The Kingdom of Dog (13 page)

I paid the check and we walked out together. “I appreciate your telling me this, Verona. I know it doesn't help much, but please accept my apologies for what happened. I went to Eastern myself and I know that creeps like Ike don't come through very often.”

“Thanks. Anyway, I really like Barnard and I'm glad I didn't go to Eastern. I mean, god, to be out in the boondocks like that! After all, I came east to get to civilization, after Portland and all.”

As the subway rattled and clanked downtown, I wondered if Joe's threat would have been enough to motivate Ike to murder. Joe could not only destroy Ike's chance for an Eastern diploma, forcing him to leave without a degree, but he could derail Ike's plans for a career in college admissions.

I had made a mistake myself, so perhaps I was more sympathetic to Ike than Joe would have been. As well, I recognized that we only had Verona's word for what happened. Suppose she had seduced Ike? Or what if she was just nuts, and had made the whole thing up? Both were possible.

When Mary suffered her first miscarriage, she had gone on a spending spree, plunging us deep into credit card debt. It had taken us two years of overtime and freelance work to climb back out of that morass. Then she got pregnant again, and we both felt like we were on top of the world—debt free, ready to start our family.

Then she miscarried again. I was so frightened she'd fall into the same pattern again that I hacking into the main credit card databases and put alerts on all her cards. A couple of days later, the police came for a visit, and my downward slide began.

So I understood how scary consequences could be. But did Ike? And had he done something to protect himself?

 

I met my graduate school roommate, Tor, for dinner that night, at a steakhouse in midtown. He was a Swedish exchange student in business school, and for a few years we were young and single together in the city. He was a successful investment banker, married to a former model, with two kids in expensive private schools.

Every time we met I couldn't help considering the different directions our lives had taken. Tor was generous to a fault; it would never have occurred to him to criticize me for my choices or make me feel bad about the difference in our fortunes. He was a couple of inches taller than I was, with blond hair so light it was almost white. I couldn't remember if he had looked different when we were in our twenties, though I was sure he'd looked a lot less prosperous.

“So you've joined the ranks of the gainfully employed,” Tor said as we sat down. He still had a touch of his Swedish accent, which came through in the unaccustomed emphasis on certain syllables. “And how is it, this new job?”

“A little creepy.” I told him about Joe's murder.

“Not another one. I don't know that I want to keep hanging around with you. People you know end up dead.”

“People die all the time,” I said, as the waiter approached. Tor ordered us both some very expensive Scotch. Without even looking at the menu he said, “I'll have the 24-ounce Porterhouse. Baked potato with butter, and creamed spinach. Caesar salad.”

“Make it two of everything,” I said.

When the waiter left Tor said, “Yes, people die. But around you they get murdered.” He looked at me. “You're not snooping around in this murder, are you?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “I know the detective, from when my neighbor was murdered. He's been asking me for information.”

“Remember what happened to you last time, Steve,” he said. “And to Rochester. You don't want that again.”

“I'm staying out of trouble. Scout's honor.” I held up two fingers.

“Bjorn is in the Boy Scouts,” Tor said. “So I know that you are supposed to hold up three fingers, not two.”

“Whatever. How are Bjorn and Lucia, and Sandra?”

Tor had married Sandra, a former fashion model, a year after I left for the West Coast with Mary. Bjorn, ten, and Lucia, eight, were named after Tor's parents, still living in Stockholm.

“All fine. Bjorn is too smart. He already has an argument for everything. He is reading Dickens now. Do you believe that? And Lucia is studying ballet. She is already the best in her class.”

I couldn't help being jealous. Tor was one of my best friends, and I was happy about every good thing that had happened to him, from his business success to his loving marriage to his healthy, happy children. But whenever I saw him, I started comparing his life to mine.

The waiter brought the salads, and we went on to talk about a lot of different things, catching up in bits and pieces on our lives. “You ever hear from Mary?” he asked, as we dug into the porterhouse.

“Not since last year. I think it's best. She has a new husband, a new baby. And I have Rochester.”

