by Daniel Kalla
I knocked softly and Jenny opened the door. Hair pulled back, wearing a light blue T-shirt and jeans, she appeared even gaunter than when I first met her at the clinic. I had a flashback to my brother’s last visit. And the inconsistency that had been rattling around my brain suddenly crystallized into a theory.
Jenny stared at me with the same wariness I’d seen in Joe. Slowly, she lifted the newspaper in her hand and held open a page of The Province for me. My colorless, clean-shaven face stared blankly back. The black-and-white photo sent my heart into a flutter, and sweat ran under my arms. “Can I explain?”
“You’d better,” she said with an edge.
Jenny led me past the galley-style kitchen to the round table and chairs in the kitchen nook. We sat across from each other. Jenny sipped a glass of water without offering me anything. “Your explanation…”
I gave her an abbreviated summary, focusing on the events of the past few weeks. By the time I finished, her jaw hung open. “If what you say is true, then Aaron is alive.”
“I think so.”
Her eyes clouded. “And you think he was responsible for stabbing two people?” she asked hoarsely.
I shook my head adamantly. “He’s not capable of that.”
“So where does the blood come from?”
“I don’t know.” I sighed. “I think someone took it from him, maybe against his will.”
Her face creased with doubt. “Why should I believe any of this?”
“I can’t give you a reason.” My voice was calm, but my heart slammed so fast and hard that it felt like someone was tap dancing on my chest. I pointed to the countertop. “The phone is over there. If you don’t believe me, I won’t stop you from calling nine-one-one.”
She stared at me for a long moment while my bluff hung in the air like a grenade whose pin had been pulled. “Why can’t you convince the cops?” she asked.
“They can’t see beyond the fact my DNA is a perfect match for the blood at the scene.”
She leaned back in her chair. “What do you want from me?”
I dried my palms on my jeans. “Jenny, in the last two years has Aaron ever tried to contact you?”
“No.”
“No letters or e-mails or anything?”
“Nothing. Why?”
I shook my head. “I spoke to him days before he disappeared. And the way he spoke about you…”
Her eyes brightened, and she sat up straighter. “What did he say?”
“He was in love with you.”
She swallowed. “Did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t have to. He was planning a whole new life with you. And this would’ve been only a few days before he broke up with you.” I paused. “Nothing else happened between you in those days in between, right?”
“No!” She folded her arms across her thin chest. “It all came out of the blue.”
“And how long had he known about your HIV?”
“Long before then,” she snapped.
“That’s not what I meant, Jenny.” I tried to soothe over her flare of anger. “Did you test positive before you met him?”
“No. It was a couple of months later.” Jenny flushed with embarrassment. “But I told him right away. And we were always…careful…with protection, you know?”
“Sure.” I swallowed. “But, um, before you tested positive, were you as careful?”
She shook her head. “We didn’t know we needed to be.”
“Of course.”
She squinted at me. “What are you getting at?”
“The last few times I saw Aaron, he had lost considerable weight.”
“I know,” she said. “He wasn’t eating much, though. He was under a ton of stress.”
“Do you remember when you first became sick with HIV?”
She squinted at me. “Yes…”
“Did you lose weight?”
Jenny’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Oh, God, you don’t think…” Her words dissolved.
“I think it’s possible.”
Jenny gaped at me for a long moment. “It makes so much sense,” she sputtered. Her eyes reddened and soon welled over with tears. “No wonder he stormed out on me. I gave Aaron HIV, didn’t I?”
Chapter 28
I sat with Jenny for at least half an hour longer, trying to reassure her. Overcome by self-recrimination, Jenny was inconsolable. With the benefit of hindsight, she remembered Aaron’s fevers and loss of appetite that she decided must have heralded the onset of HIV. Aaron had a phobia about needles and, unlike her, had never shot up in his life, so she reasoned that he must have acquired it through sexual contact. This could only mean she was the source.
