Facade (4 page)

W
hy hadn't she started this sooner?
Iris thought as she stomped up the open steel stairway to the fourth level. It was the last Friday in September and her interim student evaluations were due today, but she couldn't get the GSD website to accept her password. Even web-savvy Ellie hadn't been able to figure out what the problem was. So now she needed to take a break in the middle of Studio to throw herself on the mercy of Peg, Gilles' assistant, who would undoubtedly scold her for leaving things to the last minute.

Peg was a woman of advanced years, with a head of improbably red hair. She sat at her desk in the reception area outside Gilles' office and controlled access to her boss with fierce loyalty. She peered at her computer screen through her thick eyeglasses before finally looking up.

“Professor Reid, I noticed that you haven't submitted your student forms yet.” The faint accusation was delivered in a nasal midwestern accent.

Iris explained her dilemma, then watched Peg's computer screen over the older woman's shoulder as she tried to trouble-shoot the problem. This gave Iris a close-up view of the gray roots on the back of Peg's scalp, no doubt overlooked during a home dye job.

Peg instructed Iris to type in her password, and looked away while Iris carefully did so. The “password incorrect” message shot back.

“Are you sure you're remembering your password correctly? Did you write it down anywhere?”

“Of course I remember it. I always use the same one.”

Peg gave her an appalled look. “That's how people get their identities stolen.” She glanced down at a metal corner peeking out of Iris' tote bag. “Good, you brought your laptop. Sit here and open up your e-mail so you can get a new password.”

Iris opened her e-mail account, retrieved a change-password message page and cast her eyes to the ceiling, trying to think of a word she would be likely to remember, other than 'Sheba1,' her usual one. When prompted she typed in “Luccormier.”

At the sound of a light tap-tap on the doorframe, both women looked up. A preteen girl in a plaid school uniform appeared in the doorway. She had black-fringed hazel eyes, innocently beautiful.

Peg looked up, focused on the girl, and asked “May I help you, dear?”

“I'm looking for Professor DeWitt's office.” The girl's voice was soft and she seemed nervous.

Peg pointed. “It's number 414, about eight doors down on your right.”

As the door swung shut again, they could hear light footsteps recede down the hallway.

Iris hit a button on her keyboard, and her student evaluation page emerged on the screen.

S
heba's stubby Bassett Hound leg waggled in time to Iris' rhythmic belly patting as they sprawled together on the leather Corbusier sofa in Iris' living room.

“Uh, oh. This poor guy's in trouble, Sheba. The next clue says he has to find unpasteurized cheese in the middle of Detroit. I can't watch.” But Iris' eyes remained glued to the TV. Sure enough, the latest
Urban Survivor
-hopeful, a software salesman from New Mexico, could be seen racing wild-eyed through the Motor City's mean streets, fruitlessly confronting people for the location of a gourmet grocery. Meanwhile, his opponent, a blackjack dealer from New Jersey with the improbable name of Shelli, was trying to track down a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig in the middle of St. Louis, a far harder task in Iris' estimation. It would be one thing if they were allowed to have their smart phones. Back in the studio, the show's hosts made snarky comments about the contestants' progress while the studio audience shouted out encouragement for their favorite player.

But the spell of the show was broken when a commercial for Fluffy's Fiesta cat food came on and Sheba lifted her head suspiciously from the sofa. When a clowder of cats started mewing on screen, Sheba growled deep in her throat.

Why am I watching this? Iris clicked off the remote. “That does it, Sheba. No more junk TV.”

It had been a month since she'd first met Xander DeWitt, and one dinner and two lunches later her respect for the man had not diminished. At their last lunch at the Harvard Faculty Club he had almost convinced her to create a sculpture studio in her basement with all the heavy tools and equipment that would entail.

Iris looked at her watch—a black-faced Movado with no numbers that had been her father's. Eight-forty-five. Her brain was too tired to work on the townhouse design. She should get some exercise.

“Walkies, Sheebz.”

The dog regarded her mistress with puzzlement. This was not the usual drill.

“I'm serious. COME.”

Sheba trudged after her to the kitchen and allowed her leash to be snapped on, her Ringo Starr eyes telegraphing serious disapproval.

As Iris opened her kitchen door a cool October breeze hit her. She turned back to grab a suede jacket from the front hall closet, and they headed up Washington Avenue, passing Victorian houses, lit up to expose doll-house-like vignettes of the life within. Iris felt virtuous, strolling purposefully in the chilly air. Her neighborhood was still fairly safe to walk around at night, especially for someone with a brown belt in karate.

As they approached Mass Ave, the long, meandering spine of Cambridge, Iris looked to her left, toward the Paradise café where Luc was busy cooking tonight. Sheba started to head in that direction, but Iris tugged her to the right instead. They passed Judy Jetson's Hair Salon where only a month before Judy herself had given Ellie her new hairdo. They passed one-off storefronts, here today, gone after Christmas, that gave the neighborhood a faint bohemian charm. Further along, music and raucous voices spilled out from a recessed doorway, along with several wobbly customers from the Temple Bar's sleek facade.

