“At the moment,” I said, “that would be you.”
She looked at me. The swell of her breasts rose and fell as her breathing intensified. “I’m hurt,” she said after a moment. “I’m just talking, Shell. I wouldn’t harm you.”
“I want to believe that.”
“Believe it,” she said, moving to me, offering up a tiny smile, taking my hands and guiding them around her waist, resting her head on my chest. “You make me crazy, Shell.”
I heard myself say, “I have a fever for you, too.”
“Do you? Really?”
“I do.”
“May I stay the night with you?”
“You’re comfortable with that?”
“I shouldn’t be,” she said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, “but being with you has taught me the depths of my own morality.”
“I understand what you’re saying.” And I did. Morality was often a zero-sum game, full of gross inequities. What I considered moral could injure another. What someone else considered moral could injure me. Rarely did the scales balance.
“Do you care about her?” she asked.
Almost as an underscore for her principle argument, I said, “Who?”
She took a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter. You want to be with me, for the night at least.”
“Black and white,” I said.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I WOKE UP IN the tangle of Nevada’s sheets, Trina’s leg rested across my body. I looked to see if she was awake, but she was sleeping peacefully. It was still dark outside. The devil’s hour. Improbably, my thoughts had returned to Nevada. And I had Trina to thank for the newest revelation. She’d helped me in more ways than one. I fingered a strand of hair from her face and kissed her warm skin.
Nev, this is Dev.
I had a feeling that Siobhan and I had assumed too much from those few words.
What had felt like another dead end might actually be the most promising lead yet.
TWENTY-ONE
I IDLED IN CHRIS Hall’s Accord, at the curb across the street from a one-story ranch. Trina’s scent was trapped in my clothes, the lilt of Siobhan’s voice rang in my ears, and Nevada’s uncertain condition was a constant loop playing through my mind. I was worse than a man without a country. I was a man with split allegiances. Trina could never be The Woman in my life, but nor could I seem to leave her alone. The hurt in Siobhan’s eyes when she left me after Trina’s intrusion was an open wound that wouldn’t heal until I apologized—and she accepted the apology. Sadly my confidence that either would happen wasn’t very high. And Nevada…what could I say about Nevada?
Rather than dwell on any of the women, I turned my attention back to the one-story ranch. I spotted at least two ways I could enter the house; neither involved the front door. In my past life I would’ve flipped a coin to choose one point of ingress. Now, I settled on ringing the doorbell.
I yawned the Accord’s driver’s-side door open, the rusted hinges crying out, and stepped out into the warmth of midday. It was a bucolic setting in a quiet suburban town in North Jersey whose name isn’t important. I was greeted by the sight of rolling green lawns, the thtick thtick thtick thtick sound of oscillating water sprinklers, and the fragrant smell of flowers and clean air.
I spotted a third way I could enter the house as I managed the Accord’s door shut and shook off the desire for illegal entry.
The house included a garage with an impossibly high door, and a smooth concrete path leading directly to the front door. No step entry. I rang the bell and listened to the cascading notes of a classical song.
He opened the door with a smile and flecks of paint on his nose. I took a quick inventory of him: several inches shorter than me; thin, with the build of a weekend tennis player; balding, what hair he had shot through with gray; cornflower blue eyes; pale, hairy forearms but a healthy tan face. Paint was not only on his nose and face and hands but speckled on his jeans and Rutgers T-shirt as well. He extended a hand, still smiling. “Chris?”
I nodded. “Professor Devlin?”
Nev, this is Dev.
Siobhan and I had assumed a reference to his first name. A morning of acrobatic sex with Trina had opened my mind to other possibilities.
“Pardon my appearance,” he said. “Doing a little spring freshening up. The walls in this old place seem to pick up every unwanted stain there is.”
“I understand,” I said. “I appreciate you agreeing to see me. I won’t take up too much of your time.”
“I needed the break, and long live the Crimson Aitch,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “And an art major at that. I have a civic duty to welcome art alum with open arms.”
“I apologize for the unsolicited call, Professor Devlin.”
“Wallace, please. And don’t be silly. Our phone number is listed for a reason. The call energized me. Come in.”
I crossed the flat threshold of his front door thinking, Wallace, not Dev.
I guess some things were reserved for Nevada only.
“Something to drink?” he asked, leading me down a wide entry hall.
“What do you have?”
“No alcohol,” he said. “I should’ve mentioned that. We have a dry home.”
Another definition for insanity: employing the same unsuccessful strategy repeatedly, and yet expecting a different result. In hindsight, I hadn’t been aggressive enough with either Uncle John or Cole Enger. And though my appearance had caught them both off guard, I hadn’t confronted them where they’d be most vulnerable. Home is where the heart is. It’s also where we are our most private, where the darkest secrets of our lives are locked away in closets to which only we have the keys.
We have a dry home.
Nevada’s lover—and there was no doubt in my mind that’s what Professor Devlin was—happened to be forever vowed to someone else.
“Cold water?” I said.
“Be adventurous, Chris. How about punch made with cranberry-apple juice and Sprite?”
“Sounds good.”
“Excellent.”