I wandered out of her apartment with my head reeling. Worry, sadness, and shock stirred in a boiling pot of unease. My heart went out to Jenny. She had never overcome the loss of Aaron, and now I’d inadvertently saddled her with the guilt of having made him ill.
As I mounted my bike, my thoughts turned to the Human Immunodeficiency Virus. HIV had become so prevalent in our society and seemed to touch so many lives, especially mine. I had seen through my medical practice that with newer antivirals, most people living with HIV led full lives; however, twenty-five years after its terrifying appearance, the virus still carried a stigma like no disease since leprosy. And for those unfortunate souls who could not afford the exorbitant cost of treatment or whose disease progressed to AIDS in spite of medications, it could be as cruel a killer as any.
Aaron, HIV-positive! The thought struck me as surreal, in the same way that you know plane crashes and car accidents happen but you never expect them to touch your life directly. But if he had HIV, why would he walk out on Jenny claiming he didn’t want “mutant kids with AIDS”? Again, I wondered whether Aaron might have used Jenny’s illness as an excuse to end their relationship, because he needed to protect her from whatever threat had sent him on the run.
Reaching Main Street, I glanced at my watch. It was now 12:48. In my message, I’d promised to meet Drew Isaacs in twelve minutes. I rode the two blocks to the Saigon Palace, parked my bike out front, and walked in.
If not for a few scattered scenic posters with what I assumed were Vietnamese letters, the Saigon Palace could have passed for a roadside truck stop with its orange vinyl-covered booths and long counter with barstools anchored to the floor. But the exotic smells were distinctly Asian. Wafting to me, they made my mouth water.
I grabbed a corner booth with a direct view of the door but still tucked away from potential prying eyes. Unsure when or if Isaacs might turn up, I ordered some pot stickers and spring rolls. With the warm memory of the previous night’s wine and scotch, I was tempted to order a beer, but knowing I wouldn’t stop at one, I opted for coffee instead.
My appetizers arrived and I polished them off without taking my eye off the door. Shortly after one o’clock, the door opened and a man stood in the doorway, his face blocked by the doorframe. All I saw was a black boot, one leg of his jeans, and part of a black leather jacket. My mouth dried, and my temples pulsed. Ten seconds passed before a platinum blonde in leather pants and a tight white T-shirt walked in, followed by the man from the doorway. Even before I saw the biker’s face, I knew he wasn’t Isaacs.
I withstood a few more heart-skipping near-misses, but by the bottom of my fourth cup of coffee, I still hadn’t seen Isaacs. An hour after I’d arrived, I gave up. I left a ten-dollar bill on the table and hurried out of the restaurant.
I rode in the general direction of my new home. Along the way, I stopped at a convenience store that advertised ninety-nine-dollar prepaid cell phones. Though cognizant of how traceable cell phones are, I decided that standing at pay phones would be even more risky after my newfound celebrity in Vancouver.
As I rushed through the registration forms, I avoided eye contact with the willowy Filipina clerk who stood beside the stack of Province newspapers that all bore my photo inside. I prayed she hadn’t had the time or inclination to read one, but I ca
lmed as it became increasingly obvious that she had no interest in me. Using Joe’s cash, I paid for a cell phone that came with three hundred preprogrammed minutes of local airtime.
I cycled back to the complex on East Fourteenth. I rushed my new purchase up to the room with the anticipation of a boy bringing a new truck home from the toy store. Inside, I pulled the phone out of the casing and plugged it into the charger. Too impatient to wait for it to charge, I left it plugged in and punched a zero into the keypad followed by the rest of Kyle’s number.
A moment later Kyle was on the line. “Ben, what is going on?” he asked with concern. “Where are you?”
“Running.”
“Aren’t you cycling anymore?”
I suspected he was joking, but I took his question at face value. “As in on the run. They know I’m in Vancouver.”
“Yeah,” he said without a trace of surprise.
“Is that what the Seattle papers are saying, too?”
