The Syndrome

by John Case

  Slough didn’t get it at first. It took him a second. Then he threw back his head in a well-rehearsed laugh, and wagged a finger at her. “There’s that speed you’re famous for. Let’s see more of that.”

  It was 11:15 when she finally got home, having had to wait twenty minutes for a bus so that, by the time she got to Mount Pleasant, she was out on her feet.

  As always, there was a handful of men hanging out in front of the Diaz Cantina on the corner. She liked the music that spilled from the doorway, but was always uncomfortable with the men’s stares and whispered exclamations. Ai-iiii-que chica sabrosa! So she tacked toward her apartment, as if the neighborhood were a lake, crossing the street, rather than moving in a straight line.

  Her street, Lamont, was entirely residential, composed of substantial, turn of the century rowhouses—many of which had been carved up into apartments. The first two blocks were full of beautifully rehabbed houses, but farther down toward the zoo, where she lived, gentrification had been slow and uneven, the neighborhood retaining an urban edge that kept property values down. It wasn’t a bad neighborhood, but break-ins and muggings were not unknown and pedestrians—especially women—were careful. Late at night, they tended to walk down the middle of the street (as Adrienne did now), rather than on the sidewalks.

  When the houses were built, it had been the custom to construct service alleys, and a network of these ran behind the houses, parallel to the streets on either side. The alleys were now lined with garages that differed wildly in materials and design—one thrown up with particleboard, another built with carriage lamps and brick.

  The entrance to her basement apartment was at the rear of a federal-style townhouse, which was accessible only through the garage. To get to it, she had to go through the alley—which was fine in daylight, or when she was in her car and could use the garage door opener without having to get out. But she hardly ever drove to work—it cost her twelve dollars a day to park. And it was rare that she got home when the sun was still up (except, perhaps, in the summer). So the alley was something she had to contend with, almost daily.

  And it spooked her a little, because the house was in the middle of the block, which meant that it was also in the middle of the alley. She was always careful to take a good look before she turned into it. If there were guys drinking, as there sometimes were, she’d go to the front door, and ring for Mrs. Spears—who would let her in through the inside basement door. She hated to do it, though. Half the time, her landlady was asleep.

  But there wasn’t anyone in the alley tonight. At least, she didn’t see anyone. Indeed, the only movement at all was a cat walking daintily along the edge of a backyard fence. Entering through the door to the garage, she crossed the tiny yard at the rear of the house, and unlocked the door to her own apartment.

  It was an ugly, brown door—a “utility door”—that Mrs. Spears had tried to “brighten” with a country wreath. Adrienne hated the wreath even more than the door. It was made of braided gingham and had a twig decoration in the form of a bird’s nest that was packed with papier-mâché eggs. She’d have burned it if she’d had the gumption, but she didn’t want to hurt her landlady’s feelings, so she let the offending object hang where it hung. If she was lucky, it might be stolen.

  In truth, nothing could have brightened The Bomb Shelter (as her pals at Georgetown had called it). But it was cheap and clean, and what was even more to the point, it was hers and hers alone. So she was grateful to have it, even if it was a bit musty.

  And dark. And not very big.

  Arriving home, she threw her coat and attaché case on the couch, then sighed when she saw the brown carrier bag standing in the corner with Nikki’s ashes inside it. At least I could unpack it, she thought. She removed the little wooden crate from the bag, and took the urn out of it, and then couldn’t decide where to put it. She finally placed it on the bookcase next to the door. Then she kicked off her shoes, and went into the kitchen, where her loneliness and sense of loss was given yet another boost by the sight of Jack’s bowl, empty on the floor beside the refrigerator.

  Jack had only been with her for a short while, but even so, she missed him. Though he was better off with Ramon, she had been better off with him—because he made her laugh, and took her mind off things.

  Things like… what to do with Nikki’s ashes? She had to have a ceremony of some kind. Something private—just her and her sister—something with the wind and the water.

