Just Watch Me

by Jeff Lindsay

  To his astonishment, Ms. Caprino threw back her head and laughed, a long, loud, raucous laugh that practically shook the furniture. Delgado watched her laugh, liking her even more. The laughter was so genuine, so infectious, that he could feel the corners of his own mouth twitching.

  “Oh, dear,” Ms. Caprino said at last. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Oh, my.” She chuckled briefly, then controlled herself again. “I always knew that boy would make something special of himself.”

  “He has done that,” Delgado said.

  “Oh, my. And I assume this is not a background check for a high-profile government job?”

  “No, it isn’t,” Delgado said. “You knew him, then?”

  “Yes, I knew him,” she said, still smiling. “And I liked him, Mr. Delgado. I recognize that he was not always . . . but that boy was smart, and he absolutely loved to read.” She looked down, her smile turning fond as she remembered. “He was always asking me to recommend new books for him—some very advanced titles, too.” Caprino looked up and met Delgado’s eyes. “There aren’t very many high school students who read Swann’s Way, you know.”

  “I can’t imagine why not,” Delgado said. “Can you tell me his birth name, Ms. Caprino?”

  She shook her head and smiled ruefully. “As far as I knew—as far as any of us here knew—Riley Wolfe was his birth name. Now, he was new to the area. But all the official paperwork said ‘Riley Wolfe.’ And seriously, a fifteen-year-old kid—why would he change his name? And how? I mean, all the records he’d have to fake just to enroll in school—transcripts, birth certificate, Social Security, you know. A fifteen-year-old boy?” She smiled. “Of course, as I said, he really was quite precocious.”

  Delgado leaned forward slightly. “You say he was new to the area?”

  “Yes, of course, nobody had ever seen him before. And he didn’t really go out of his way to make friends.”

  “Do you know where he lived before he moved here?”

  “No, I don’t think I ever saw the transcript, and he didn’t say. But the paperwork had to have been in order—there was never any question of it—and he really was a very good student.”

  Delgado nodded. He wasn’t terribly surprised by what Ms. Caprino called Riley’s precociousness. The Riley Wolfe he had come to know would have had no problem, either morally or practically, with forging papers. But it did make him wonder if young Riley had really been quite that good—or if he had had adult help. “Did he ever say anything about his home life?” he asked.

  Ms. Caprino shook her head. “Not a lot. He mentioned his mother, and I think he cared for her a great deal.”

  “Most boys care about their mothers.”

  Ms. Caprino’s head shake got more vigorous. “Not like this,” she said. “He was absolutely devoted to her. The way he talked about her . . . And that was why, just before his senior year—he came to see me? To say good-bye—because he was scheduled to be in my Advanced Placement class?”

  Delgado frowned. “Something happened to his mother?”

  “She had a stroke,” Ms. Caprino said. “She couldn’t work anymore, even at Friendly’s.” The teacher shook her head. “Riley came to see me, to tell me he had to drop out to take care of her.” She smiled sadly. “And to ask for a final reading list.”

  “Did you see him again?”

  She shook her head, and the sadness on her face grew. “No. Never saw him nor heard from him again. I heard they moved away shortly afterward.” Before Delgado could ask, she added, “And no, I have no idea where they went. As far as I know, nobody here in Watertown heard.” She sighed. “I would’ve liked to . . .” Ms. Caprino looked down at her hands, then abruptly shook her head and sat up straight. “Anyway,” she said. “I believe he was very close to his mother. Even before the stroke.”

  “It was just Riley and his mother? No father or siblings?”

  “Not that I ever heard about.”

  “Do you know where he lived?”

  Caprino made a face. “No,” she said. “But I know he was sensitive about it for some reason. And . . .” She grimaced and looked away, and Delgado was quite sure there was something she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell him. So he just waited. It was a technique that had served him well many times. He sat with no expression, his hands folded in front of him, motionless, looking like he’d been carved from wood.