“Pretty much,” he said. “And Detective Sutcliffe came by yesterday. He was asking a lot of questions about who you might know in Vancouver.”
“Rick was there without Helen?”
“Just Rick.”
“Same as Alex,” I mumbled. Clutching my new phone tighter, I wondered why Rick was interviewing my friends and family without his partner.
“Alex? What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. It’s…I don’t know.” I sighed. “There’s something about Rick.”
“I hear you,” Kyle said. “Never trusted that perma-grin of his. I bet he’s one of those shouting-on-the-inside guys. He was the same in Narcotics.”
“You knew Rick before this?”
“Oh, yeah. Aaron and I definitely made his radar screen in the old days. And once he got wind of you, he stuck on you.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Of course, even back then there were rumors.”
“Rumors?”
“What with the expensive suits and cars…”
“Hold on!” I hopped up from the bed. “Are you saying Rick was a dirty cop?”
“He never asked me for money, but word was he could be bought.” Kyle covered the receiver, but I could still hear his harsh though muffled cough. “Ben, in that business there were so many rumors.” He breathed heavily, sounding winded. “And most of them were just that, unfounded rumors.”
“I guess,” I said, but my chest fired like a piston engine. If Rick could be bought when he was with Narcotics then the same might be true in Homicide. And if someone needed help in framing me for Emily’s murder, who better than a dirty Homicide cop?
Kyle cleared his throat. “Any luck finding Drew Isaacs?”
“Yeah. He met me for a drink. But he thought I was Aaron.”
“Aaron?” The surprise sent him into another coughing spasm. “Drew thinks Aaron is still alive, too?”
“With good reason. They went out for drinks a year after Aaron was supposed to have died.”
“Holy, Ben!” Kyle croaked. “You were right all along.”
“But no one else has confirmed the sighting.”
“Still.” Kyle was quiet for a long moment. “Did he say where Aaron was living?”
“Aaron never told him,” I said. “Don’t forget I was pretending to be Aaron, so there was only so much I could ask about myself.”
“I suppose.” Kyle still sounded shell-shocked. “What else did he tell you?”
I gave him a rundown of my conversation with Isaacs, including his revelations about Emily’s relationship with Maglio and his potential HIV exposure. “Did you know about Emily and Maglio?” I asked.
“Again, only rumors.” He sighed. “I never knew what to believe about Maglio, though.”
“Why?”
“Well, there’s always been talk that he might be gay.”
“Gay?” I massaged my aching temples with my free hand. “In which case, Emily wouldn’t necessarily have exposed him to HIV.”
“Unless Maglio swings both ways,” Kyle said. “Besides, this is no more than just gossip. Why don’t you ask Isaacs?”
“Because I can’t reach him on his cell.” I climbed back onto the bed, careful not to pull the cord out of the wall. “You wouldn’t have any other way of finding him?”
“Hmmm.” I heard Kyle’s teeth tap together, and it reminded me of Aaron. “Drew used to hang out at a bar downtown. I’d meet him there from time to time.”
“Club Vertical?”
“That’s the place,” Kyle said. “He was there at least a couple nights a week.”
“Good, thanks,” I said, mentally planning to go back looking for him.
“It’s kind of depressing, huh?”
I chuckled. “You’ll have to be way more specific.”
“Say Aaron has been alive all this time,” Kyle said. “In two years he never tried to contact either one of us, but he visits Drew Isaacs when he’s in Vancouver. That stings a little.”
More than a little. “Maybe Aaron was trying to protect us the same way that I think he might have been protecting Jenny.”
“Jenny? Did you find her?”
“She found me.”
“What does that mean?”
“Long story.”
“What did she tell you?” He pressed me for details.
I relayed what Jenny had told me about her relationship with Aaron, including its abrupt end.
“What?” Kyle’s surprise launched him into another violent cough. “Jenny was HIV-positive?”
“Yes,” I said. “Did you see Aaron in the months right before he died?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, catching his breath. “He visited me a couple of times while I was still in the hospital.”