The house had what architects refer to as an open floor plan, copious space leading, unbroken by walls or other encumbrances, from one room to the next. The kitchen and living room were separated only by a waist-high counter. Very little furniture. The pieces they had were expensive and well-appointed. I noticed all of the doors had levers instead of door knobs.
“Your mention of Jan Van Eyck really sparked my interest,” Professor Devlin said, opening a low cabinet with pull-out shelves, and producing two squat drinking glasses. “The Renaissance is one of my favorite periods. I can’t wait to read your thesis.”
“I plan on giving some mention to Dürer as well,” I said. “And Donatello.”
He rinsed the glasses in the sink. There was a recessed space underneath the sink instead of a cabinet. An elevated dish washer next to it.
“And da Vinci, of course,” he said, pouring punch in the two glasses.
“Actually I’m not certain I’ll give much space to da Vinci.”
“Dan Brown ruined him for you?” he said, a twinkle in his cornflower blue eyes.
I tried to match his smile. “I have a complex relationship with the Mona Lisa, Professor Devlin.”
“Wallace,” he said again. “How about we retire to the sunroom? We have it facing south so we can take full advantage of the sunlight.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
We walked across laminate wood floors, seamless transitions from room to room, no threshold bumps. Understanding passed through me. Suddenly I didn’t feel well about blowing the professor’s life apart.
“Are you going to at least speak of Michelangelo and El Greco?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said, and clearing my throat, repeated the words.
“I teach baroque and rococo as well,” he said. We’d reached the sunroom. It
was starved for furniture as were the other rooms. He sat on the arm of a plush reading chair. I took the small couch. “Rembrandt, Rubens, and the like.”
“Caravaggio, Bernini,” I said.
He nodded. “Velazquez.”
I cleared my throat once more. “Is that how you met Nevada? One of your classes?”
He barely finished a sip of punch, and managed to set his glass on the floor without spilling it. I’d aged him ten years in a moment. His voice and body trembled slightly. “You’re not working on a thesis?” he said.
“No,” I said. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Are you at Harvard, at least?”
“Sorry to disappoint you. I know the Crimson Aitch is estimable.”
He looked over his shoulder, then back at me. “I don’t know who you are. But this is highly inappropriate.”
I nodded. “You still haven’t answered the question. The sooner you start talking, the sooner I leave.”
He sighed. “Introduction to Art History.”
“A beginner’s class,” I heard myself say, bite in my tone.
“More advanced than you’d believe,” he replied.
I was denigrating Nevada and he was defending her, artfully.
“And when exactly did you become lovers?” I asked.
His brow knitted. “Who are you exactly?”
I knew how loquacious Nevada could be with anyone she shared an intimacy, whether friend or lover. I said, “My name is Shell,” and watched his face.
The frown faded and his eyes widened. The rise and fall of his chest became more pronounced.
“Good,” I said. “You know of me.”
“What do you want?” he asked almost breathlessly.
I was preparing to answer, but the whir of a motor interrupted my words and stole his focus. He turned to the entry of the sunroom. His wife was beautiful. Brilliant silver and black hair, trim of body, a subtle touch of makeup she didn’t need. I looked in her face and didn’t glance at the wheelchair she sat in. She looked at me without blinking. The sick feeling I’d felt moments earlier when I realized she’d be disabled quickly disappeared. This wasn’t a woman that inspired pity.
“I’m Cynthia,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive my husband’s rudeness.”
She rolled into the room and I stood to greet her. Professor Wallace “Dev” Devlin hurriedly moved to assist her. She shooed him away like a pesky fly and he dropped down, defeated, into his chair.
She sandwiched my one hand with both of hers. They were as cold as a stiff winter wind. After a moment I realized she had no intention of breaking the clinch. This remarkable woman, I thought to myself, has a surprisingly strong grip.
“Pleased to meet you, Cynthia. My name is Shell.”
“I heard. My husband doesn’t read the newspaper I’m afraid,” she said in the tone of an apology.
Professor Devlin said, “Cyn what does that—”
She waved him off. “Shell is here, Wallace, because your mistress is missing,” she said, and turned her gaze back on me. “Isn’t that correct, Shell?”
I nearly smiled.
“MISSING?” WALLACE DEVLIN’S VOICE was a fossil of its former self, shrunken and fading to bone-gray in color.
“Help me out of this chair and onto the couch?” Cynthia said to me.
“Cyn, that’s not a good idea,” Devlin said.
She zeroed her gaze in on him. “You have a patent on all of the good ideas, Wallace? Should we sit and discuss all of your brilliant ideas at length?”
“Well, I—”
She sniffed and turned back facing me, dismissing her husband once more. “If you place one arm under both my legs,” she directed, “and the other around my torso, I’ll lift rather easily. I’m light, but not at all frail. Don’t be afraid to introduce some of your prodigious muscle into the experience. I promise I won’t break…unless you’d like me to.” The smile lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth defied description.
“Cyn…”
She kissed my hands after I’d placed her down on the couch.
“Jesus, Cyn…”
“What’s your relationship to Nevada?” she asked me.
