldn’t stay away for even one night. She will be in workout clothes, loose sweatshirt over an athletic bra, spandex pants. I will give her a look, motioning to the kids’ rooms, but she’ll give me that smile.

  I promise I’ll be quiet. I’ll be a good girl.

  You see, Jamie? Do you see this? Me, a role model?

  There isn’t much left of the second bottle of wine, but I down what remains. Dirty Uncle Marty. Never married. Never really saw him with a girl, actually. Is he queer? Is that his story? No, Tommy, your uncle is not gay. Just a little fucked up, is all. You can shoot the shit, get some advice. But don’t get too close to the cage.

  I rinse the glasses in the sink and toss the bottle in the garbage. Then I head for the bedroom. To Rachel.

  12

  I BEGIN WORK THE NEXT MONDAY REFRESHED AND with new hope. The weekend trip to Jamie’s did wonders for my ability to distance myself from what had happened—though I did feel a sinking feeling in my gut as I passed the skyline of downtown.

  The office is buzzing as usual, but Christmas is in the air and many partners plan their vacations around the holidays. Very few deals go down this time of year—our fiscal year ends in October, so there’s no last-minute rush to make revenue plan—and I can coast through and wait for the new year.

  The new year. I think of it longingly. If I can make it until then, it would be a month and a half since the disappearance of Dr. Reinardt. It has to get tougher to solve these things as time wears on, doesn’t it? Anyway, judging from the television and newspaper, the police have no idea where to look.

  So I throw myself into work this morning, immersing myself in a lease restructuring and trying to believe that I can put this behind me. And there are moments this morning when I do believe, where my heart flutters and the words on the contract dance off the page. I just might make it. We just might be together, someday.

  My office phone rings around eleven, a double ring that signifies an outside call.

  “Marty.” Jerry Lazarus.

  “What’s the word, Laz?”

  “Nothing much. Have a nice turkey day?”

  “Yeah. Usual family stuff. You?”

  “Same. Listen, you going Friday?”

  Friday, December 3. The Reinardt Family Children’s Foundation Christmas party. “I guess I thought that would be canceled,” I say. The luncheon the Monday before Thanksgiving, for which Nate Hornsby and I were supposed to field a speaker, had been canceled in the wake of Dr. Reinardt’s sudden departure. I figured the Christmas party would be, too.

  “I did, too,” Laz says. “And get this. I heard our chairwoman will be in attendance.”

  My throat chokes.

  “You there?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. The show must go on, I guess. So I’m taking Ellen, and she has a friend I’ve met. We were thinking you might want to double.”

  Now, that would be something. A woman on my arm with Rachel in the room. Actually, it would be a pretty good cover for me. But I couldn’t possibly handle it. Christ, I’m dumbstruck, sweating and mute even now, on the phone with Jerry, while I think about Rachel. Imagine me in a roomful of people, with a blind date, and Rachel.

  Jerry describes this woman to me. Fun, I think he said. Great legs. Something about me and a dry spell. I cut him off. Not this time, I say, hanging up the phone to the fading sounds of protest on the other end.

  I suppose my first thought should have been how hard it would be for Rachel to attend this party. But the truth is, all I can think about is how excited I am to see her.

  The phone rings again. This is the second time Laz has tried to set me up with some woman. He is determined—actually, his girlfriend, Ellen, is determined—to find me someone to settle down with. I haven’t had a date, much less a steady girlfriend, for two years. That excludes Rachel, of course, whom no one knows about. Last time, Lazarus had persisted until I agreed to the date, only to have me cancel at the last minute. Laz warned me that my dick was going to fall off.

  I let the phone ring three times before lifting the receiver. Laz isn’t going to take no for an answer. I can at least make him wait before picking up.

  “Hel-lo,” I say in an irritated voice.

  “Marty Kalish?” Nothing but air on the other end, just a faint whisper of a voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “I saw you.”

  It doesn’t register. “You—?”

  “I saw what you did to him.”

  The adrenaline outruns the synapses; before I understand the words, my heart is pounding. My mouth hangs open but no words come out. Because there are no words to answer this. I spin in my chair so my back is to the door.

  The first siren had come earlier than I expected.

  How had they gotten here so fast?

  “Do the right thing.” The line goes dead with a sharp click.

  I cautiously replace the receiver, like I’m handling a bomb, and hold my breath. I feel the sweat on my forehead now, joining the banging pulse. I had covered my tracks that night, kept a relatively cool head in the panic. No prints. No clues left behind whatsoever, as far as I could tell. An airtight alibi. I had controlled the environment. Controlled everything. But now there is something beyond my control.

  Someone saw me.

  13

  I GO HOME MONDAY AND FIDGET ALL NIGHT. I BOIL some pasta but can’t get it down over the lump in my throat. I can’t read, can’t watch TV, can’t listen to music. I pace around the house, going over and over in my mind the path I traveled after leaving the Reinardts’ house. Where did he see me? When? How?

