Never Look Away (36 page)

FORTY-SIX

Not long after my talk with Gretchen Richler, there was an unexpected call.

I grabbed the phone before the first ring was finished. "Hello?"

"Mr. Harwood?" A woman's voice. Something about it was familiar.

"Yes?"

"You're not the person to do this story anymore."

"What? Who is this?"

"I sent you the information about Mr. Reeves's hotel bill. So you could write about it. Why didn't you do a story?"

I took a second to focus. "He paid Elmont Sebastian back," I said. "My editor felt that killed it."

"Well, then give that list to someone else, someone who can get the story done. I called the paper and they told me you were off or suspended because your wife is missing. I don't want anyone who might have killed his wife working on this story, no offense."

"List? What are you talking about? A list?"

She sighed at the other end of the line. "The one I mailed to you."

I patted my jacket side pocket, felt the envelopes I'd stuffed in there when I'd passed my mailbox on the way out of the
Standard
. I dug them out. One of them was from payroll, another was a useless news release from a soap company, and the third was a plain white envelope addressed to me, in block printing, with no return address. I tore it open, took out the single sheet of paper and unfolded it.

"Mr. Harwood?"

"Hang on," I said, scanning the sheet. It was a handwritten list of names of people on Promise Falls council, with dollar amounts written next to them. They ranged from zero up to $25,000.

"Jesus," I said. "Is this for real? Is this what Elmont Sebastian's been paying these people?"

"You're just looking at this now?" the woman said. "That's what I mean. That's why someone else should be looking into this. That son of a bitch Elmont has screwed me over one time too many, and I want to see him nailed. You want to do a story, ask women at Star Spangled Corrections how they like getting felt up every day by the male employees and no one at the top giving a damn."

So she did work for Elmont. And the hell of it was, considering my current situation, she was right. Someone else should be doing this story.

I asked, "Why didn't you show up at Lake George?"

"What?" she said. "What are you talking about?"

"The email you sent me. To meet you up there."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "I'm not meeting you or anyone else face-to-face. You think I'm stupid?"

She hung up.

I sat there a moment, slid the paper back into the envelope and stuffed it back into my pocket. Any other time, this would have made my day, but getting a great story wasn't exactly a priority at the moment.

But one thing my anonymous caller had said stuck with me. She had not emailed me to meet her in Lake George. Someone else had lured me up there. It was all part of the setup. It fit in perfectly with Natalie Bondurant's theory.

Jan
.

I spent pretty much all of the rest of that day trying to find out everything I could about Constance Tattinger. I didn't have a lot to work with. There must have been a Tattinger family living in Rochester in the 1970s and 1980s, but after that, according to Gretchen Richler, they had moved away.

I explained to Dad that I had some work to do, and he said he did as well. He was going to get started on repairing all the damage I'd done in the house.

He phoned my mother and explained, quietly, what had happened, and that he was going to stay there for the rest of the day, if that was okay with her. It would mean she'd have to look after Ethan without any assistance.

Mom said that was fine. She asked to speak to me.

"Tell me how you are," she said.

"I'm losing my mind, but otherwise, okay," I said.

"Your father says you've ripped your house apart."

"Yeah. And I felt pretty stupid about it, until Dad found something I missed. I think I have a lead on Jan."

"You know where she is?"

"No, but I think I know
who
she is. I could really use a computer. I need to search for people named Tattinger."

"Your father says he's coming home for more tools. I'll send him back with my laptop."

I thanked her for that, and said, "Something bad happened, something I feel responsible for."

Mom waited.

"Horace Richler--he tried to kill himself. I stirred things up. And finding out that someone was out there--my wife--using his daughter's name, it was too much for him."

"You're doing what you have to do," Mom said. "It's not your fault, what happened to that man's daughter. Whatever it is that Jan may or may not have done, that's not your fault, either. You need to find out the truth, and that may be difficult for some people."

"I know. But they're good people, the Richlers."

"Do what you have to do," Mom said.

I told Dad to make sure he came back with Mom's laptop. He was already making a list of things he needed and added "laptop" to the bottom.

"Be back in a jiff," he said.

I called Samantha Henry at the
Standard
. "Can you do me a favor?" I asked her.

"Shoot," she said.

"I need you to check with the cops, whoever else you can, see what you can get on the name Constance Tattinger."

"Spell it."

I did.

"And who's this Constance Tattinger?"

"I'd rather not say," I said.

"Oh, okay," she said. "So you're on suspension, the cops think you may have killed your wife, and we're actually writing
stories
about you, one of our own employees, and you want me to start trying to dig up info for you without telling me why."

"Yeah, that's about right," I said.

"Okay," said Sam. "Can you give me any more than a name? D.O.B.?"

"April 15, 1975."

"Got it. Anything else?"

"Not really. Born in Rochester. I think her parents left there when she was just a kid."

"I'll call you if I get anything."

"Thanks, Sam. I owe you."

"No shit," she said. "If we had any journalistic ethics around here, I might be troubled by this."

"One more thing," I said. "The story about Sebastian and Reeves I've been working on?"

"Yeah?"

"It's yours. I've got something that'll finally break this story wide open. A list of payouts to various councilors."

"What?"