  Ms. Caprino looked back at him, smiled tentatively. Delgado’s expression did not change. She looked away again, sighed, and finally looked back. “All right,” she said. She spread her hands ruefully. “There was . . . an incident.” Caprino sighed again, heavily this time. “It seemed so out of character. He was such a good student and . . .” She shook her head. “I didn’t see it, but— All I know is, in homeroom one morning, another boy said something to him, just a remark about Riley and his big house on the hill.” She sighed. “Riley absolutely flew at that boy. He had to have stitches, and Riley was suspended for two weeks. It could have been— I put in a good word for him, or he might have been expelled. I believe the homeroom teacher did, too, which helped, I think.”

  “Another teacher?” Delgado asked. “Do you remember who it was?”

  Caprino shook her head. “It’s been an awfully long time. And my memory isn’t what it was. But it was the music teacher—a Mr. Fraser? Fisher? Foster?” She smiled sadly. “I really can’t remember, I’m sorry. He retired, oh, perhaps twelve years ago?”

  “Is he still living?” Delgado asked. “In the area?”

  “I have no idea,” Caprino said. “I barely knew the man. He was— I would not say ‘odd’ except that this is Watertown?” She smiled. “In any case, he kept to himself for the most part.”

  “Did Riley have a girlfriend that you know of?” he asked her.

  She pursed her lips. “I saw him with girls, but never the same one for very long.” She sighed, shook her head. “Riley was a lonely boy, I know that. And I’m pretty sure he didn’t actually like the bad eggs he hung around with—” She shrugged. “In any case, it’s not something I would have asked him about.”

  “You mentioned ‘bad eggs’?” Delgado asked. “His friends?”

  “‘Friends’—well, I don’t know if that’s the right word here. There were a couple of boys he hung out with, but . . . ,” she said. She made a face, and again, Delgado almost smiled. Even after twenty years, she looked disapproving. “They were not really good students—‘not good’ meaning socially as well as academically. But Riley was— Do you remember high school at all, Mr. Delgado?”

  “Call me Frank,” he said. “I remember.”

  She smiled again, a little warmer. “All right, Frank. I’m Eileen.”

  He returned the smile briefly, then prompted, “High school?”

  “Yes. Well, if you remember, you know that everybody has to have a clique, a group to hang out with. Like birds need a flock. If you’re a complete loner, the other birds will peck you to death—in a flock or in high school.” She raised one eyebrow at him.

  “I remember,” he said again.

  “So Riley hung with the bad kids because he could,” she said. “Protective coloration, I think. I mean, I can’t really believe he actually liked any of them. Aside from being pure trouble, they were— I have to be careful what I say. Um—the other boys were very limited.” She lifted an eyebrow, and Delgado nodded, understanding. “Certainly none of these ‘friends’ read Swann’s Way. Or anything else, most likely. Their only real talent was for trouble. But Riley?” She looked at him with an expression every cop sees a thousand time, the look that pleads for understanding. “He was so bright, and so . . . He wasn’t a bad kid, Frank—not really—and the books he read, I mean, he absolutely devoured everything in the library. It was just—” She sighed. “I guess it’s the old story of a good kid hanging with a bad crowd. Those other boys were . . . primitive.”


  “Can you remember any names?”

  “Well, I know two of them—they’re still here, in Watertown.” She gave a quick snort of wry amusement. “It’s still hard to get away from Watertown, except into the Army or prison. And these two—” She shook her head. “I will just say that I don’t think they went into the Army.” She sighed. “Anyway, Jimmy Finn works at the Kwik Lube on Washington Street. They work on my car? And Rodney Jankowski . . . Hm . . . I saw him at the county fair two years ago, we didn’t really have a lot to say, but Jimmy Finn might know how to find him. If not—he should be in the phone book. Oh! I mean, you can Google him. Phone book.” She laughed briefly. “I’m afraid I’m dating myself.”