  I try to make a list of the Reinardts’ neighbors, but I know only of a handful. But then, how could he recognize me? It must be someone I know. Right? Yeah, of course. Dr. Hunt, he’s a guy who lives the street over from Rachel. Jason, I think his name is. I found his dog wandering around lost on my street one day, and I checked his tag and returned him to this guy. But would he really remember my name? Susan Rae lives a few houses away from Rachel, we got our masters’ together, she works in my building for a development company. But our contact is limited these days to hellos in the building and promises to call each other for lunch. And it was a man’s voice, for Christ’s sake!

  Maybe he saw me in the car. But how could he know what I was doing—how co
uld he know there was a dead body in my trunk? Maybe he saw me move Dr. Reinardt. Maybe he saw me in the woods, out his back window, while I carried the doc on my shoulder. Maybe I have no idea how or when or where he saw me, and I need him to call me back!

  Jesus, only a night earlier, I left Jamie and the kids in Everest Park, actually believing that this thing might be behind me. Less than twenty-four hours later, I feel like someone enjoying his last night of freedom. The fear, the sense of impending doom, is more vibrant now, a more wicked sting, since I’ve tasted the flavor of survival.

  The ring of the phone jolts me. I stare at it in disbelief, as it rings one time and another. Is this him? How do I open him up? What do I say?

  A third ring. My answering machine will pick up after the next one.

  Pick it up. And keep your head.

  “Hello?”

  “Uncle Marty?”

  “Tommy.” I sink into a kitchen chair. “What’s going on, little guy?”

  “Nothin’. You said I should call anytime.”

  I mop my face with a dish towel. “Yeah, Tom. Sure. What—what’s going on?”

  “Nothin’.”

  I try to slow my breathing. “Okay. Well—how’s your basketball team?”

  “We won. We’re eight and one.”

  “Cool.”

  “We’re tied with the Barons for first place.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  “We play ’em next week.”

  “Yeah? Good.” Bob Fenton. We played on a co-ed softball team two summers ago. I think he still lives a block over from Rachel. But he lives the opposite way from the path I took, right? He couldn’t have seen me, could he?

  “Mom’s sad.”

  “She—what?”

  “Mom’s sad.”

  “No, Tom. She’s not sad. Why do you say that?” Sally Martin—but she’s another woman! The voice was a man’s. Jesus, Marty, who else? Who else?

  “She was crying.”

  Joey Kellock lives around here somewhere, right? He moved out of the city when his wife got pregnant. He moved to this subdivision—or did he move to Clayton Hills? I think I have his address somewhere—

  “I heard her. Last night.”

  “Yeah?”

  But Joey wouldn’t pull this shit with me. He’d either keep his mouth shut or just call me up and say, did I see what I thought I saw? Plus I think he lives in Clayton Hills—

  “She’s sad ’cause of Dad.”

  “Yeah?”

  Call me, goddammit! Call me and tell me what the hell is going on!

  “Do you think she’s sad?”

  I exhale. Concentrate now. For ten seconds, concentrate. “Listen, Tom, I’m sure your mom’s not sad. But here’s the thing. I really, really can’t talk right now. Would it be okay if I called you tomorrow? I really want to talk to you, okay? Tomorrow?”

  “Okay.”

  I hang up and start my pacing again. I go through the night of November 18 step by step, plotting my path, writing down every street I crossed, every name I can think of.

  And I stare at the silent phone. The choice is his. He can use it, if he wants, to call me. Or he can use it to call the police.

  14

  “YOU SEEM TENSE.”

  “No, not really.”

  Rachel smiled sweetly, prodding me to fess up. Her hands arched around my left foot, the thumbs pressing into the arch. I laid back against the pillows of my bed, arms propping me up, legs outstretched. The smell of peppermint oil filled the room.

  “I just worry,” I told her. “About us. I don’t think you’ll ever leave him.”

  Rachel frowned. She wore her feelings frequently, not one for airs. Her hair was tied in a ponytail. She wore a powder-blue T-shirt advertising a 5K race the foundation sponsored, blue nylon shorts, and running shoes. I had returned from running as well, thus the foot massage. We had run separately, of course. Couldn’t be seen together in public. That was probably the source of my angst.

  She continued to work, groping the toes, bending them, running her knuckles along the bottom. “I’ve never made promises,” she said.

  “No, I know.”

  She stopped and looked at me squarely. “I know this isn’t fair to you.”

  “I know, Rach.”

  “All I can tell you is I love you,” she said.

  It is Day Three, postcall. I have jumped out of my seat here at work at least a dozen times at the ring of the phone. I have dreamed of the phone ringing. I have rehearsed my next conversation with him over and over again. Today he will call.

  The first three times the phone rings this morning, they are inside calls. The fourth time, I hear the double ring, signifying an outside call. I feel a rush of adrenaline. I take a deep breath, review my lines, and lift the receiver.