"I can't sit on this. I don't know when I'm coming back. This story needs to be told ASAP. You should do it. I'll hang on to this list, give it to you next time I see you, see if you can find a way to confirm the numbers."

"Where'd you get this list?"

"I can fill you in later, okay? I've got to go."

"Sure," Sam said. "I really appreciate this. I'll nail this thing for you."

"Right on," I said and hung up.

Dad was back within the hour. He dragged in his toolbox, a table saw, some scraps of baseboarding he must have been keeping in his garage since God invented trees, and went upstairs. It wasn't long before I heard him banging around.

I took Mom's laptop, got it up and running, and started with the online phone directories. There weren't all that many people with that name in the U.S.--about three dozen--and only five listings for an "M. Tattinger." They were in Buffalo, Boise, Catalina, Pittsburgh, and Tampa.

I started dialing.

People answered at the Buffalo and Boise numbers. Not necessarily the actual people who had the phone listing, but the Buffalo Tattinger was a Mark, and the Boise Tattinger was a Miles.

I was looking for a Martin.

In both cases, I asked if they knew of a Martin Tattinger, who, with a woman named Thelma, had a daughter named Constance.

No, and no.

No one answered at the Catalina and Pittsburgh numbers, and the Tampa listing had been disconnected.

I figured I might be able to raise someone later in the day at the other numbers, once people were home from work. In the meantime, I tried to figure out what school Jan Richler and Constance Tattinger might have attended--they must not have gotten any further than kindergarten or first grade together. I studied a Google map of where the Richlers lived, found the names of nearby elementary schools and scribbled down their numbers.

As I began dialing, I realized it was August. The schools would be empty for a few more weeks. But I also knew, from friends who were teachers, that staff were often there in the month leading up to that first day, preparing.

At the first school, I reached a vice principal, but her school, she explained, didn't even exist in the 1980s. It had been built in the mid-'90s.

While I waited for someone to pick up at the next school, I tried to replay in my head the conversation I'd had with the Richlers when I was in their house. Gretchen had been talking about how devastated everyone had been by their daughter's death, including her kindergarten teacher.

She'd mentioned a name. Stevenson? Something like that.

An older woman picked up. "Diane Johnson, secretary's office."

I told her, first, that I was relieved to find someone at the school, then launched into my story about looking for information about a Constance Tattinger who had attended the school--briefly--back in 1980.

"Who's calling?" she asked.

I was reluctant to say, considering that even CNN had carried an item on Jan's disappearance, and my face and name had been plastered across the tube. But my name and number were very likely displayed on Diane Johnson's phone.

"David Harwood," I said. "I didn't go to school in the Rochester area, but I'm trying to track down Constance, or her parents, because of a family emergency." I put a special emphasis on the last two words, hoping they sounded grave enough that Diane Johnson would help me, and not ask a lot of questions.

She said, "Well, that was the year before I started here, so I can't honestly say I remember the name."

"I think she only attended kindergarten there," I said. "Her parents took her out of school and moved away. She was friends with a girl named Jan Richler."

"Oh now, hang on," said Diane Johnson. "That name I know. We have a plaque dedicated to her memory in the hall right outside the office. She was the child who got run over by a car."

"That's right."

"It was her father driving. I think he was backing out of the driveway."

"Yes, you've got it."

"What a terrible thing. Even though I wasn't here yet, I remember a bit about that. There was talk that she got pushed into the car's path."

"Yes," I said. "That's the girl I'm calling about. Constance Tattinger."

"Oh my, that was so long ago."

"As you can guess, it can be hard to find someone when you lose track of someone that far back."

"I don't really know how I can help you."

"Would you have any school records? That might have any information about Constance? Where she might have moved to?"

A bell rang in the background for several seconds. When it finished, Diane Johnson said, "They're just trying them out today." Then, "We don't have records that old here. They might be with the central office, but I'm not sure they'd release them to you."

"Oh," I said.

"Do you remember her teacher's name?"

I struggled. "I want to say Stevenson."

"Oh. Could it have been Stephens? With a P-H?"

"That's possible."

"Tina Stephens was the kindergarten teacher here when I arrived. She was here for a couple of years and then transferred to another school."

"Do you have the name of that school?"

"I don't remember offhand, but there's a good chance she's taught in half a dozen places since then. Teachers move around a lot."

"Maybe if I called your central office."

"I can tell you this. She got married. Let me think ... she met the nicest man. He worked for Kodak, I think. But then, who hasn't at some time or other?"

"Do you remember his name?"

"Hang on a minute, there's someone else in the office here who might know." I heard her put down the receiver. I clung to the phone, kept it pressed to my year, while Dad hammered and sawed upstairs.

Diane Johnson got back on and said, "Pirelli." She spelled it for me. "Like the tires? I never heard of tires called that. The only kind of tires I've ever heard of are Goodyear, but that's what they said it's like. Frank Pirelli."

I wrote it down. "Thank you," I said. "You've been very helpful."

I quickly found a listing for an "F. Pirelli" in Rochester and dialed. The phone rang three times before it went to message: "Hi. You've reached the voicemail of Frank and Tina Pirelli. We can't come to the phone right now, but please leave a message."