Gone for Good
Page 47
“An alleged infamous murderer,” I corrected her. “How did you know?”
“I have Lexis-Nexis on my home computer. I plugged in your name and that’s what came up. One of the articles mentioned that you now live in Manhattan.”
“My brother had nothing to do with any of this.”
“Sure, and he was innocent of killing your neighbor too, right?”
“That’s not what I mean. Your double murder has nothing to do with him.”
“Then what’s your connection?”
I let loose a breath. “Someone else who was very close to me.”
“Who?”
“My girlfriend. Her fingerprints were the ones found at the scene.”
I heard the kids act up again. It sounded like they were running through the room making siren noises. Yvonne Sterno did not yell at them this time. “So it was your girlfriend who was found dead in Nebraska?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s your interest in this?”
“Part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
I was not prepared yet to tell her about Carly. “Find Enfield,” I said.
“What was her name, Will? Your girlfriend.”
“Just find him.”
“Hey, you want us to work together? You don’t hold out on me. I can find out in five seconds by looking it up anyway. Just tell me.”
“Rogers,” I said. “Her name was Sheila Rogers.”
I heard her typing some more. “I’ll do my best, Will,” she said. “Hang tight, I’ll call you soon.”
30
I had a strange quasi-dream.
I say “quasi” because I was not fully asleep. I floated in that groove between slumber and consciousness, that state where you sometimes stumble and plummet and need to grab the sides of the bed. I lay in the dark, my hands behind my head, my eyes closed.
I mentioned earlier how Sheila had loved to dance. She even made me join a dance club at the Jewish Community Center in West Orange, New Jersey. The JCC was close to both my mother’s hospital and the house in Livingston. We’d go out every Wednesday to visit my mother and then at six-thirty head for our meeting with our fellow dancers.
We were the youngest couple in the club by—and this is just a rough estimate—seventy-five years, but man, the older folks knew how to move. I’d try to keep up, but there was simply no way. I felt self-conscious in their company. Sheila did not. Sometimes, in the middle of a dance, she would let go of my hands and sway away from me. Her eyes would close. There would be a sheen on her face as she totally disappeared in the bliss.
There was one older couple in particular, the Segals, who’d been dancing together since a USO gathering in the forties. They were a handsome, graceful couple. Mr. Segal always wore a white ascot. Mrs. Segal wore something blue and a pearl choker. On the floor, they were pure magic. They moved like lovers. They moved like one. During the breaks, they were outgoing and friendly to the rest of us. But when the music played, they saw only each other.
On a snowy night last February—we thought that the club would probably be canceled, but it wasn’t—Mr. Segal showed up by himself. He still wore the white ascot. His suit was impeccable. But one look at the tightness in his face and we knew. Sheila gripped my hand. I could see a tear escape from her eye. When the music started, Mr. Segal stood, stepped without hesitation onto the dance floor, and danced by himself. He put out his arms and moved as though his wife were still there. He guided her across the floor, cradling her ghost so gently that none of us dared disturb him.
The next week Mr. Segal did not show at all. We heard from some of the others that Mrs. Segal had lost a longtime battle with cancer. But she danced until the end. The music started up then. We all found our partners and took to the floor. And as I held Sheila close, impossibly close, I realized that, sad as the Segal story was, they’d had it better than anyone I had ever known.
Here was where I entered the quasi-dream, though from the beginning I recognized that it was just that. I was back at the JCC Dance Club. Mr. Segal was there. So were a bunch of people I had never seen before, all without partners. When the music started, we all danced by ourselves. I looked around. My father was there, doing a clumsy solo fox-trot. He nodded at me.
I watched the others dance. They all clearly felt the presence of their dearly departed. They looked into their partners’ ghostly eyes. I tried to follow suit, but something was wrong. I saw nothing. I was dancing alone. Sheila would not come to me.
Far away, I heard the phone ring. A deep voice on the answering machine penetrated my dream. “This is Lieutenant Daniels of the Livingston Police Department. I am trying to reach Will Klein.”
In the background, behind Lieutenant Daniels, I heard the muffled laugh of a young woman. My eyes flew open, and the JCC Dance Club disappeared. As I reached for the phone, I heard the young woman whoop another laugh.
It sounded like Katy Miller.
“Perhaps I should call your parents,” Lieutenant Daniels was saying to whoever was laughing.
“No.” It was Katy. “I’m eighteen. You can’t make me—”
I picked up the phone. “This is Will Klein.”
Lieutenant Daniels said, “Hi, Will. This is Tim Daniels. We went to school together, remember?”
Tim Daniels. He’d worked at the local Hess station. He used to wear his oil-smeared uniform to school, complete with his name embroidered on the pocket. I guessed that he still liked uniforms.
“Sure,” I said, totally confused now. “How’s it going?”
“Good, thanks.”
“You’re on the force now?” Nothing gets by me.
“Yep. And I still live in town. Married Betty Jo Stetson. We have two daughters.”
I tried to conjure up Betty Jo, but nothing came. “Wow, congrats.”
“Thanks, Will.” His voice grew grave. “I, uh, read about your mother in the Tribune. I’m sorry.”
“I appreciate that, thanks,” I said.
Katy Miller started laughing again.
“Look, the reason I’m calling is, well, I guess you know Katy Miller?”
“Yes.”
There was a moment of silence. He probably remembered that I’d dated her older sister and what fate had befallen her. “She asked me to call you.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I found Katy on the Mount Pleasant playground with a half-empty bottle of Absolut. She’s totally blitzed. I was going to call her parents—”
“I have Lexis-Nexis on my home computer. I plugged in your name and that’s what came up. One of the articles mentioned that you now live in Manhattan.”