At a red light in front of Starbucks, Iris told Sheba, “
This
is our new nightly routine.”

They continued past some Harvard Law School dorms, rounded a corner, and reached the construction site for yet another new Harvard Bioscience building. She'd been wanting to check the progress of this new addition to the campus, but the lack of any street lights left the building's skeleton looking like an undefined lump under its tarps billowing in the darkness.

Oh, honestly. Harvard's endowment is the largest in the world and they can't afford to light up their buildings at night?

The silence seemed unnatural in this deserted block. Looking off to the sides, Iris picked up her pace, wrapping her jacket more tightly around her, until she found herself and Sheba traversing the two short blocks toward Howland Street.

Xander's street.

Had this been her real destination? Had thinking about the man earlier, about his compelling example of a life well lived, drawn her half-consciously to his house? Was it curiosity that had led her here as if pulled by a force field? Now that she was here, the ridiculousness of her trajectory sank in. She couldn't just ring his doorbell at nine o'clock at night. What did she even want from this man?

Beyond the porch she could see a sliver of light escaping from between the curtains of the bay window, so he was probably home. Maybe he had company.

She
had
been meaning to ask him the name of a self-cleaning glass product that he'd mentioned at their last lunch. Oh, who was she kidding? She could ask him that in an e-mail.

The night of the break-in was the only time she'd been to his house before. Maybe the fact that she had turned down his invitation to the New Hampshire excursion had dampened his interest in her.

At this point, as Iris stood in his front yard mesmerized by the light from his living room, her curiosity about what Xander was doing was gaining strength. She found herself drifting up the porch stairs and over to the brightly lit window, tugging Sheba behind her.

At first she thought she saw an empty room. Then she noticed Xander sitting on the floor, not eight feet away. Luckily, he was facing sideways with his eyes closed. He wore black pajamas— silk from their sheen. He had a pair of earphones clamped on. Resting his back against the sofa, he had an ecstatic look on his face, his left hand gently stroking a throw pillow.

Iris watched in fascination. She squinted to read the title on the CD jewel case but his hand covered the writing. She could almost hear the romantic music that must be producing the look on Xander's face—Debussy, or maybe Grieg, something like that.

Across the room two of Arne Jacobsen's classic Swan chairs faced the understated greige sofa. Nestled in the crossed feet of one chair was a bottle of some amber liquid, its label facing away. As Iris looked closer, she spotted an empty shot glass in Xander's idle right hand. He must have saved his nightly alottment of alcohol for savoring after dinner.

Ellie had called what Iris felt for Xander a “professional crush,” but maybe it was his entire lifestyle she coveted, not just the professional part. She wanted to live like him, have his career, but still surround herself with her friends. Was that too much to ask?

Sheba took this moment to let out an impatient whine. Iris froze as Xander's eyes opened and he cocked his head toward the window.

Then she flew down the porch steps, dragging Sheba behind her.

I
t was Friday, the second day in a row that Jasna hadn't been in class. Iris had instructed her students to e-mail her if they were sick or had to miss Studio for any reason, but Jasna had maintained radio silence. When Iris grilled her students, Rory mentioned that Jasna had borrowed his car two nights before, but had returned it to its parking spot the next morning. That was the last time anyone had seen or heard from her.

In Iris' vivid imagination, Jasna lay on the floor of her apartment, deathly ill, struggling to reach for her cell phone. The thought propelled her down the hall toward the dean's office and Peg, the keeper of everyone's contact information.

But as she entered the fourth floor office, Peg's eyes lit up and she waved a folded newspaper in Iris' direction. “Professor Reid—I was just going to call you! Have you seen the
Globe
today? It's that young girl who asked us for directions.”

Iris took the paper Peg handed her and laid it flat on the desk. On the bottom of the front page ran a headline:
Cambridge Girl Missing
above a close-cropped photo of the girl who had come to this office the previous week looking for Xander. Iris looked carefully. It was definitely the same girl.

“I think I should call the police to tell them about her visit,” Peg said, “but I don't want to get Professor DeWitt in trouble.”

Iris held up one finger and eased into the visitor's chair to scan the whole article.

Lara Kurjak, twelve, is a seventh grader at St. Peter's School in Cambridge. Her father, Ivano, returned from his weekly card game on Wednesday night to find her missing from their apartment. There was no sign of a break-in. She is described by her father and teachers as a sweet, quiet girl. Anyone with information about her whereabouts is asked to call the police hotline: 617-555-3300.

Iris noted the byline: Robert Buchanan Jr.—or “Budge” as he'd been known to her Dartmouth class twenty-some years before, for no reason that Iris could remember. She shuddered. She could still picture Budge and his snickering cronies lying in wait at Thayer Dining Hall, holding up written numbers from one to ten to rank the looks of any co-ed who walked past their table.

Peg's voice brought her back to the present. “What should we do?”

“When did we see her?”

