I figured the last thing the grieving widow needed now was another stranger in her house. I left.
Later that morning I phoned the Bellano house. Busy. It was still busy at noon and busy all afternoon. Either Angela Bellano was getting a lot of support, or else she’d had enough and had taken the phone off the hook.
I dug out the list of friends and relatives that Bellano had given me and called the first name. Then I talked to ten more people on the list just to be sure.
There seemed to be no doubt: Stephanie Bellano had not come home.
I phoned Rachel Wynn at Loretto Heights. Maybe she had come up with a friend for Stephanie. But she was gone for the day. The receptionist gave me her home phone.
No answer.
I was hungry and tired of eating alone. I nearly started downstairs to ask Vaz and Sophia out to dinner. Then I remembered they still weren’t back from Phoenix.
Vassily and Sophia Botvinnov had lived in this building longer than anyone but Mrs. Finch. A few decades ago they’d fled Russia via Iceland, at a time when Vaz was ranked high in the world of chess. Soon after I’d moved into the apartment above theirs, I’d begun to notice Vaz in the backyard nudging chessmen around a board. I hadn’t played in years, not since college, not seriously, anyway. But I’d been pretty good back then. Relatively speaking. I went outside and challenged Vaz to a game. He feigned ineptness. I promised to go easy on him. He said okay. Then he removed his queen’s rook and turned his back to the board. “I play better this way,” he said. “Please move my pawn to king four.” He beat me in a few dozen moves, and we’d both had a good laugh. He’d asked me in to meet Sophia, and she’d insisted I stay for dinner. I guess after that they’d adopted me.
Now they were visiting some of Sophia’s friends who’d recently moved into a retirement community. At this moment they were probably sitting by the pool, sipping cold drinks. Behind them was a platter of steaks waiting for the charcoal briquettes to turn from black to gray.
My stomach growled.
I fixed dinner: cheese, crackers, a tin of smoked oysters, a jar of pickled mushrooms, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Lomax cuisine.
The funeral was Thursday morning at Holy Family Catholic Church. It was standing room only. There were enough floral displays at the front of the church to make a bee sneeze.
Joseph Bellano had owned the same barbershop for thirty years. During that time he’d trimmed the locks of a lot of friends, neighbors, and relatives. Also a few politicians and policemen, hoods and priests. They all showed up to say good-bye. I estimated the number of mourners at four hundred.
I saw a few familiar faces jammed into the pews. A former mayor, some past and present councilmen, the chief of police. Also two or three local TV “personalities” and a couple of gangsters—suspected gangsters: lots of arrests; no convictions. I saw Fat Paulie DaNucci. He looked so sad you’d think it was his own brother who’d been blown to bits.
The priest kept the eulogy short and sweet. Kind and gentle man. Devoted to family and church. Loved by all. Terrible loss. Gone to a better place. Amen.
I joined the mourners who stood and moved single file down the aisle, then passed before the flower-draped casket.
Angela Bellano sat in the front pew. She wore black and looked numb. She was flanked by the remains of her family, not including Stephanie. Beside Angela, though, sat a young woman and two little kids. The woman was in her twenties. She resembled Stephanie enough to be her older sister.
Strange. Joseph Bellano hadn’t mentioned another daughter.
I went up the aisle and out of the church into the bright, cold morning. Most people were getting into their cars for the procession to Mt. Olivet Cemetery.
Not me.
I can’t handle that anymore—when they lower someone, an ex-someone, into the ground and cover him with dirt. It’s too scary, too final. It reminds me of where we’re all headed. You go watch it; I can’t. The next long black parade I’m in will be the one I lead.
I drove south on Federal toward Loretto Heights.
Since it was close to noon, I stopped first at a King Soopers and bought a deli sandwich and two apples. When I got to the college, I asked for directions to the cafeteria. It was crowded. I saw Rachel Wynn eating alone in a corner booth. Her brown paper bag was pressed flat to hold a Granny Smith apple and a half-eaten sandwich. The rest of her table was spread with school papers.
“I brought you an apple,” I said, “but it looks like someone beat me to it.”