“My brother had nothing to do with any of this.”
“Sure, and he was innocent of killing your neighbor too, right?”
“That’s not what I mean. Your double murder has nothing to do with him.”
“Then what’s your connection?”
I let loose a breath. “Someone else who was very close to me.”
“Who?”
“My girlfriend. Her fingerprints were the ones found at the scene.”
I heard the kids act up again. It sounded like they were running through the room making siren noises. Yvonne Sterno did not yell at them this time. “So it was your girlfriend who was found dead in Nebraska?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s your interest in this?”
“Part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
I was not prepared yet to tell her about Carly. “Find Enfield,” I said.
“What was her name, Will? Your girlfriend.”
“Just find him.”
“Hey, you want us to work together? You don’t hold out on me. I can find out in five seconds by looking it up anyway. Just tell me.”
“Rogers,” I said. “Her name was Sheila Rogers.”
I heard her typing some more. “I’ll do my best, Will,” she said. “Hang tight, I’ll call you soon.”
30
I had a strange quasi-dream.
I say “quasi” because I was not fully asleep. I floated in that groove between slumber and consciousness, that state where you sometimes stumble and plummet and need to grab the sides of the bed. I lay in the dark, my hands behind my head, my eyes closed.
I mentioned earlier how Sheila had loved to dance. She even made me join a dance club at the Jewish Community Center in West Orange, New Jersey. The JCC was close to both my mother’s hospital and the house in Livingston. We’d go out every Wednesday to visit my mother and then at six-thirty head for our meeting with our fellow dancers.
We were the youngest couple in the club by—and this is just a rough estimate—seventy-five years, but man, the older folks knew how to move. I’d try to keep up, but there was simply no way. I felt self-conscious in their company. Sheila did not. Sometimes, in the middle of a dance, she would let go of my hands and sway away from me. Her eyes would close. There would be a sheen on her face as she totally disappeared in the bliss.
There was one older couple in particular, the Segals, who’d been dancing together since a USO gathering in the forties. They were a handsome, graceful couple. Mr. Segal always wore a white ascot. Mrs. Segal wore something blue and a pearl choker. On the floor, they were pure magic. They moved like lovers. They moved like one. During the breaks, they were outgoing and friendly to the rest of us. But when the music played, they saw only each other.
On a snowy night last February—we thought that the club would probably be canceled, but it wasn’t—Mr. Segal showed up by himself. He still wore the white ascot. His suit was impeccable. But one look at the tightness in his face and we knew. Sheila gripped my hand. I could see a tear escape from her eye. When the music started, Mr. Segal stood, stepped without hesitation onto the dance floor, and danced by himself. He put out his arms and moved as though his wife were still there. He guided her across the floor, cradling her ghost so gently that none of us dared disturb him.
The next week Mr. Segal did not show at all. We heard from some of the others that Mrs. Segal had lost a longtime battle with cancer. But she danced until the end. The music started up then. We all found our partners and took to the floor. And as I held Sheila close, impossibly close, I realized that, sad as the Segal story was, they’d had it better than anyone I had ever known.
Here was where I entered the quasi-dream, though from the beginning I recognized that it was just that. I was back at the JCC Dance Club. Mr. Segal was there. So were a bunch of people I had never seen before, all without partners. When the music started, we all danced by ourselves. I looked around. My father was there, doing a clumsy solo fox-trot. He nodded at me.
I watched the others dance. They all clearly felt the presence of their dearly departed. They looked into their partners’ ghostly eyes. I tried to follow suit, but something was wrong. I saw nothing. I was dancing alone. Sheila would not come to me.
Far away, I heard the phone ring. A deep voice on the answering machine penetrated my dream. “This is Lieutenant Daniels of the Livingston Police Department. I am trying to reach Will Klein.”
In the background, behind Lieutenant Daniels, I heard the muffled laugh of a young woman. My eyes flew open, and the JCC Dance Club disappeared. As I reached for the phone, I heard the young woman whoop another laugh.
It sounded like Katy Miller.
“Perhaps I should call your parents,” Lieutenant Daniels was saying to whoever was laughing.
“No.” It was Katy. “I’m eighteen. You can’t make me—”
I picked up the phone. “This is Will Klein.”
Lieutenant Daniels said, “Hi, Will. This is Tim Daniels. We went to school together, remember?”
Tim Daniels. He’d worked at the local Hess station. He used to wear his oil-smeared uniform to school, complete with his name embroidered on the pocket. I guessed that he still liked uniforms.
“Sure,” I said, totally confused now. “How’s it going?”
“Good, thanks.”
“You’re on the force now?” Nothing gets by me.
“Yep. And I still live in town. Married Betty Jo Stetson. We have two daughters.”
I tried to conjure up Betty Jo, but nothing came. “Wow, congrats.”
“Thanks, Will.” His voice grew grave. “I, uh, read about your mother in the Tribune. I’m sorry.”
“I appreciate that, thanks,” I said.
Katy Miller started laughing again.
“Look, the reason I’m calling is, well, I guess you know Katy Miller?”
“Yes.”
There was a moment of silence. He probably remembered that I’d dated her older sister and what fate had befallen her. “She asked me to call you.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I found Katy on the Mount Pleasant playground with a half-empty bottle of Absolut. She’s totally blitzed. I was going to call her parents—”
