Someone Must Die

by Sharon Potts

  “Please, Aubrey. I need a little time.”

  “Okay,” she said, her tone skeptical. “If that’s what you need.”

  Diana watched her leave the park, then turned back toward the boats bobbing in the grayish light.

  Why had Aubrey asked whether she was protecting Larry? Neither she nor Larry ever talked about the past, so Aubrey had no way of knowing about the unspoken agreement between them. Yet, her daughter had asked the question as though she had some sixth sense.

  Diana stared at the gray-black ripples tinged with red from the setting sun.

  The same setting sun, the same bay, but so much was different.

  They had moved here from New York when she was thirty-two, right after Kevin had been born. She’d wanted to be near her mother, who had been eager to watch the baby while Diana continued practicing medicine. In those first few years, she and Larry would often sit at the edge of the bay at sunset with a bottle of wine. Larry had liked to talk about the exciting adventures ahead of them. But maybe, even then, he could see through her fixed smile and know she didn’t buy in to his programs the way she once had. Not that she hadn’t loved him—she had. That was one thing that had never changed. Even after their charade almost disintegrated twenty years ago.

  She hated thinking about it, but whether she acknowledged it or not, the appearance of a man claiming to be Jeffrey Schwartz and the terrible reminder of their college years had redefined their marriage.

  Even after the media had reported that the man had been a fraud and the story had disappeared, she and Larry had realized the past was something they could never escape. They had tried to go back to their normal life, but it was as phony as the man who had garnered the headlines.

  Maybe keeping up the facade was why Larry had sought refuge in another woman. Of course, at the time, Diana had been so shaken by his demand for a divorce that she had fallen apart, seized by an irrational fear of being on her own. In her distorted view of things, she had believed she and Larry had an obligation to each other—their own private, mutual-protection pact. How dare he throw her aside? Then, on top of that, Larry had told Kevin she had faked her illness, further driving a wedge between her and her son.

  She had stewed in fear and anger until finally, with Jonathan, she had rediscovered joy. Now someone wanted to rip that happiness away from her.

  Was it possible that just as she had felt when Larry deserted her, her ex-husband now viewed her engagement to Jonathan as a breach of their shared bond—a violation of their ugly secret?

  Impossible, she thought, as another memory seeped in. The Larry she had once known would never turn on her like this.

  They were calling it Indian summer, and no one wanted to do any work, even though it was the end of September, a month into classes, and everyone should have been in study mode. The stagnant ninety-degree air, heavy with smoke, made them all lazy, including Di. She leaned back on a patch of dried grass on Columbia University’s sprawling lawn, surrounded by dozens of other students. Beyond loomed what looked like the Pantheon with its Ionic columns and domed roof, but was actually Columbia’s Low Library, the soul of the campus, as its statue of Alma Mater proclaimed. The building’s broad steps were covered with students. Many, like the ones on the lawn, were smoking pot, and even though Di wasn’t a fan of marijuana, she couldn’t help but inhale the sweet fumes that seemed to be part of the atmosphere.

  She stretched out her legs and examined her faded tan, a remnant of sunbathing at Crandon Park Beach, back home in Miami. She hadn’t expected to need summer clothes up in New York, but her mother had packed this pair of pastel madras shorts and a pink sleeveless blouse, just in case. She knew she was different from most of the other Barnard College women in their blue jeans and tie-dyed shirts, and it bothered her that she looked like someone who didn’t know that the Donna Reed Show had been off the air for three years. But mostly, she was genuinely mystified by how different people were in New York from those in Miami. And it wasn’t as though she were a hick. But something had happened this summer while she was off in Europe with her parents. Maybe it was Woodstock. Or the first man to walk on the moon. Or maybe the escalation of the Vietnam War. But when she’d returned home from vacation, then left for college with a suitcase filled with tailored dresses from Burdines Sunshine Fashions, she had found herself in a very different world.