She looked up, surprised. Then she smiled briefly and pushed her papers aside.
“Please,” she said.
I sat.
“I heard about Stephanie’s father.” Her voice was sad. “My God, who would do something like that?”
I shook my head and unwrapped my sandwich. “Did you find out anything from Stephanie’s classmates?”
“Yes, but …” She sat back, startled. “Hasn’t she returned home?”
“No.”
“Oh, no. I assumed when I didn’t hear from you that she’d come back.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Do you still think it’s possible she’s staying with a friend?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I did talk to some of my students. Only one of them considered Stephanie to be a friend. Madeline Dorfmier.”
“What did she have to say?”
“I asked if she knew where Stephanie was. She said no.”
“Would you mind if I talked to her?”
“Well … no.”
“What?”
“If you want to question her here on campus, perhaps I should be present.”
“That’s fine. Tell me, do you think Stephanie has changed since last year? Her attitude or anything?”
“I didn’t know her last year.”
At ten minutes to one we sat with Madeline Dorfmier in an empty classroom. Rachel had spotted her in the cafeteria and asked her to accompany us to the nearest available quiet room.
Madeline was a plain-looking girl with a flat forehead and a bony chin. She wore a black turtleneck under a large man’s shirt, which hung out of her black corduroy pants. A few untamed strands of hair strayed across her cheeks and worked their way toward the corners of her mouth. A few more danced over her thick glasses. They made me itch. I had to stop myself from brushing them out of her face. I asked her if she knew where Stephanie Bellano was.
“No.” She fidgeted uncomfortably. She didn’t like speaking to strangers.
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Last week, I guess. In class.”
“Did Stephanie ever talk about running away?”
Madeline shook her head, and another hair dropped in her face. “Not to me,” she said. “Maybe to Stacey.”
She’d said “Stacey” the way a maiden aunt says “herpes.”
“Stacey?” Rachel asked. “Stacey O’Connor?”
Madeline nodded, dropping a few more dark strands onto her kisser.
“I didn’t know Stephanie associated with her.”
“What’s wrong with Stacey O’Connor?” I asked.
Madeline snorted, fluttering hair away from her mouth.
“She’s a bit wild,” Rachel explained to me.
I looked at Madeline. She looked offended, betrayed.
“Stephanie started hanging out with her before last summer,” she told me. “We were best friends all through high school. We both decided to come here so we could be in college together, and then she … got a new best friend. I hardly saw her during summer break. I thought maybe we could start out new this year, but she’s been so different, it’s like I hardly knew her. I don’t know if we’ll ever really be friends again.”
Madeline’s myopic eyes searched our faces for sympathy, or at least an explanation.
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely.
“For what?”
“Never mind.”
Rachel was free for
the next hour, so she took me to the front office. We checked Stacey O’Connor’s schedule. She had no classes this afternoon. Rachel looked up her home phone, called her, and told her we were coming.
The apartment was less than half a mile from the college. Still, we took my car. The sidewalks along Federal, where there were any, were getting slushed by traffic.
Stacey O’Connor was an attractive girl with blond wavy hair, a turned-up nose, and too much makeup. She wore ski pants and a fuzzy sweater, both of which she filled quite nicely. For a college kid, I reminded myself.
“I haven’t seen Stephanie for over a week,” she told us.
We sat in angular rented furniture that had been designed to look modern when it was new, twenty years ago. It had been ugly then, and it was ugly now. There was a coffee table strewn with school papers, textbooks, and back issues of Sassy and Self magazines. At one corner was a big pottery ashtray. It was chock-full of butts and smelled of stale smoke. I could see into the kitchen. Cupboard doors hung open before empty shelves. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink.
Rachel Wynn glanced about her disapprovingly. Stacey O’Connor looked uncomfortable. She wanted a cigarette.
“When exactly did you last see her?” I asked.
“Oh, God, let’s see.” Stacey looked at the ceiling. “I haven’t seen her in class since I dropped Business. It must’ve been Wednesday night,” she said, looking down at us. “Because we always—” She stopped suddenly and looked from Rachel to me. “Yes, it was Wednesday,” she said in a monotone.
