“Hello?”
“Is this Dr. Lindman?”
“Yes.”
A pause. Then, “It took us twenty minutes to calm my father down — he’s not a well man to begin with. What exactly did you say to him? What were you even doing at my house? Who sent you?”
It must be Candace. I left my business card in the living room . . .
“I’m very sorry,” I begin. “I had a few questions that—”
“You come near my family again, I’ll have you arrested. You understand me? Leave us alone, you bitch.”
She hangs up.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Bleeker family thinks I’ve done something. Sure, they’re a bit weird — all those ceramic pigs in that house on the edge of oblivion, sea air making everything damp and baggy. They’ve been through a lot — anyone could understand that. Arnold Bleeker even seems unwell, perhaps turning his daughter overprotective . . .
But they definitely think I did something.
Me and some other people.
I’m part of “them.”
It’s troubling, but it’s also very interesting, giving me the beginnings of a direction. How, perhaps, to proceed with this thing.
When I get back to my office in White Plains, I raid the cabinet in the kitchenette and find a bottle of gin. Tanqueray. What my mother used to drink. I pour myself a stiff one. Leaving the lights off, I sit on the leather couch in the dark. The blinds on the window make slatted shadows across the floor. Outside, the traffic rolls up and down Mamaroneck Avenue.
The sudden knock on the door startles me. Someone is in the corridor. I set my drink down and rise to my feet. As I approach, I hear the jingle of keys. I unlock the bolt but keep the chain on. With the door ajar, I peer out.
“What are you doing here?” I say, sliding back the chain.
Mena comes in when I open up, her shoulders hunched, full of tension. But that’s just kind of how she moves about.
“I saw your car in front,” she says.
We walk together into the main office. I struggle with the question: “So, what . . . what are you . . . ?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Mena says.
I offer her to sit on the couch. She glances at my drink on the side table. “Would you like one?”
“Oh, no,” she says, her hands on her knees. “No, thank you. Or maybe a little one. Just a little.”
The kitchenette is next to the bathroom; a sink and two cupboards, a microwave. This is completely odd. I unscrew the cap, get a glass from the cupboard and ice from the small fridge. I pour a finger, then walk it over to Mena. “You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m okay. Yes. Thank you.” She pushes her straight black hair back from her face and takes the glass. She sips primly. Mena is Filipina. Perfect dark hair and large dark eyes. Her bone structure is exquisite, with wide cheekbones and a tapered chin. She’s small, barely five foot five, and is often fragrant with some coconut perfume or deodorant, as she is tonight, though I can see the dampness around her hair line, and her upper lip — she’s also been perspiring. She asks, “Were you able to find Mr. Bleeker?”
“I did,” I say, sitting down in my chair. I cross my legs and take another drink. Despite Mena’s uncharacteristic behavior, I’m feeling more comfortable now. This is my usual role.
“What did he say?” Mena asked.
I tell her the story while minimizing the emotional impact it had on me. Still, she listens with wide eyes. When I’m finished, she drinks her gin with both hands and sets the empty glass on the coffee table in front of her. Not only is it unusual for Mena to be up at this hour, it’s rare for her to drink. She has difficulty metabolizing alcohol — too much raises her blood pressure and fatigues her.
“Okay,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“It’s just . . . I feel terrible.”
“About?”
“What happened to Maggie.”
“I know. I do, too.”
Mena says it’s why she’s not at home in bed. She’s been out driving through the city, and she made her way back to the office without thinking too much about it.
As she says it, her eyes flick to the file box on my desk. I’ve left it out from earlier. Files on the Bleekers, not Maggie.
“Anyway,” she says. “I’m feeling better now.” She lifts her thin eyebrows. “Did you find the case notes you were looking for?”
“I did. Mena . . . do you want to talk about it? Maggie?”
Her otherwise smooth brown skin dimples with a frown. “No. I don’t think so. But what about you? Can I help you with anything?”
“I’m fine. You should go home, though. Don’t worry about me.”
She’s dubious, but gets to her feet. “All right . . .”
After assuring her again that everything is going to be all right and thanking her, I walk her down to the street and see her off.
And maybe I don’t know if things are going to be all right, and maybe I feel a little bit bad for not including Mena in more of what’s going on. But I’ve become good at compartmentalizing.
*
The night has cooled some but is still thick with humidity. I have a couple of texts from Paul I need to answer, but they can wait. It’s my turn to wander the city — though I’m more conscious of where I’m going once I get back to the car and get moving. The Bronx River Parkway has light traffic. The Range Rover’s headlights probe the semidarkness as it hugs the serpentine, southbound highway. I know this route like the back of my hand.
As I drive, I contemplate the way we compartmentalize ourselves. “Dissociate” is the word. As in “dissociative identity disorder.” DID. At a recent training I attended, the keynote speaker theorized that all of us are actually on a spectrum of DID, in a sense. We all dissociate from things in our lives, from memories and past traumas, to some extent. Most of the time, we’re completely unaware we’re doing it. By how much, that varies among us.
A little later, I’m driving through sleepy Bronxville, the Tom Bishop file on the seat beside me. The stores are dark along the main drag. I make a left turn up the hill into one of the residential areas. Pondfield Road. In about a mile, I’m slowing down in front of a house.
But it’s not my house. Instead, I’ve driven to the place that once belonged to David and Laura Bishop. Two managers: a hedge fund manager and an artists’ manager. Both working in Manhattan.
The house is big, white with black shutters. Only the upper story is visible over the juniper penning the yard.
It’s been fifteen years since the Bishops lived here with their son, Tom. The boy who saw his mother brain his father with a hammer, killing him.
At least, that’s what Tom eventually told me.
And it’s what sent Laura Bishop to prison for murder.
But — maybe it was the look in Arnold Bleeker’s eyes, or Frank’s memory of a man sitting outside the Bishop house in a car, just about where I am now — I’m starting to see a whole new picture forming.