“How did he look to you?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“You didn’t think he looked thin or pale?”
“Do you remember the bone marrow transplant ward I was on? We were a bunch of bald skeletons. Everyone else looked rosy in comparison.”
“Fair enough,” I said sheepishly. “But I remember how unwell Aaron seemed the last few times I saw him. He wrote it off to stress, but looking back, I don’t think so.”
“Even if he was HIV-positive,” Kyle said, “what does that have to do with his disappearance or Emily’s murder?”
“I don’t know.” I exhaled heavily. “I can’t say why. It just feels important, you know?”
“Ben, would it help if I came up to Vancouver?”
I would have welcomed his company, but instead I said, “I don’t think so, Kyle.”
“Never hurts to have family around in a crisis. Besides, I could help track down Drew. Maybe even find a new lead on Aaron’s trail?” He laughed. “Hey, I could even show you how this new prayer gig of mine works. It’s been doing wonders for me lately.”
Religion aside, his offer was tempting, but he didn’t sound well enough to travel. “I think you’d better look after that chest of yours. What does your doctor say?”
“Sounds worse than it is. I get a lot of chest infections ever since the radiation. A few more days of puffers and antibiotics, and I’ll be ready for a triathlon.”
“Let’s wait until then,” I said. “Kyle, there is one thing you can do for me.”
“Name it.”
“All that stuff you found out about Whistler and Maglio…”
“What about it?”
“I need to know your source.”
“Ben, I gave my word.”
“I know,” I said. “Do you remember my anonymous caller?”
“The whisperer?”
“He tracked me down in Vancouver. I think he’s leading the police to me. I don’t have much time. I need to know who’s pulling the strings here.”
“Ben, I don’t know—”
“Please, Kyle, it could be key. Who is he?”
He was quiet for a moment. Finally, he said, “Michael Prince.”
Chapter 29
After I hung up, I lay on t
he bed resting my new phone against my chest. Fragments of information swirled in my head. Sources were unreliable, leads contradicted each other: Emily exposed Philip Maglio to a lethal sexually transmitted disease; or he was gay. Rick was a dirty cop; or he was just tenacious. Drew Isaacs thought I was Aaron; or he played me for a fool. My twin brother was alive and visiting former drug-dealing colleagues while ignoring his own family; or he was dead. Prince was the most tight-lipped attorney in the world; or he had acted as my cousin’s own “Deep Throat” informer.
Who was telling the truth? What information was significant? Maybe they’re all involved in a conspiracy to frame me, I thought miserably, recognizing I was verging on paranoia. My head felt as though it might burst. Had I more energy, I might have sprung off the bed and decimated Dotty’s apartment like a drunken rock star.
I wished I had accepted Alex’s or Kyle’s offer to join me in Vancouver. A familiar face and a sympathetic ear, someone to talk through these contradictory facts, was what I needed to hang on to my weakening sanity.
I raised the phone and tried Prince’s number. Janelle’s sweet voice answered, but it was only a recording. Even Prince didn’t work Sundays. Then I wasted another minute of airtime trying Drew Isaacs. I hung up as soon as I heard the first words of his familiar voicemail greeting.
My stomach growled. I kicked myself for not picking up food while I was buying the phone at the convenience store. Now I had to risk exposure again foraging for food.
I stepped out of the room and rushed through the lobby, thankful not to bump into Dotty or anyone else. Head down, I walked the two blocks to a supermarket on Main Street. I strode up and down the aisles filling my basket with fruit, vegetables, cheese, bread, cold cuts, and bottled water. I even found a flashlight and a baseball cap that I tossed into the basket.
Nearing the checkout counter, I heard a voice calling, “Peter!” I didn’t realize that he meant me until the third call. My chest sinking, I looked over to see my balding former neighbor from the YMCA standing at the far checkout, buying two cartons of cigarettes and waving to me like he was trying to hail a cab.
