We set up my room as the office because I wouldn’t mind the mess and she would. We got our laptops plugged in, arranged for wi-fi in both rooms, checked in with Colin and found out that David Fine’s roommate, Sheldon, could meet us at twenty past noon for precisely twenty minutes if we emailed a confirmation to his BlackBerry by eleven.
Which we did.
That gave us nearly an hour to lavish on ourselves, half of which we spent on a late breakfast in the hotel cafe, and half on trying to make an appointment with David’s mentor at the hospital, Dr. Stayner.
The receptionist said she could give me an appointment in six to eight months.
“I was thinking more today.”
“Today!” The way she sputtered it over the phone, I hoped she hadn’t had a mouthful of coffee at the time.
“Can you tell him I’m a detective investigating the disappearance of David Fine?”
“The same one that was here before? From Brookline, was it?”
“No. I’m here from Toronto on behalf of his family.”
“Oh. Poor David. Everyone has been quite upset about it. Especially Dr. Stayner.”
“Really?”
“Oh, everyone knows David is the best assistant he’s ever had.”
“Will you ask him please? Whatever time works for him. I’ll come in my pyjamas if I have to.”
“You might.”
By twelve we were turning off Commonwealth onto Beacon. Down its middle was a boulevard where grass grew over what looked like disused rails. They turned out to be very much in use as a trolley came rumbling up the grassy strip. The T, Jenn called it. The Green Line.
When we passed Harvard Street, Jenn said, “One thing you need to know about Boston-which the GPS would not have told you-is there are something like six or seven different Harvard streets, avenues and squares in the city. There are Harvards in Cambridge, Boston, Brookline, even Dorchester. And it’s the same thing with a lot of other names, so it’s easy to get lost. If you ask the GPS to find an address, be precise.”
“My gal won’t let me down.”
She pointed out my window and said, “Up that way is the Jewish part of Brookline. It’s like Eglinton West. Nice shops, everything kosher.”
“That’s where he would have shopped,” I said. “Let’s canvass there on our way back. Put up some of our flyers.”
“Right. Okay, Summit Avenue should be one of the next two or three.”
Summit, when she turned onto it two blocks later, was a steep hill lined on both sides by solid middle-class houses. Mostly two-storey, plus a few of what Jenn told me were classic Boston triple-deckers, houses with turrets or bay windows or both.
David’s house was near the crest of the hill on the right, a two-storey white frame house with a black door and black shutters flanking the windows. We found a parking spot right where the hill levelled off. There was a playground on the left side of the road; on the right, a small park where people sat on a stone bench taking in a view of the city.
We walked back and rang the bell at the house David never came home to that night.
Sheldon Paull was a beanpole, about six-three and 160 pounds, with a head of curly brown hair fit for nesting gulls. He wore a blue shirt with a thin pink stripe, tan pants and brown loafers-and didn’t seem thrilled to see us. He opened the door, turned without comment and led us up a flight of stairs marked by its own mezuzah.
“Thanks for taking this time,” I said.
“I told your assistant I have to be on my way no later than twenty to one. If I’m late for rounds, Dr. Figueroa will give me his death stare the rest of the day. As it is, I’m going to have to eat my lunch on the T.” He had a nasal voice that betrayed New York roots and bony hands that waved as he spoke, as though he were tapping invisible keys.
The upstairs door opened onto a living room/dining room combo, not unlike my own apartment. There was a small galley kitchen piled high with unwashed dishes and takeout containers. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “With everything going on, who has time to clean?”
“You a surgeon too?” Jenn asked.
“I’m an anesthesiology resident. Final year.”
I asked how long they’d been roommates.
“Just since August. Before that he was with another guy closer to the medical school, but the roommate wanted to buy the place and David couldn’t.”
“And who lives downstairs?”
“A family named Weinstein. Neil and Heather and their daughter, Hannah. I don’t think they know David at all, and they were in Orlando when he went missing.”
“Are you close?”
“With David? I certainly like him. In some way, he’s the ideal roommate. He’s cleaner than me, quieter than me, probably more considerate than me and watches zero TV, which leaves it open to me. He doesn’t really care what I do, as long as I leave his food and dishes alone. He never has people over, never does any damage, never gets drunk or stupid or does much of anything. My way of dealing with work is usually to come home and veg in front of a ball game. His is to come home and do more work. He’s still at his desk when I crash most nights.”
“He ever talk about problems he’s having?” Jenn asked.
“Like what?”
“Work, girls, money.”
“I just told you, work isn’t a problem for him,” Sheldon said. “He loves what he does and he is good at it. Better than good. Everyone who gets through Harvard Medical is smart, but David is smart.”
“What about money problems?” I asked.
“We both have those, for sure. Whether you’re a resident or a fellow, the salary isn’t just low, it’s an insult. A maintenance man at the hospital makes more than us. Way more. Plus they get paid for overtime, which we don’t.”
“How low is the salary?”
“High thirties, low forties. And Boston, as you may know, is sickeningly expensive. So David has been feeling the pressure. More than me because I’m American.”
“What difference does that make?”
“I can moonlight in clinics or cover other people’s shifts.”
“And David can’t?”
“Not on a visa. The only work he can do legally is at the hospital, nothing else. So I know he worries a lot. One of the few things he does talk about is how badly he wants to pay his parents back. But that wouldn’t drive him to disappear. Because with his talent and his area of expertise, there’s going to be no shortage of money once he’s in practice.”
“That leaves girls,” Jenn said. “He ever talk about any?”
“None that I can think of,” Sheldon said.
“He didn’t date at all?”
Sheldon shrugged. “Don’t sound so surprised. Few of us have the time to get around much. I don’t know what he does all the time. I don’t share my love life with him, largely because I have none at the moment and don’t expect to until I’m done my residency.”
“He ever bring anyone home?”
“No.”
“Never flirted with anyone at work?” Jenn asked.
“No. That would require looking up from his notes.”
“Anyone else he might talk to or confide in?”
“About a girl?”
“About anything.”
“Depends what it was about. If it’s medical, Dr. Stayner. I think they have a pretty good relationship. He also likes the rabbi at Adath Israel, Ed something. Maybe Warner? Ed Warner? They can tell you. They’re around the corner on Harvard.”
“What about the night he disappeared?” I asked. “What do you remember?”
“What I told the detective from Brookline. It was a Thursday evening. Last day of February. I went by David’s office to see if he wanted to walk home but he said he had to go to the lab first.”
“You know what lab?”
“Probably serology or immunology. I might be able to find out for you.”
“Please do. And he never got back that night.”
“No.”
“No word from him since?”