  She glanced at the lethargic students parked on blankets or tossing Frisbees in their cut-off shorts and T-shirts, some of the guys with their long hair in ponytails, strumming guitars or passing joints, the girls holding sun reflectors to tan their faces. A number of professors had brought their classes outside, where the students sat in semicircles beneath spreading oak trees, pretending to listen to lectures on the wisdom of Sophocles and the declines of Rome and civilization.

  She took in another lungful of sweet, sleepy air, surprised to see her roommate hurrying toward her, full of energy and purpose, a jarring contrast to everyone else. But then, Gertrude was unlike anyone Di had ever known before. So much her own person, she even bragged about her ugly name as though it were a badge of honor.

  Gertrude was puffing on a cigarette, her black hair in a single braid that swung from side to side behind her as she glided between the students on the lawn. She wore what she always wore, regardless of the weather: a long-sleeved white-cotton blouse with embroidery around the scooped neckline, which was not quite sheer enough to show her braless breasts, but close, and tattered blue jeans that dragged in the dirt and hadn’t been washed since the two girls had moved into their freshman-dorm room a month before.

  She stopped beside Di and extended her free hand. “Come on,” Gertrude said, blowing out a stream of smoke. “Time to split.”

  Di took her hand, slick with sweat, and allowed herself to be pulled up. “Where are we going?”

  “A meeting,” Gertrude said. Behind her rose-tinted glasses, her eyes looked violet. “We’re already late.” She had an awful Brooklyn accent that was incongruous with the graceful way she moved.

  “What kind of meeting?” Di asked, trying to keep up with Gertrude’s rushed pace.

  “Some guys I know,” Gertrude said. The sun glinted off the stainless-steel dog tag she wore around her neck that had belonged to her brother. She never took it off, even to shower. “We’re gonna fix this damn world.”

  “Fine,” Di said. “But don’t get angry if I leave in the middle. I told you I don’t care about political stuff.”

  “I don’t care about political stuff,” Gertrude mimicked, capturing Di’s hyperenunciated speech pattern and hand gestures. She was a natural chameleon. “I can’t believe I’m rooming with goddamn Pollyanna.” Gertrude said it lightly, in her coarse voice. It was their roomie joke, how they referred to themselves. Pollyanna and Che Guevara.

  They walked around the outside of the imposing library, through a courtyard, then into a building Di had never been inside. Since all her classes were at Barnard this semester, she usually only came over to Columbia to use the main library.

  Gertrude threw down her cigarette, pulled open the door to a stairwell, and ran up the stairs, the pounding of her wooden clogs echoing against the concrete steps. Di stomped out the cigarette, then followed her friend to the second floor.

  The hallway was deserted. There were classrooms on both sides but no classes in session. Gertrude stopped by a door and looked in through the glass upper half, as though she were deciding what to do. She scratched the beauty mark on her right cheek. It made her look sexy, but Di knew better than to ever tell Gertrude that. Gertrude was an intellectual, not a sex object. She had no interest in attracting men, she’d said often enough. Fucking them was a different matter.

  She tugged on the classroom door, shooting a quick glance at Di. “Okay, let’s go.”

  They stepped into a room where a half-dozen students, mostly young men with mutton-chop sideburns and longish hair, sat in a semicircle. There was one pretty blonde girl, whose darting blue eyes and long ne
ck made her resemble a fledgling egret. Di recognized her from the dorms. Linda something.

  Di followed their gazes to the front of the room. A lean, good-looking guy with a white bandanna over wavy blond hair that reached his shoulders was perched on the desk. He had on torn jeans and a flowing white shirt that a Renaissance poet might have worn, except his was open almost to his waist, revealing a tanned chest with golden hair.

  “Peace,” Gertrude said, holding up two fingers in the symbolic gesture. She went over to him and kissed him deeply on the mouth. Then she pulled away and said, “I brought my roommate. Di Hartfeld.”