  But not tonight.

  Going into her bedroom, she put on her pjs, and picked out something to wear the next day. Then she climbed into bed between the covers and, using the remote, flicked on the TV. Nothing. Nada. And yet, she couldn’t sleep. She was still wired from the three cups of French Roast she’d drunk while working on the prep notes and the after-dinner espresso with Slough.

  So she picked up a book from the table beside her bed. Martin Amis’s Night Train. It was a short book, but she’d been reading it for weeks. Maybe she could finish it tonight. But, no. It was all about suicide:

  A cop, who was an old friend of the family, was looking for the secret reason for a woman’s suicide. And as it turned out, there was no secret reason. The fact was, despite her wonderful job and loving family, the woman just didn’t find life worth living. Was that so terrible?

  So what about Nikki? What was her motive? Was she driven to kill herself by the unhappiness and guilt fostered by her psychotherapist’s Satanic abuse scenario? Or did she somehow understand that she wasn’t herself, and never would be again—that Europe had broken her deep inside? Or was it something else that had caused her to tip the heater into the tub? Was it something to do with that ridiculous gun she kept? Where had it come from? Did she even know how to use it? Adrienne doubted that she did, but… it occurred to her that her sister might have killed herself to prevent herself from doing something even worse.

  Like what? Adrienne wondered. And the reply came back, Well, she had a gun. Maybe she was going to kill people. Maybe she was going to kill a lot of people—like those kids in Colorado. Maybe she was so unhappy, and so angry at the world, that she was dreaming of a massacre. But, in the end, was so horrified by her compulsions… that she killed herself instead.

  She picked up Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. It seemed a lot safer than Night Train, and it was beginning to look as if she was too tired to sleep.

  But she couldn’t get Nikki out of her mind. The thing was… Bonilla was right. She didn’t really know much about her sister. She didn’t know what had moved her. She was—had been—a mystery.

  If only the last chapters in their relationship hadn’t been so grim. Even on the night she died, Adrienne had been secretly glad when her sister hadn’t answered the door, thinking, Great—she’s gone out, she’s forgotten about dinner. When, of course, she hadn’t gone out at all. She was dead.

  By then, the dinners were all that was left of the relationship—and they were poisoned by her sister’s sick fantasies about Satanic abuse. It was all she wanted to talk about—it was as if she was driven to go on and on about it. And it always ended in a fight, with Nikki insisting that Adrienne was in denial. You don’t remember because you don’t want to remember. It’s so typical!

  But she was wrong. Never, for a second, did Adrienne think it possible that Nikki’s recollections were real, and her own suspect. There was nothing wrong with her memory, and she certainly wasn’t in denial. Her memories were indelible, and absolute. She could still recall the way Deck slung her up in the air, to ride on his shoulders, grabbing her feet. Here we go, Lil’ Bit, hang on. He’d walk her up and down the street, and when she asked him to, he’d swing her through the air by her wrists until she was so dizzy, she couldn’t stand. Sometimes, he’d hold her hands and let her climb up to his chest, the soles of her feet against his legs, so that she could do a backflip onto her feet. He played endless games of Candyland and Sorry with her. And she could still hear Marlena’s soft, low voice, singing songs as she rocked he
r when Adrienne couldn’t sleep. “Hush little baby, don’t you cry…”

  Were these the same people who were supposed to have run around with candles and hoods, making snuff films? It would have been laughable, if it wasn’t so horrible.

  And yet, because of Nikki, she had examined these memories as a prosecutor might, calling every suggestive episode into question. When Marlena said, “Let me kiss it and make it better… “ Was that… something else? And when Deck bounced her on his knee and sang, “This is the way the ladies ride, Nim Nim Nim… “ Was that… just a game?

  Yes, she thought, it was. It was just a game. No matter how deeply she scrutinized these episodes, they remained innocent, Deck and Marlena blameless, their affection untainted. And Adrienne resented Nikki (and, by extension, Duran) for making her revisit her childhood through a prism of suspicion. It was a betrayal of Deck and Marlena. It was defiling.