“We were close at one time,” I said. “We lived together. I suppose we thought about marriage, but the relationship fizzled out. About a month and a half ago we got together and…”
“Got together?” Professor Devlin said.
“That’s euphemism for hot, sweaty sex, Wallace,” Cynthia explained.
“I don’t believe it,” he said.
“Because you’re quite the stud?” she said. “The Viagra has truly changed you, Wallace.”
“You know about that?” he stupidly asked.
“And the porn collection,” she said. “Your libido seems to be in overdrive. I suppose the shine of my hand jobs has completely dulled.”
I smiled as Professor Devlin blew air through his mouth and nostrils.
Cynthia turned back to me. “His video fascination is with small-breasted Asian girls primarily,” she said. “Physically dissimilar from both me and your Nevada. A psychologist would have a field day with my husband.”
“A defense mechanism to disassociate himself from the guilt,” I suggested. “Fetishism of women who don’t remind him of his greatest failing.”
“I’d never thought of that, Shell.”
“I’m right here,” he said weakly.
“Physically dissimilar from both you and Nevada, you said. You’ve seen her?” I asked.
“You’re very perceptive, Shell. You notice details a lot of people miss.”
“Sometimes that’s true.”
“Yes, I’ve seen her,” she admitted, “And talked with her, as well.”
“When?” Wallace Devlin wanted to know.
“My husband can be a very clever man,” she told me. “But sometimes he forgets that my problem with my legs hasn’t extended to my brain.”
“That sounds like a very clear mistake,” I said.
She winked at me. “I’ll say.”
“Nevada…” I said, reintroducing the topic at hand.
“Very apologetic when I spoke with her. She didn’t pretend as if she didn’t know of my existence, and was almost childlike in both her embarrassment and shame. I felt badly, believe it or not. So I asked her out to the house, and she graciously accepted my invitation.”
“Our house, Cyn?”
“What did you talk about?” I asked. I’d decided Wallace Devlin had nothing to do with Nevada’s disappearance, but maybe his wife would have some information to shed light on the situation.
“You’d think the conversation would have been Wallace-heavy,” she said. “But we barely discussed my husband. She was troubled by something altogether unrelated to the affair with Wallace.”
“Did she mention what?”
Cynthia shook her head. “Nothing specific.”
“Does the name Darren Sweet mean anything to you?”
“I can’t say that it does,” she said, and looked up at her husband. “Wallace?”
“You can’t expect me to cooperate with this nonsense, Cyn?”
“I do and you will,” she said.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Do you know the name, Wallace? You know how you get after you’ve done some physical labor. I’m sure your libido will be in overdrive after all of the painting. If you don’t answer Shell’s questions I’ll have you know that my hands can very well go on strike tonight. And my mouth with them, if that adds anything to your thought process.”
“Don’t be crass, Cyn.”
“You want to discuss crass?” she replied. “We surely can. Or, you can tell us if the name Darren Sweet means anything to you.”
He sighed and shook his head. “I’ve never heard the name.”
“Uncle John?” I asked. “Cole Enger?”
“Enger, the Councilman in Newark?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” he said. “I
’ve heard of him, of course.”
“From Nevada?” I asked.
“Our conversations were somewhat limited,” he admitted.
“Great surprise there,” Cynthia said.
Actually, it was. Nevada was a born talker.
Wallace Devlin flared his nostrils and turned away.
“You believe some harm might have come to Nevada?” Cynthia asked me.
“I don’t know what to believe. She was traveling in some circles that definitely raise an eyebrow, though.”
“She really was a very nice young woman,” Cynthia said, and laughed at a thought. “When we finished speaking she apologized for the time she’d spent with Wallace, and told me it wouldn’t happen again. She confided to me that the sex wasn’t that good to begin with, and I let her know that my legs had atrophied but my memory was just fine.”
Professor Wallace Devlin exhaled loudly. I smiled again.
“Would you like me to help you back in your chair?” I asked Cynthia Devlin.
“I’ll take care of that, thank you very much,” Professor Wallace “Dev” Devlin said.
Cynthia smiled. “We’ll leave the task to him, Shell. I’ve emasculated him enough for the day.”
“You’ve tried your best to humiliate me, is what you’ve done,” he said. “This has been very telling, Cyn. Very informative.”
“It’ll get even better once Shell has gone, Wallace,” she said, taking the steam out of his engine. He dropped back down in his reading chair, kneaded his temples. I could certainly relate.
Cynthia refocused on me. “Do you have a way to be contacted if I think of anything else, Shell? Oftentimes extra details come to me after I’ve thought about something for a bit. And I will put some thought into all of this. As I said, I found Nevada to be a pleasant young woman.”
“You have paper to write on?”
“Just tell me,” she said, smiling. “Your company has been invigorating. I’ll have no trouble committing any contact information you give me to memory.”
I told her, and she took my hand again. I leaned over and kissed her cheek. Professor Wallace “Dev” Devlin didn’t offer to walk me to the door. In fact, he didn’t even look in my direction. I left the Devlin home without anything of pertinence regarding Nevada, but with a growing understanding all the same.
Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) Page 22