  The guy smiled at Di. He had clear blue eyes and an adorable cleft in his chin. “I’m Lawrence Lyndberger,” he said. “Welcome to the coolest group of revolutionaries on campus.”

  The light was almost completely gone from the sky, and dark waves lapped against the rocks. Diana had once believed she knew Larry as well as she knew herself. The truth was, she didn’t know him at all. She wondered whether she ever had.

  CHAPTER 12

  The walk home from the park had done nothing to settle the disturbing questions in Aubrey’s head. Who had left the greeting card with the devastating threat? Was her father somehow involved? And how could she get answers without revealing that she knew about the note and putting Ethan at even greater risk?

  The smell of garlic and sausage overpowered the usual musty one as she stepped inside the house. She followed the scent to the family room, where she hoped to find Smolleck.

  He was a good place to start, but she would have to be cautious about what she said and asked, so as not to raise his suspicions.

  She stopped in the entryway of the family room, disoriented by the unexpected brightness. All the lights had been turned on—something she or her mother rarely did—and the room had been further altered from when she had come by earlier. Portable whiteboards with writing and blowups of photos stood in front of the bookshelves. The coffee and end tables, which had been shoved against the walls, were heaped with Coke bottles, plastic cups, and pizza boxes. Several FBI agents were eating pizza at their makeshift work stations, temporary folding tables in the center of the room.

  Aubrey stepped closer to the whiteboards and examined the enlarged photos. Ethan at the carnival. Photos her mother had probably taken. She wondered why they were here, then noticed in the background of each photo were crowds of people. One of them was very possibly Ethan’s kidnapper.

  She shuddered as she imagined someone scooping up her little nephew, then carrying him kicking and crying to a nearby car or truck.

  But that wasn’t likely. Ethan would have made a scene, and people would have interceded, or at least mentioned it to the police.

  Which meant Ethan probably knew whoever had enticed him to leave the carnival.

  “You shouldn’t be in here.” The clipped voice startled her.

  She turned to face Special Agent Smolleck. He stood as though at attention, still in his suit jacket, crisp white shirt, and perfectly knotted tie.

  “This is my house,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, but this is an active investigation. It’s a breach of protocol for any family members to see what we’re working on.”

  He was as arrogant as when he had interviewed her a couple of hours before.

  “I understand,” she said. “But wouldn’t it help if you showed the family these photos to see if we recognize anyone in the crowds?”

  His face colored. “I’ll get you and the others a set.”

  “Thank you.” She softened her voice. If she hoped to get information from him, it wouldn’t be by putting him on the defensive. “Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”

  Smolleck studied her with a frown, as though he could read in her face that she was withholding something. She was surprised when he grabbed a closed pizza box, a bottle of Coke, and a couple of plastic cups, then said, “Let’s sit outside.”

  She followed him out the French doors to the wrought iron table and chairs in the patio. The small area was lit by a rusting outdoor sconce that had at least two of its bulbs burned out. It cast shadows over the brick pavers and rock garden. Beyond were the lounge chairs where she had sat with her father earlier, but they were in total darkness.

  Smolleck sat on one of the chairs and opened the box of pizza. “Have some,” he said, taking a slice for himself. “I’m guessing you haven’t eaten in a while.”

  She hesitated, but the smell of cheese and sausage was too much to resist. She picked up a slice and took a bite.

  “So this is where you grew up.” He took in the dimly lit bamboos, palms, and shade trees. “Nice.”

  She glanced behind her through the French doors at the strangers in the too-bright family room. “Yes. It was.” She could hear the wistful note in her voice, but there was no time for thinking about what once had been. She needed information from Smolleck.

  “I was wondering if you could give me an update,” she said. “Did you get any leads from Kevin and Kim’s press conference?”

  He poured Coke into the plastic cups. “Did you see it?”

  She shook her head. “My mother and I were down at the park. She wanted to get some air.”

  Smolleck’s features softened, or maybe it was the lighting. “Sometimes it’s good to get a change of scene, even perspective.”