  “This is Marty Kalish,” I say in a grave voice.

  “This is Marty Kalish.” It’s Jerry Lazarus, his voice an authoritative octave lower, mimicking my business voice. “Here now, the news. Our top story . . .”

  The tension drains from my body. Lazarus, as usual, is waiting for a reaction from me before he continues.

  “Our top story,” I play along. “Young lawyer found dead in his office. Phone receiver crammed down his throat.”

  “Now, now. Is that any way to treat someone who’s going to get you laid for the first time in a decade?”

  “It hasn’t been a decade, it’s been twelve years, and it’s not gonna happen. No. Are you hearing me? No.”

  “You haven’t even seen her. I’m telling ya, Kalish. Why don’t—”

  “Jerry. It’s not gonna happen.”

  “I would take this girl out myself.”

  “Then break up with Ellen and take her out yourself.”

  “Why can’t you give it a shot?”

  “Think about this, Jerry. My first date with this woman—”

  “Joanne.”

  “My first date with Joanne will be taking her to a party where the head of our group was murdered, and his widow is in attendance. ‘Joanne, this is Mrs. Reinardt. Her husband was just killed.’ Hey, maybe afterward, we can stop at a morgue.”

  “Ellen showed her a picture of you. Do you know what she said?”

  “I don’t care. Don’t tell me.”

  “She said you had intriguing eyes.”

  “My eyes are not intriguing, Jerry, okay? And anyone who would say that is much too cerebral for me.”

  “She said she’s never dated a man with red hair.”

  Deb walks into my office with a stack of papers. A contract I’ve been working on has come back from the lawyers, ravaged in red pen, arrows and circles and deletions. I nod to her, and she sets it down in front of me.

  “My hair isn’t red,” I say to Jerry.

  “That’s right. It’s strawberry blond.”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “Seriously, Marty. You’re missing a great opportunity.”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “Your hair is red,” Deb informs me as she leaves my office.

  I move the stack of papers to the bureau behind me. I try to concentrate on the calculations I’m supposed to come up with on a sale-leaseback I’m doing for an oil company. How did I get stuck with this stupid—

  The phone double-rings again.

  This is him. This is him. Stay focused. Be calm.

  “This is Marty Kalish.”

  “I saw you, Mr. Kalish.” The husky, whispering voice.

  It’s bottom-of-the-ninth time, fastball coming down the pipe, and it’s time to take a big swing. “What did you see me do?” I ask. “What are you talking about?” Maybe he isn’t sure it was me he saw. A denial might make him reconsider.

  “Don’t play games.” His voice is so quiet I can barely hear him, nothing but air, no hint of the deepness. I have no idea what this guy’s real voice sounds like. I guess that’s the idea.

  “I haven’t done anything wrong. What could you have—”

  �
�I saw what you did.” His voice is unequivocal.

  Get it out before he hangs up. “Do you know Rachel Reinardt?”

  No answer.

  “Do you? Do you want her to suffer any more than she already has? Do you want everybody to know what he was doing to her?”

  “This isn’t about her.” The voice is less sure, the first sign of equivocation. I have this guy in a situation he didn’t expect to be in: a conversation.

  “That’s exactly who—”

  “I saw what you did. If you don’t do the right thing, I’ll do it for you.”

  “Then do it,” I say quickly. “Tell the police. Tell them. I won’t deny it if you do. But you and I both know what happened in that house before I got there. What happened in that house for a long time before that. You know what the right thing is.”

  “Your time is running out.” A loud click on the other end, more violent this time.

  I hang up and lean back in my chair. I feel like I just finished a wind sprint, damp and exhausted, jagged nerves burning at my limbs. Truth is, I have no idea whether this guy saw what happened before I broke through the door that night. I have no clue whether he knows that the doctor was beating Rachel. How could he know?

  But I was trying for something with this guy, a connection, I suppose, a bond, like we’re sharing this secret and now we’re on the same side. I figured I’d be straightforward, tell him I wasn’t ashamed of what I did, sound like I had some principles. Even if he didn’t understand what I was talking about, I did whatever I could to plant doubt in his mind about whether to turn me in.

  I replay the conversation. I said everything I wanted to say. But something is nagging at me. At the beginning, I played it pretty cool and didn’t reveal anything, just like the first conversation. When I started talking about the Reinardts, I kept clear of any admission that I was there or that I did anything at all. But by the end, when he insisted that he would turn me in, I pretty much admitted that I had gone into the house.

  I shouldn’t have done that. But what’s the point of denying it if he knows? That’s what I keep telling myself, as the panic rushes to my throat. There’s something about releasing a secret, placing information in the hands of another, leaving it to his or her whims. And I have just released it to a complete stranger. The pain in my stomach grows fierce, and I push myself out of the chair to head for the john. Standing in my doorway is the tall, thin frame, the coiffed silver hair, of the senior partner of my firm, with a loose fist poised to tap my door.