“Friday. Remember—the student evaluations were due.”

“And from what it says here she disappeared the following Wednesday—two days ago.” Wednesday. Iris felt her cheeks flush.
Wednesday night was when she had gone by Xander's house.

She managed to say, “Professor DeWitt must have some legitimate connection to this girl but we should still call the police. They'll want to talk to anyone who knew her. Have you discussed this with Gilles?”

“No,” Peg moaned. “I didn't get around to reading the paper until this afternoon. The Dean flew out to Texas for a fundraising event today.”

“When is he coming back?”

“Later tomorrow. Do you think it can wait?”

“No,” Iris said. “The poor girl is gone and the first days are crucial. You should call that number now.”

As Peg punched the phone buttons, Iris slipped out of the room, completely forgetting to ask for Jasna's home address.

S
itting at Ellie's kitchen island, Iris raised her voice to be heard over the crackling of browning onions. “Have you read about the missing St. Peter's girl?”

“What?” Ellie turned off the burner and came over to look at the front page of the
Globe
that Iris had found sitting on the top of a pile in Ellie's blue recycling bin.

“Oh, yeah...that poor girl. Have the police learned anything yet?”

“No, but here's the weird thing,” Iris said. “A week ago this same girl came by Peg's office when I was there and asked for directions to Xander's office.”

Ellie wiped her hands on her apron. “Why would a kid be looking for Xander? He doesn't have any children.”

“I have no idea. But he might have some information about her that could help the police with their search.”

“He couldn't have had anything to do with taking her, could he?”

“No, of course not! Besides, she disappeared on Wednesday night and I happened to see Xander that night.”

“You mean you went out with him again? And you didn't tell me?” Ellie scrunched up her face in a mock glare.

“I didn't go out with him. I was just out walking Sheba and... I saw him.”

“What do you mean you were 'just out walking Sheba'? You never walk her at night. And Xander lives on Howland Street. That's not even in our neighborhood.”

Iris looked intently at the butcher block counter. “I wanted to stretch my legs and check out the construction on the new Bioscience building. Then I happened to pass his house on our way back and...”

“You peeked in his windows?” Ellie narrowed her eyes. “I can't believe you stalked him without inviting me along.”

“I was NOT stalking him! You had said that thing about betting he didn't really write poetry at night but watched TV instead, so I was curious.”

“Curious. And what did you see when you SPIED on him?”

“I was NOT spying. I was... I don't know what I was doing, but I did happen to see him that night, so I know he wasn't off abducting that girl. He was sitting in his living room in his pajamas, listening to music through headphones. Looking innocent. Not watching TV and eating potato chips, by the way.”

“And what time was this?”

“Around nine.”

“What time did the girl go missing?”

“The paper doesn't say.”

“Hmm.”

“Peg called the police hotline a little while ago to tell them about the girl's visit to GSD last week. She didn't want to get Xander into any trouble, but I told her she should call them.”

“Of course, she should've called them. Xander might be able to help them find the girl. And since you saw him sitting at home that night, he shouldn't get in any trouble.”

“Except that for me to be Xander's alibi, I'd have to tell the world that I'd been peeking in his window.”

Ellie gave her a stern look. “Then let's hope he has an innocent explanation for her visit and doesn't need you to cover for him.”

*                         *                        *

Back at home, Iris clicked on the Six O'Clock News to see if the missing girl story was getting much play. She and Sheba leaned forward on the sofa as the familiar school photograph of Lara appeared while a distracting newsreel banner about a new financial scandal scrolled across the bottom of the screen. A newscaster made a concerned face and announced an upcoming press conference with the father of the missing Cambridge girl.

Iris got up to pour herself a glass of Pinot Noir during the commercial break and returned in time to catch a tough, angry-looking man with an incongruous upturned nose and dark stubble on his head and chin seated at a table in front of a microphone. A name plate identified him as Ivano Kurjak.

Several detectives stood behind him.

“I want Lara back,” the rough-looking man said in a thick Slavic accent. “She's a good girl and I want her back safe.” Then he crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. The effect was menacing, as if he was issuing an ultimatum. To reclaim the viewer's sympathy, the camera quickly panned to a blown-up photo of Lara, propped on the table next to him.

A detective spoke into another microphone, explaining that the girl had gone missing from her apartment on May Street in Cambridge some time between 7 and 9 P.M. on Wednesday, October 3rd. He urged anyone who might have seen anything at all that evening to come forward as soon as possible, to call the police hotline number which now scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

Iris was nibbling on her nails, deep in thought when her cell phone buzzed.

“Are you watching the news?” Ellie asked.

“Yeah. I saw this girl once and I'm already feeling haunted by her. Did that father seem sinister to you? The newspaper said he's a widower so he's all the girl has. Do you think he might have done something to her?”

“He seems like the type with a short fuse. Maybe he drinks and gets violent or something.”

“I hope she's just run away.” Iris said.

“At least there was no mention of any Harvard professors, so maybe you can keep your secret about stalking Xander.”