  She turned back to her book, punching up the pillows behind her. But the Ya-Yas couldn’t hold her attention. So she put a bookmark between the pages, clapped the book closed, and flicked off the light. Sisterhood, she thought as a car rumbled down the alley, headlights sliding up the wall and across the ceiling.

  Maybe it’s time to forget about Duran. Let the police handle it. The civil suit is probably a waste of time. Whoever Duran is—whoever he really is—he isn’t going to stick around. There isn’t anything in it for him, except exposure. He’s probably packing even now.

  Packing…

  Adrienne sat up with a start, and turned on the light. If he was packing, he’d take everything—clothes, furniture, and files. Including her sister’s medical file. Either that, or he’d throw it away.

  She wanted it.

  And, as next of kin, she had a right to it. But if she asked for the file in a letter or by phone, Duran would probably “sanitize it” before he turned it over. So she needed a pretext, a reason to visit him so that she could make the request in person—at his office—no excuses. It only took her a minute to think of one.

  Getting out of bed, she pulled her Filofax out of her attaché case, found Duran’s number, and placed the call. The clock on the nightstand read 12:15. To her surprise, he answered after a single ring. “Hello?”

  This is crazy, she thought. It will look like harassment.

  “Hello?” Duran repeated.

  She started to hang up, then realized that he probably had Caller ID—which would make things even worse. Anonymous calls, late at night. “Mr. Duran?” she asked.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Adrienne Cope.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “No—you didn’t, I was—I was just watching television.”

  “Well, I won’t make a practice of calling you so late, but—I’ve been so busy at work—it was the only time I had.”

  “I see.” When she said nothing, he filled in the silence, “And the reason you called was… ?”

  Get to the point, she told herself. “First, I want to thank you for taking the polygraph,” she told him.

  “I was happy to,” he replied.

  “You didn’t have to—”

  “I don’t have anything to hide,” he said.

  “Well… the reason I called was to tell you… I have a check.”

  “A what?”

  “A check—for you. As Nikki’s executor, I’m making a partial distribution of the estate. Basically, it’s the money from her checking account.”

  “But… why me?”

  “You’re in the will.”

  The line was silent for a while. Finally, Duran said, “Well, why don’t you keep it? I don’t want it. Whatever happened, I failed her.”

  Oh, pleeeze rose up in her throat, but instead, she said, “I understand but, if you feel that way, I’m sure there’s a charity you could give it to. In any case, I was hoping I could stop by, and drop it off.”

  Duran was slow to answer. Finally, he said, “You could just… put it in the mail.”

  “I would,” she replied, “but there’s another reason I wanted to see you, and—would Saturday be all right? It would only take a minute.” She could hear the television in the background, the little zip of a laugh track.

  Duran was quiet for a moment, then asked, “What’s the other reason?” His voice sounded toneless, robotic.

  Adrienne took a deep breath. “Actually, I’m—well, I’m thinking of dropping the suit,” she told him, surprising herself at least as much as Duran. “—If you’ll just tell me about Nikki.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long time, and for a moment, it occurred to her that he was more wrapped up in the television than he was in his conversation with her. Finally, he said, “I’m working out in the morning. Early. Then I’ve got clients until lunch.”

  “Will you be done by one?” she asked.

  “I suppose so,” he replied. The laugh track surged in the background.

  “Then I’ll see you then,” she said in a bright little voice. “One o’clock. Sharp.”

  Chapter 18

  When she told Eddie Bonilla that she was going to see Duran, he went off like a pop-top can.

  “Are you outta your mind?”

  “No—”

  “I thought we had a deal!”

  “Well, we do, but—it’s the only way I’m going to get my sister’s medical file. If I ask him to send it to me—”

  “Does the word ‘psychopath’ mean anything to you?” Bonilla demanded.