  Delgado actually smiled at last, a rare thing for him, but he liked this woman. “I remember phone books,” he said. He stood up. “Thank you, Ms. Caprino. You’ve been very helpful.”

  She stood up, too. “Oh, my, you almost sound like you mean that,” she said.

  “Actually,” Delgado said, “I do.”

  * * *

  —

  Abbie, the principal’s assistant, informed Delgado that she’d been a student here and of course she remembered the music teacher’s name. “Lester Foley,” she said. “He was kind of, I don’t know. A little . . . different? But he really loved music, and he made us listen to all kinds of stuff.”

  And at Delgado’s prompting, Abbie dug into a cabinet and even found a file. “Oh,” she said, glancing into the folder. “Oh well.” She took out the folded page of a newspaper. “There’s this lady, Mrs. Ashton? She comes in twice a week, like a volunteer?” Delgado nodded that he understood what “volunteer” meant, and Abbie went on. “Well, she’s been putting things into the files. Like updates? About all our old teachers and, you know, if somebody gets in the paper?” She fluttered the newspaper. “And so here, this is Mr. Foley’s, um, obituary? So . . .” She shook the paper apologetically.

  “All right,” Delgado said. It was a disappointment, but not a major one. “One more thing,” he said. “If a new student came here from out of the area, would he be required to submit a transcript from his previous school?”

  “Oh, yes,” Abbie said. “Absolutely. Even if he was homeschooled, there are standardized test results and so on, so the principal can determine if the new student is actually up to grade level.”

  “How long are those records kept?”

  She pursed her lips. “I couldn’t say exactly? But the student you were asking about—from twenty years ago? I’m pretty sure they don’t keep them that long.”

  Delgado was pretty sure, too. But he was never willing to leave something at “pretty sure.” “Could you check, please?”

  “Of course,” Abbie said. “Wait here? It’ll just take a minute.”

  Delgado waited. The wall clock ticked loudly, and he felt the first stirrings of hunger. A gaggle of students went by in the hall. The clock ticked again, and then Abbie came back. “Like I thought,” she said, smiling like it was a triumph to be right. “Those records went missing years ago.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Delgado said. He wasn’t surprised.

  * * *

  —

  Delgado got into his car and took out his notebook. And then, for a few moments he just sat, thinking over what the English teacher had told him. There were threads, possibilities . . .

  Delgado was a careful, step-by-step thinker, which was one of the reasons for his success. He never tried to jump from A to L without filling in all the letters in between. So he did not try to form any tentative conclusions. Instead, he flipped open the notebook and wrote “MOTHER” in block letters. Ms. Caprino had said she thought Riley cared about his mother. Well, most boys did. And they’d been close even before the mother’s stroke. Had she taken an active role in his identity change? More than that—was Riley’s mother his criminal mentor? That might mean she had a criminal record somewhere—something to check when he found their original name. Next to where he’d written, “MOTHER,” he wrote in, “Record?”

  In any case, Mother had clearly gone along with the identity change. To think that she was either ignorant or disapproving of it was ridiculous. She would have had to have a driver’s license and so on in the name of Mrs. Wolfe. If she was not a criminal herself, why would she help out with forging documents?

  Delgado thought about it for several minutes, unconsciously chewing on his pen. When he found her legal name, he could check for a criminal history. But if there was none . . . Why would a straight mother help her son commit some serious crimes?

  That was easy. To protect him, of course. From what? Something even more serious. There was no way to know what, any more than he could guess what had caused mother and son to move to this frigid, remote town and change their names. But the more he thought of it, the more Delgado thought it was probably the same traumatic event. That made sense, more than thinking it had been two life-changing calamities in a row.

  So what had been that traumatic event? It was vitally important to find out—it had been the cause of a relatively normal young boy changing into a devoted criminal. The first step in the career of Riley Wolfe. But there was no way to know what had happened—not yet. At the moment he didn’t even know where.