Something was up.
“A week ago yesterday?” I asked.
Stacey nodded, then shuffled through the mess on the table. She unearthed a pack of Marlboro Lights 100’s and a disposable lighter. She lit up, blew smoke quickly over her shoulder, then said, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Where did you see her?”
She looked at me, then Rachel, then the floor. “The Lion’s Lair.”
“What?” Rachel said angrily. “You girls aren’t supposed to be in there.”
Stacey hung her head.
“What’s the Lion’s Lair?”
“A bar,” Rachel told me, and glared at Stacey.
“Oh. I thought for a minute it was a depot for white slavers.”
Stacey choked on her smoke. Rachel turned her glare on me.
“The college has some clearly defined rules: no drugs or alcohol on campus and no underage drinking on or off campus. Stacey and Stephanie are both under twenty-one.”
Stacey rolled her eyes.
I looked squarely at Rachel Wynn. “I don’t think Stacey will get in trouble with the school for anything she tells us now, do you?”
When she didn’t answer, I said, “Because if there’s the slightest chance of that, then Stacey and I can—”
“Yes, yes, all right.” She turned to Stacey. “But tomorrow I want to talk to you in my office.”
“No.”
Rachel looked at me. “What?”
“No reprimands, no threats, none of that bullshit.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I’m looking for a missing girl, remember? And if Stacey can help me find her, then I don’t want her holding anything back because she’s afraid of you. So I want you to promise her right now that—”
“Don’t tell me how to deal with my students.”
“If you don’t promise, then I’ll have to ask you to wait out in the car.”
Stacey was staring at us with her mouth open. Rachel Wynn tightened her jaws, stood stiffly, and walked out carrying her coat. She slammed the door without saying good-bye.
“You’re going to lose your ash,” I said.
“What?”
Stacey was still staring at the door. She looked down at her forgotten cigarette. An inch of powdery ash dropped onto her textbook. She brushed it with the back of her hand, leaving a gray-white smear on the book.
“Winny’s got this thing about booze,” she said.
“Tell me about the Lion’s Lair,” I said. “How often did you and Stephanie go there?”
“A couple times a week. And it wasn’t just us. Lots of girls go there. Well, not lots, but some. It’s kind of a nice place. Good music, and everybody’s there to have a good time. Wednesday night is Ladies’ Night. Drinks are half price for us. It’s, you know, a good place to meet guys.”
“I’m sure it is. But Stephanie doesn’t look like she’d pass for twenty-one. Not from the pictures I’ve seen. Do they let a lot of underage girls in there?”
“I guess.” Stacey waved her hand.
“Did Stephanie ever talk to you about running away?”
“Steph? No way. She lives at home, you know? I think she’s still afraid of her parents.” Stacey made a face and shook her head. “In some ways Steph is still a kid. I’ve always tried to get her to loosen up.”
“Was it working?”
Stacey brightened. “You know it. When I first met her, which was spring semester last year, she was still a virgin, if you can believe that.”
“And she’s not now?”
“No way. She won’t come right out and say it, but she and Ken were getting it on before summer break.”
“‘Getting it on,’ as in having sex.”
Stacey nodded and gave me a knowing look. “A guy I know who’s a good friend of Ken’s told me. And Ken wouldn’t lie about something like that. He wouldn’t have to.” She sighed. “He’s a hunk.”
“What’s Ken’s full name?” I asked.
“Kenneth something.”
“No kidding. Does Stephanie have any other friends?”
“No. Well, maybe one. I heard her mention a girl named Chrissie. I don’t know her last name. I never met her.”
“Is she a student? Or someone from the Lion’s Lair?”
“Neither. Stephanie said she met her during the summer.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“This Ken, do you know where he lives?”
“No, but he’s almost always at the Lair. He might be part owner or something. I know he works there as a bouncer. He supposedly knows karate.” She sighed again.
“What does Ken look like?”
“Tom Cruise.”
“Who?”
“The movie star, silly.”
I thanked her and left.
Rachel Wynn was not waiting for me in my car. Okay, so I don’t look like Tom Cruise.
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