  “Of course it does, but—”

  “When are you supposed to see him?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “What time?”

  “One.”

  “I’ll pick you up.”

  She hesitated. She felt guilty about how much time the detective was spending on her case—and not charging her for it. When she’d insisted on an accounting at the end of the week, he’d only billed her for an hour and a half. And then, when she’d protested, he’d raised his hands as if to hold her off. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “They’re my hours—I’ll bill ‘em as I like.”

  “That’s soooo nice of you, Eddie, but—”

  Bonilla drove. He refused to ride in her Subaru—which was strewn with paper coffee cups and rusting out.

  “Nervous?” he asked.

  “Not really,” she said.

  “‘Cause you’re tappin’ your foot like you’re Gregory Hines or something.”

  Adrienne laughed as Bonilla turned off Connecticut onto a side street, and began looking for a parking space. “I’m just tired,” she told him. “Slough has us working around the clock.”

  Bonilla nodded distractedly, then seeing a parking space, maneuvered the Camaro into position at the curb, wedging it between a Volvo and a Mercedes. As Adrienne began to get out, the detective removed something from under the seat and, reaching behind, shoved it into the back of his waistband.

  Adrienne couldn’t believe it. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?” the detective replied. “I’m taking you up to—”

  “I mean the gun.” Together, they stepped from the car, and slammed the doors.

  “I got a permit to carry. I’m licensed.”

  “I hate guns.”

  “So?”

  “So I think you should put it back in the car.”

  Bonilla put his hands in his pockets, and leaned against the car door. “Un-unh,” he said. “I’m not strapped, I don’t go.”

  “Fine,” she told him. “I’ll get a cab back.” As she turned to leave, he put a hand on her arm.

  “I don’t go, you don’t go.”

  “That’s not part of the deal. You didn’t say anything about a gun,” Adrienne replied.

  “Hey—I’m a private investigator! It’s ‘tools of the trade.’ You hire a cabdriver, he comes with a cab. You hire me, I come with the Duke.”

  Adrienne was nonplussed. “The what?”

  Bonilla blushed. “N
ever mind. It’s a long story.”

  Duran must have been waiting for her, because when she pressed the buzzer on the intercom, he answered almost immediately. “Yes?”

  “It’s Adrienne Cope.”

  “Come on up,” Duran told her, and buzzed her into the lobby.

  When they got to the sixth floor, he was waiting for them in front of his apartment. Seeing Bonilla, a rueful smile flickered across his face. “I see you brought a date,” he said.

  “Very funny,” Bonilla remarked, stepping past Duran into the apartment. She was shocked at how tired Duran seemed. He was basically a good-looking guy. So good-looking, in a black Irish kind of way (thick dark hair, blue eyes), that she wondered if Nikki had selected him on the basis of appearance.

  But now, he appeared almost haggard. His eyes were rimmed with red, and it seemed as if he’d lost weight. As they walked into the living room, he stopped so suddenly that Adrienne and Bonilla almost crashed into him.

  “Christ!” Duran exclaimed, and reached into the corduroy jacket he was wearing.

  “What’s the matter?” Adrienne asked.

  He removed a cassette tape from his pocket, and shook his head. “It’s for the insurance company. I’m supposed to mail it—”

  “You got lots of time before the last pickup,” Bonilla told him.

  Duran nodded, and dropped the cassette back into his pocket.

  “Can I take your coats?” he asked.

  “Nah,” Bonilla said. “We won’t be that long.” His eyes flickered from one side of the apartment to the other, as if he were looking for a small, but deadly, snake.

  “Oh,” Duran said. “Okay.” Then he turned to Adrienne with an expectant look, which she returned with a puzzled frown. Duran prompted her: “You said you had a check for me. I mean, I thought that’s why you’re here.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” she remembered. “I have it right here!” She reached into her purse, and extracted an envelope with Duran’s name on it. “It’s five grand,” she told him.