Death Before Facebook (3 page)

That fits,
she thought. E
verything else in the room induces some sort of trance. Why not skip the middle step and go straight for it?

They intrigued her, these books. She clung to them. Only they and the cat were outside the all too obvious stereotype presented by the rest of the room’s furnishings, the cat because it was a warm, living being, the books because they were non-rational. People like Geoff, like the man she imagined him to be, though they lived in a fantasy world, a world of time travel and other galaxies, had no time for inward journeying. They spent their lives either devouring facts about the rational world or trying to escape it.

She felt she could probably describe Geoff. He must have been overweight, soft around the belly; but he had never accepted the fact, or else had so little sense of himself that he simply wore T-shirts a size too small without giving it a thought, T-shirts that gapped over his white and hairy belly, mostly black ones bearing skulls and Judas goats and the names of death-rock bands—Napalm Death, perhaps; Controlled Bleeding—odd, violent symbols and words that didn’t fit with the gentle, unkempt man who wore them. He had a short, roundish beard and limp brown hair that always needed shampooing. He wore glasses. Running shoes. Jeans that rode low, displaying the crack of his butt, which was flat. He had once played
Dungeons and Dragons
and maybe still did. He was the very personification of “nerd,” a bright young man turned inward, poorly socialized, who felt so little kinship with his own planet that he routinely traveled to the ones invented by his favorite authors, who thought of that secret, dreamy place his computer took him to as cyberspace—somewhere exciting, a place more real than his own life, a land he could conquer, not a drab teenager’s room in his parents’ house.

Skip knew her imagination was on overdrive, but the picture she got was so vivid it spooked her. “He must have been a very nice young man,” she said to Marguerite. “Do you mind if I look through his papers?”

Skip could see by Marguerite’s face that she did but couldn’t think of a reason to say so. “No,” she said finally. “I guess not.”

Skip sat at the makeshift desk. What she really wanted was to get at Geoff’s electronic files, the ones in his computer, but for now she contented herself with going through the things on his desk; slowly, ever so slowly. She wanted Marguerite to go away. And eventually, she did.

Quickly, Skip checked under the mattress, fully expecting to find at least some old copies of Playboy. But there was nothing. She went through his drawers and saw that she’d been wrong about another thing—no death-metal T-shirts; tie-dye instead. Perhaps he’d been a Deadhead.

She turned on the computer. There were files and files and files; she didn’t know where to start. There was a box of backup disks—maybe Marguerite would let her take these with her.

“Mrs. Terry?” Skip went back into the living room, to find her hostess stretched out on the sofa, covered with the rumpled blanket, staring into space, the white dog at her feet. It thumped its tail briefly when Skip entered. She asked if she could take the box of disks and was given permission, rather desultorily; Marguerite seemed to have fallen into a fit of depression.

“Just one other thing and then I’ll leave you alone. Can you give me the name of Geoff’s girlfriend? And his other friend—Layne?” She had found no address book, no Rolodex.

“Of course. Lenore Marquer. She came over once or twice. Layne did too, but I never caught the rest of his name.”

“Do you know where Lenore lives? Her phone number?”

Marguerite shook her head. Skip thanked her and left, drawing in her breath when she stepped outside, grateful for the cool fall air, realizing only now how dead the air had been in the house, how sour and stale. She felt her step lighten, a weight leave her shoulders. Had it been that way for Geoffrey Kavanagh? Had the place felt as much like a tomb to him as it did to Skip?

And Marguerite Terry? She was mistress of it, had made it that way. How was it for her?

Geoff’s body had to have crashed hard—but having met his mother, Skip could believe she’d slept through it; she was barely awake when her eyes were open.

But surely someone had heard something.

She knocked on doors.

The neighbor next door hadn’t heard the crash but had heard the cat meowing; had been awakened by it shortly before seven and had looked out the window, but had seen nothing—only a ladder propped against the house. She’d wondered why the cat just didn’t get on it and walk down. She didn’t hear a crash, but she had been gone for half an hour, between eight and eight-thirty, when she drove her husband to work.