“Yes, Rochester. You keep sending me pictures of your dog, which is causing a lot of trouble in my household.”

“How so?”

“Bjorn and Lucia want a dog. ‘Uncle Steve has Rochester. Why can't we have a dog?'” He speared a chunk of beef. “I tell them that Uncle Steve lives in the country with lots of space for a dog to run. We live in the city.”

“And does that work?”

“No. The family next door bought a bichon frise last month. My children are over the moon. ” He ate the meat on his fork, and then sighed. “Maybe you can recommend a breeder? We could drive out to Stewart's Crossing when the weather warms up, visit you and look for a dog.”

“I'll look around.”

“Good. I will put the burden on you. Don't be surprised if you begin getting very demanding emails from my children, though.”

As usual, Tor insisted on paying for dinner. We hugged outside the restaurant, where a Lincoln Town Car was waiting to speed him back to his family. “I can drop you somewhere?” he asked.

“I'll walk. It was good to see you, Tor. I can't wait to see Sandra and the kids out in the country in the spring.”

I walked back to my hotel, hands in my pockets, full of a good dinner and excellent Scotch, yet still unsatisfied.

Though the next morning was Saturday, I had been able to set up a heavy round of appointments. I started with an editor at another newsmagazine, where I repeated the message I had given out the day before, only this time in a corner office with wraparound windows and a magnificent view of midtown and lower Manhattan. You could tell the guy had read all those “power” books-- navy suit, silk tie, expensive Italian leather shoes. His desk was enormous and completely empty, except for a small pile of papers next to his right hand, a telephone with intercom and speaker, and a small, silver-framed photo of his wife and children.

My chair was a little too low, so I had to look up to him and struggle to maintain my posture. I passed on the same materials, and emphasized the experts list again. At the end of our meeting he escorted me to the elevator, which was supposed to show what a valued visitor I was.

I had lunch at a private club downtown with a friend who was a reporter on the
Wall Street Journal
. The dining room was small and once again the views panoramic, this time of New York harbor.

I talked about Eastern for a while, until the food arrived. “I'm surprised you're out talking to reporters,” my friend said, as he speared a forkful of chicken. “With all the trouble at Eastern.”

“Joe Dagorian's death is a tragedy,” I said. “But there's so much else going on—so many good things. That's what I'm here to talk about.”

“I'm hearing about more than just Dagorian's death. What about all the security problems?”

“Any college is going to have issues. Even one in a pastoral setting like Eastern's. You can't get away from the real world, even in a place like this.” I motioned to the elegant room around us, filled with the demure clink of glasses and the gentle rustle of cloth napkins.

I speared a couple of the baby carrots and zucchini that artfully decorated the plate. “I'll admit, we have had some problems with dorm break-ins, and the homeless in Leighville get up to the campus sometimes. But we're working on fixing those problems.”

“And have the police caught whoever killed Dagorian?”

“As far as I know, it's still an open investigation. But that's police business.”

He didn't appear to be completely satisfied, but I did manage to shift the conversation to the need for new science labs to keep up with the constant changes in technology and research, and he admitted he'd been working on an article on that very subject, and might be able to work Eastern into it.

It was late afternoon by then. I could have packed up and driven back to Leighville, but I knew Rochester was fine with Rick, and frankly, I wanted to spend some more time in the city. I love Stewart's Crossing, and working at Eastern, but I also get energized from spending time in New York.

I took the subway up to Times Square and walked down to the TKTS booth, where I joined the end of a long line. I was shifting from foot to foot, trying to stay warm, as the line snaked around, doubling back on itself, when I spotted her.

It was the hair, first. Masses of reddish-brown hair, tumbling over her shoulders, barely kept under control by a couple of hairpins in the shape of butterflies. But it wasn't until she turned around and our eyes met that I was sure.

“Dr. Weinstock?” I asked. “I'm Steve Levitan from the alumni office at Eastern.”

“We met at the fund-raiser,” she said. “Please, call me Lili. When I'm away from the college I'm always afraid that if someone hears me called “Dr. Weinstock” I'll be expected to perform CPR or deliver a baby.”