  What was with this sensitivity? A new FBI strategy?

  “Anyway,” he said, taking another bite of pizza, “you asked about Kevin and Kim’s statement to the press. It’s already generating a number of phone calls. Not surprising considering the size of the reward.”

  She didn’t ask how much the Simmers were offering. She knew it would be a lot. “Anything useful?” she asked.

  “Hard to tell. We’re following up on everything.”

  “Is anyone in the family a suspect?”

  He stopped chewing. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you didn’t want me in the investigation area. If none of us are suspects, you wouldn’t care if I saw what you were doing.”

  “Do you have reason to believe someone in your family is involved?”

  He was turning her questions back on her. Well, she could play this game, too. “What did the polygraphs show?” she asked. “You tested Kim and Kevin, the Simmers, and my parents. Were any of the results suspicious?”

  He scratched the tiny indentation in his eyebrow. A tell. Something in the lie detector tests had been suspicious. “Like whose?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “That’s why I’m asking.”

  “We didn’t polygraph your father,” he said.

  This was news. She tried not to look surprised.

  “Or you.” He paused. “Should we?”

  “Why didn’t you test my father?”

  “It’s a voluntary procedure,” he said. “A way to rule out members of the family so we can concentrate on other possible suspects.”

  She looked down at the tiny clusters of green weeds growing between the mildewed pavers. “You didn’t ask me to take a polygraph,” she said. “Did you ask my father?”

  “Would you be willing to take a polygraph?”

  Her face got hot. She hoped he couldn’t see the flush in the dim light. A lie detector test would likely force her to reveal what she knew about the ransom note. “Of course I’ll take one,” she bluffed. “But you didn’t answer my question about my father.”

  He gave a little smile, as though he believed he’d scored a point. “Your father said he’d be willing to take it if we had a basis for suspecting his involvement, but would pass until then.”

  “Very lawyerly,” Aubrey said, but her mind was racing. Was her father hiding something, or had he refused on principle? Ethan very likely knew the person he left the carnival with. “I assume you’ve confirmed my father’s flight from California got in after Ethan disappeared, and that he isn’t a suspect?”

  Smolleck gave her a hard look. “Yes, we confirmed the flight times and whereabou
ts of everyone in your family when Ethan disappeared. Is there a reason you believe your father should be a suspect?”

  “Of course not,” she said quickly, relieved her father couldn’t have been the one who took Ethan. “I’m just making a logical assumption about why you didn’t press for the polygraph.”

  Smolleck scowled, obviously annoyed with her questions. He took another bite of pizza. A bit of cheese and sauce fell on his tie, but he didn’t notice. For some reason, this gave her satisfaction.

  “Why were you asking me about my mother’s and father’s past?”

  “What do you know about their political leanings back in college?” he asked.

  “Political leanings?” She wondered whether this could have something to do with Jonathan. “My parents never felt strongly about politics.”

  “That you know about.”

  “Why would they hide that from me?”

  “I don’t know. Do they hide things from you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He was watching her, waiting.

  “We don’t talk about a lot of things,” she said. “It isn’t a question of hiding.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Of course you did. She was breathing too hard. He had gotten to her again, and she was failing miserably at getting information. She took a long drink of soda, conscious of the way he was watching her for tells, just like the way she was watching him. “We’ve gotten away from what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said.

  “Have we?”

  “Yes. What progress have you made? You said you were checking into sex offenders. Have you found any leads?”

  “We’ve identified all registered SOs in the area, and we’re investigating them. We’re also looking into all of the carnival employees.” He tried to lean back in the wrought iron chair, as though he were getting comfortable, but the heavy chair didn’t budge. He gave up and rested his arms on the table, steepling his fingers.

  What the heck was he feeling so confident about? “What about Ryan Cole’s parents?” she asked. “Did you know that after the civil trial was over, they tried to bring criminal charges against my mother?”