The neighbor on the other side had heard a thump and a clatter—but had thought nothing of it. She later realized the thump must have been Geoff and the clatter his ladder, but it hadn’t seemed grisly at the time—just a neighborhood noise. She thought it must have been slightly after eight.

Unfortunately, neither of these neighbors, nor anyone else on the block, had seen anyone outside at all, much less anyone strange.

No one knew Geoff or the Terrys.

Skip headed to Mondo Video.

If she’d expected Mondo Nerd, in keeping with the image she’d formed of Geoff, she was wrong. The manager was a freckled redhead, hair a quarter of an inch long, if that. He was broad-shouldered, button-down-shirted, clear-eyed, and looked as if he wanted desperately to be wearing a navy blazer but knew it wouldn’t look right in a video store. He was about five feet nine and made Skip, who at six feet was used to shorter men and could take them or leave them, feel as if she ought to hunch over to talk to him. He had the firm grip of a kid who’d learned it at a good prep school, and the last name of a dynasty. “Knowles Kennedy,” he said, applying the grip.

Skip squeezed back, identified herself, and stated her business.

“Geoff,” said Knowles. “One of our best men. Really bright and knowledgeable. Not real ambitious, though.”

He was about twenty-four, Skip guessed, and already he’d done better in life than Geoff ever had.

“Bet he really knew his science fiction.”

“That was his thing. How’d you know?”

“I just had a feeling.”

“What a memory! That guy could tell you every scene of
The Day the Earth Stood Still
or—what’s the one about the pods?”

“
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
”

“Yeah. Both versions. But he knew all the obscure stuff as well. And all the new ones. Other stuff too—I mean, besides science fiction. He could sing every theme song from every James Bond movie.”

“He must have been popular with the customers.”

A shadow passed over Knowles’s face. “Well, not really. He was kind of shy, I guess. He could talk to them about the movies, but he never thought about ’How’re you doing today?’ Not real outgoing, I guess. He lived in his head, you know? It was like whatever was going on in there was the real world and what happened out here just got in the way.”

Skip grinned. “Space case?”

“You could put it that way. I mean, he functioned; he did a great job here, but the guy was brilliant—face it, this job was way below his abilities.”

“How could you tell he was brilliant?”

“Well, you know—by the way he talked. He retained things; like I said, he remembered everything from every movie he ever saw; and he knew a lot of just plain
stuff
too. Mostly science. I don’t think he even went to college—at least not for very long. He was self-taught; and there wasn’t much he didn’t know about. If you want to know the truth, he could be kind of a know-it-all.”

“Liked to hear himself talk?”

Knowles looked uncomfortable. “Well, I don’t think it was that exactly. He didn’t have enough whatever-you-call-it— self-esteem—for that. I think he just didn’t notice when he was lecturing. It was his only form of communication. See, he could tell you all this stuff about the War of the Roses or the Holy Roman Empire, but he didn’t know he was a big fat bore when he was doing it because he didn’t know enough to check your reactions. He didn’t even look you in the eye—he’d be staring off into space or something, lecturing away and thinking you were fascinated. But like I said, he couldn’t remember about ’hi, how are you?’ He was just shy, shy, shy. But nice. He meant well.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yeah. He wanted everybody to enjoy his favorites as much as he did. He couldn’t remember their faces or names, but when he saw the movies they’d brought back, he’d ask how they liked them—and then he’d go crazy helping them find something suited to their tastes.”

Geoff was sounding more and more the sort of person his room had spelled out. On impulse, Skip said, “What did he look like?”

“What did he look like? Was his face—uh—”

“No, no, I’m just curious.”

“I think I might have a picture from a party we had.” He disappeared and came back. “There. The one in the weird T-shirt.”

She had been almost completely wrong and yet somehow right: The man in the picture was the perfect sidekick to the one she’d pictured. He was thin, not fat, average height, and clean-shaven. But a beard would have been a good idea. He had a pointy, elflike chin. Three things she’d guessed perfectly: he did indeed wear glasses; his hair was limp and greasy-looking; and he was the very exemplar of “nerd.”