“What are you seeing?” I asked.

“Depends on what's available by the time I get up to the booth. Something fun, something musical. I wish more people in daily life would break out into song.”

“I'm hoping to get a ticket for the revival of South Pacific,” I said. “I want to hear Bloody Mary sing
Bali Hai
and pretend I'm living on a tropical island instead of Bucks County in the winter.”

“I could go for that,” she said.

I lifted up the chain between the two lines. “Why don't you join me?”

“Sounds like a plan. ” Only then did I notice she was wearing high heels—but she managed to duck beneath the chain with grace.

“What brings you into the city?” I asked.

“Photography exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art.”

“Really? You like photography? So do I. I've started taking lots of digital pictures of my dog lately.”

“It's my specialty,” she said. “I have a few photos in the current exhibition and I gave a presentation this afternoon.”

Oops. She wasn't some amateur photo buff. “Oh. Wow.”

“You use your cell phone?” she asked as we inched forward.

I pulled it from my pocket. “You need to make a call?”

“No, dummy. Do you use the phone to take pictures of your dog?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Well. Show me.”

“Oh, no. They're just amateur shots.”

She looked down over the rims of her red glasses. I could imagine her looking just that way at her students.

“He is very photogenic,” I admitted. I clicked to the photo app and pulled up the folder of pictures of Rochester.

She took the phone from me and began looking through the shots. “Good composition,” she said. “You have a good eye for movement, too. ” She pointed at a picture of Rochester leaping through the air about to catch a Frisbee Rick had tossed for him. “What's his name?”

“Him? He's just an old high school friend. Rick. We're both divorced, and he just got a dog of his own.”

“Not the guy. The dog.”

Something about Lili Weinstock kept knocking me sideways, so I couldn't concentrate. “Oh. Rochester.”

“After the city?”

“No, from
Jane Eyre
. He used to belong to my next-door neighbor, and she gave him his name.”

“I love goldens,” she said, as we rounded the corner, and the ticket window was within sight. “I've been thinking of getting a dog, now that I can finally settle down. Maybe next year I can move out of my apartment, buy a house. Then I might actually feel like I belong somewhere.”

“You don't feel like you belong in Leighville yet?”

She shook her head. “Especially not with all the security issues that have been popping up. My students are often working in studio very late, and I worry about them getting back to their dorms safely.”

“Have you heard of any issues?” I asked. “Because I haven't. I think the papers are manufacturing problems just to keep Joe's death on the front page.”

“It's my responsibilty to look after my students,” she said. “I'm thinking of shutting down the studios at ten. I already tell them to call security for a ride back to the dorms, even the boys. You can't be too careful.”

It never seemed to stop, I thought, as we inched forward. Joe's death was a tragedy, for sure, but the fact that it kept reverberating around the college was even worse.

The wrangler called us up to the ticket window. “I'll get the tickets if you agree to have dinner with me,” I said. “That is, if you don't have any other plans?”

“I'd be delighted to have dinner with you,” she said.

It was too early to eat by the time we had our tickets. “I need to stop by my hotel,” Lili said. “Suppose we meet at Donatello's on West 45
^th
at six o'clock?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.

She took one of my hands in her two gloved ones. “I'm glad I ran into you, Steve. See you at six.”

She smiled, then turned and walked away. “Yes, see you then,” I called.

I resisted the urge to skip down the street. I had a date! With a gorgeous woman! Who liked golden retrievers!

I called Rick when I got back to my room. “How's Rochester?” I asked.

“You should see him boss Rascal around. It's amazing. If you can stay in New York an extra couple of days he might have Rascal fully trained.”

“Who knows? I've got a hot date tonight.”

“What, you've finally figured out there no decent women in Bucks County? You pick this one up in Times Square?”

“I did. At the TKTS booth. And actually she lives in Leighville, and teaches at Eastern.”

“See, I'd never think to go to New York to pick up local women. Maybe that's my problem.”

“You've got bigger problems than that,” I said. “Take care of Rochester. I'll call you when I get back to town tomorrow.”