Reston lived in Brooklyn, a neighborhood south of Cleveland High. It was a tangle of telephone wires and trees densely packed with little middle-class Victorians and eighties duplexes—a nice neighborhood. Safe.
Archie told the cabdriver to wait and then got out and began to climb the mossy cement steps that led up the little hill to Reston’s one-story house. It was late afternoon, and while the houses across the street still glowed in the sun, long shadows streaked Reston’s terraced hillside. Reston was on the porch, painting a door that he had propped up on two sawhorses. He was wearing project clothes; paint-splattered work pants, an old gray sweatshirt, a Mariners baseball cap. His expression was relaxed, showing obvious pleasure in the task. He looked up when he saw Archie, and then he went back to painting. Of course he knew Archie was a cop. Archie looked like a cop. It didn’t matter what he wore. It wasn’t always that way. The first few years, everyone had always been surprised when they found out what he did. He wasn’t sure when the change had happened. He’d just noticed one day that he made people nervous.
When Archie got to the top of the porch stairs, he sat down on the top step and leaned up against the square porch column a few feet from where Reston stooped over the door. An old wisteria, still leafless, its branches as thick as human wrists, knotted up the post and along the railing.
“Ever read Lolita?” Archie asked.
Reston dipped the brush in some white paint and slid it along the door. The wall of paint fumes pushed away every other sensation. “Who are you?” Reston asked.
Archie opened his badge and held it out. “I’m Detective Sheridan. I have some questions for you about a former student of yours, Susan Ward.”
Reston glanced at the badge. No one ever bothered to look at it up close. “She told you we had a relationship,” he said.
“Yep.”
Reston sighed and adjusted his stance so his eyes were level with the surface of the door. He applied more paint, a quick dab and drag along the wood. “Is this on the record?”
“I’m a police detective,” Archie said. “I don’t do off the record.”
“She’s confused.”
“Really.”
A rivulet of paint had collected and Reston smoothed the brush along the wood until the paint was perfectly dispersed. “You know about her father? He died her freshman year. That was very hard on her. I tried to be kind. And I think she misunderstood my interest.” He frowned. “Built it up in her mind.”
“You’re saying that you never had a sexual relationship,” Archie said.
Reston exhaled. Looked off across the yard for a minute. And then carefully placed the brush on the paint can. The can was on top of a piece of the Herald, so that the wet end of the brush hung suspended above a corner of it, a thread of paint pooling on the newsprint. He turned to Archie. “I kissed her, okay?” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Once. It was bad judgment on my part. I never let it happen again. When I rejected her, she started a rumor that I’d had an affair with another student. It could have gotten me fired. But there was nothing to it. There was never a formal investigation, because everyone knew it was bogus. Susan was just”—he searched the air with his hand for the right word—“damaged. She was distraught by her father’s death and lashed out. But I liked her. I always did. She was a charming, pissed-off, talented kid. I understood the pain she was in. And I did everything I could to help her.”
“How incomprehensibly generous of you,” Archie said.
“I’m a good teacher. For what it’s worth.” He allowed himself a wry smirk. “And it’s not worth much these days.”
“You ever kiss Lee Robinson?” Archie asked.
Reston drew back, his mouth open. “Jesus, no. I barely knew her. I was in tech rehearsal when she disappeared. It’s all been verified.”
Archie nodded to himself. “Okay, then.” He offered Reston a solicitous smile. “Can I get a glass of water?” It was a lazy way to try to get inside, but if Reston said no, it would at least indicate that he had something to hide.
Reston stared at Archie for a moment. “Okay.” He stood up, brushed some muck off his paint-splattered pants, stamped a few times on the front mat, and gestured for Archie to follow him. They walked into the house and Reston led Archie through a small coatroom, then through the living room and dining room and into the kitchen. The thing that struck Archie was the level of organization. No clutter. Everything in its place. Surfaces clean of debris. No dishes in the sink.
“Ever been married?” Archie asked.
Reston pulled a glass down from a cabinet and filled it at the sink. Above the sink hung a framed print of a blond Varga pinup girl. “She left me. Took everything I had,” he said, handing Archie the glass of water.
Archie took a sip. “Girlfriend?”
“Not currently. My last relationship ended suddenly.”
“Did you murder her?”