  Delgado chewed the pen some more until he tasted ink and, with a start, realized what he had done. He pulled a fresh pen from his briefcase. This time, he merely tapped it against his blued teeth as he went back to his train of thought.

  All right: Putting the cause aside for a moment . . . the boy and the mother are close. The mother has a serious stroke. The boy drops out of school to take care of her. And soon after they move away.

  Delgado realized his teeth hurt and then understood why. He frowned and put down his pen. The mother would need full-time care. She would still need it, if she was still alive. It might make sense to track her down. And then wait for Riley to visit her, which he would—IF she was still alive and IF they were still close. And, the biggest IF of all, IF he could find out what name she was using.

  But that could be anything. And so far, he had no leads to finding it. He shook it off and went back to his notes.

  The next item he thought was important was the “big house on hill.” Delgado wrote that down, then underlined it. After all, Riley had pummeled a boy for mocking it. He didn’t think that house was here in Watertown. This part of upstate New York did not have a lot of hills, and even fewer with big houses on them. Aside from that, he was already known as Riley Wolfe when he got to high school here. That would have been a near-impossible trick if he’d lived here all along under another name and then suddenly changed it.

  Delgado tapped the page with his pen. He did not have enough information to guess where Riley had come from before Watertown, so there was no real point in beating his brains out about it. But he underlined “big house on hill” again, before dropping down two more lines and writing “books.” He had no idea where that bit might lead, but if it had been a big part of Riley’s youth, it might prove important.

  Delgado thought a few more minutes, going over all the English teacher had said. When nothing else jumped out at him as important, he looked over what he’d written. It was a good start.

  Delgado closed the notebook, started his car, and drove east.

  * * *

  —

  Jimmy Finn had a car up on the rack and was taking off the tires with a pneumatic wrench. But when Delgado showed his badge, the young woman behind the counter practically sprinted into the service bay to fetch him. There was a window between the office and the work area. Delgado saw the woman waving her hands excitedly and Jimmy looking over at him, obviously worried. For a moment it looked like he might bolt. But he took a deep breath, put down his wrench, and followed the young woman back into the office. He came directly to Delgado and then jerked to a stop. The young woman bumped into him from behind, then took a half step ba
ck and watched anxiously. Finn stood there, clenching and unclenching his hands, until Delgado took pity on him.

  “Mr. Finn? If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions,” he said, trying to sound mild.

  “I, I—about what?” Finn said, looking like he might hyperventilate. “I mean—because my parole officer said—”

  “You’re not in any kind of trouble, as far as I know,” Delgado said. He tilted his head toward a doorway that led to a waiting room. “Can we talk in there? It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “But then why—I mean, if it isn’t me, then, you know. What?”

  “Let’s go sit, maybe have some coffee?” Delgado said.

  The young woman spoke up anxiously. “I made it fresh just like an hour ago,” she blurted out.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” Delgado told her, pointedly adding, “I don’t want to keep you from your job.”

  She gulped but didn’t move. The phone began to ring.

  “Mr. Finn?”

  Finn looked at the doorway, then at the woman standing so close behind him. Then he turned back to Delgado and blew out a loud breath. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Go on, Ellie,” he told the woman, and she scurried back behind the counter and picked up the phone.

  Delgado followed Finn into the waiting area. There was a coffeemaker, a stack of magazines, and a wall-mounted TV blasting a midday show, five women all talking at once. Delgado reached up and turned it off. He poured himself a cup of coffee and raised an eyebrow at Finn. “Want a cup?”

  “Yeah, no, no, I don’t,” Finn said. “Look, I’m not gonna rat anybody out or— I mean, I don’t even know anything worth shit anymore—”

  Delgado nodded and gestured to a chair. “Have a seat,” he told Finn. He waited until Finn sat, then took a nearby chair. He sipped his coffee. It was terrible, worse than what they’d given him at the high school, but it was hot.