What was it about these guys? she wondered. Why were they such a type—brilliant, withdrawn, dorky, into computers and science fiction? She knew the answer, or thought she did. They were unhappy with the real world, had little self-esteem (as Knowles Kennedy, who had a surfeit of it, had observed), and sought alternate universes.

Okay, fine. That was who they were as a class, but who was Geoff Kavanagh other than the nerd from Central Casting? His nerdiness was all too apparent; what was his
Geoffness
, so to speak? Well, she couldn’t say that aloud. “What was unusual about him?” she asked finally.

“Unusual?” Knowles looked puzzled. “Well, he was… so smart and all. I don’t know—he was kind of your average—”

“Nerd.”

“Yeah.”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“What? You mean he was murdered?”

Skip shrugged. “I have to ask.”

“Did he have any enemies! He didn’t even have any friends.”

“How do you know?”

Knowles looked ashamed. “Well, I don’t. I really don’t know. It’s just that he never talked about them. He never talked about anything except things; events; stuff you could get out of books. Not life. He hardly ever got any personal calls. He could always work late or take someone else’s shift. I think he even lived with his parents.”

“Did anyone here know him any better than you?”

“Well, Jody might have. She worked with him a lot .Hey, Jo!”

A plump young woman ambled over, black, wearing clothes a couple of sizes too small, and, from her saunter, well pleased with her appearance. “Jody, this is Officer Langdon. She’s looking into Geoff’s death.”

“He was a good guy. Everybody liked Geoff.”

“You did?’

“Sure I did. Talkin’ to Geoff was like goin’ to college.”

“Did he ever talk about his personal life?’

“
Claimed
he had a girlfriend.”

“Did he mention her name?’

“Lenore. Oh,
sure
he had a girlfriend. Like everybody’s named Lenore. He probably picked the name from some book. You know, I’d talk about this place or that place, right around here, and he wouldn’t know what I meant. Tell you the truth, I don’t think he got out much. Stayed home with that computer of his. On the town every single night; always on the town. It was like that was his world. You know the town?’

Skip gulped. Knowles looked as confused as she felt.

“The town. It’s like a computer thing. Wait a minute, now, he told me once… let’s just see if I can get it.” She put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “I got it The Original Worldwide Network.”

“Oh. The TOWN. Is it a bulletin board or something?’

She shrugged. “More like a religion. Or maybe a real town.”

MAYBE, SKIP THOUGHT, the girlfriend could shed some light. Marguerite Terry had given her a phone number, which produced the following message: “If it’s daytime, I’m at Stringalong. If it’s night, don’t ask—especially at the full moon.” This was followed by one of the more fiendish cackles ever heard outside a production of Macbeth. Just as well it was daytime, but what was Stringalong?

According to the phone book, it could be found on Magazine Street. A store, maybe.

Once inside, Skip still wasn’t sure. It was a store, but was it a business? It was if selling beads wasn’t a front or a money laundry—because beads were all Stringalong had to offer. Tiny beads, large beads, glass beads, crystal beads, amber beads, jet beads, carved beads, beads in every color and beads of pristine clarity, about enough beads to fill up a shoe box if you dumped the entire inventory into one small space. But of course that would be no way to sell beads. They were displayed in hundreds of small plastic cases, and cost ten cents apiece and upwards. But still. How could you make a living selling beads? Who bought beads?

There was only one person in the store, a small woman, thirty, maybe, with darkish hair that more or less just hung, a slash of red lipstick, and a short black dress that showed off half a dozen doubtless handmade necklaces. She had a tiny face, heart-shaped; a gamine face with a pointy chin that reminded Skip of Geoff’s. If this was Lenore, it was a Mick-and-Bianca kind of match. She was a fawnlike creature, in her slimness, her elusiveness, but she wasn’t pretty, and she probably wasn’t innocent—she simply looked as if she’d spook easily.

Stepping closer, Skip saw that she had a mole near the corner of her mouth, a tiny flaw that lent personality to her face. She had a feeling talking to her was going to be like trying to catch water in your hand.

“Lenore Marquer?”

“Yes.” The woman’s mouth quivered. “Is Caitlin all right?”

“Caitlin?”

“My daughter. You didn’t come about her?”

“No.”