I looked around the room. “A map of the United States? Books? Flashcards? Wasn’t she a little young?”
“She walked before she was nine months old. She started talking before she was a year old. She could name all the states and point them out on the map by the time she was two. She knew how to read simple sentences before her third birthday and was working her way through Dr. Seuss. She could add and subtract.” He paused. “I’m sure that just sounds like bragging, but we had her tested. I should say, I gave in and let her be tested. I regret it now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wanted to know, so that we could make informed choices about her education. But once your child is identified as a gifted preschooler…let’s just say there are people who won’t let that kid just be a kid.”
“Bonnie one of them?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “Bonnie loves Carla. I know she does. It’s the only thing that keeps me from going completely crazy. But sometimes-Yes, I think she pushed her academically and didn’t balance it with play and all the other things that a child needs. From Bonnie’s point of view, I was holding Carla back.”
“What preschool was she in?”
“Barrington Hills.”
The photographer whistled.
I looked over at him.
“Not cheap, but kids get into the best prep schools if they go there or Sheffield Gardens. Or to Fletcher Day School, of course.”
“That’s part of Fletcher Academy?” I asked.
“Not really, even though the family owns both. A lot of kids at the day school do go on to the academy.”
“And the academy is the best private school in Las Piernas,” I said. I turned back to Ives. “So you paid high preschool tuition?”
“I would have paid twice that,” he said, “even if it meant taking a second job. I wanted her to be a kid, but it’s not that simple-I also wasn’t going to deny her any options for her future. The kids who go to Barrington end up in prep schools that lead to Ivy League schools. I wanted her to have the best opportunities.”
I just barely kept my jaw from dropping. “She wasn’t even five years old yet. She hadn’t started kindergarten.”
“The competition is unbelievable.”
“Is it even possible to know how smart a child that young is? Or if he or she will like school?”
“Sure-I mean, not always, of course. But in cases like Carla’s, you could tell even without the tests.”
“Who tested her?” I asked, hoping to get the name of someone who wasn’t going to be quite so biased.
“I made copies of her school papers for you. Hang on.”
Ives left the room. I turned to the photographer, ready to make a crack about parents who push too hard. The look on his face was wistful, not cynical, though, and he sighed dreamily. “Barrington Hills,” he said. “God, I hope I can get my kids in there.”
“How old are they?” I choked out.
“My daughter is six months old. My son is two.”
IVES brought back a thick stack of paperwork, including reports from a private eye he had briefly hired, information from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, and his notes from a meeting with a psychic he had paid. “I was desperate,” he said when I came across that one. I saw flyers with his daughter’s picture on them and copies of pages from a notebook he kept on his conversations with police, the notes getting briefer as time went on, the last series at three-month intervals, with the dates, the names of various LPPD detectives who happened to have the misfortune to be working in the low-status realm of missing persons, and the word nothing written next to their names.
“When will the story run?” he asked.
“Up to my editor,” I answered absently as I looked through his notes. “Next week maybe, but no guarantees. A breaking story could change everything. And I can’t guarantee how much of what I write will get in.” I glanced up and saw that his shoulders were slumping. I had disappointed him-or dealt another blow. I thought back over what I had just said and wanted to kick myself. “I can call you and let you know once my editor makes his decisions.”
“Yes, thanks.” He straightened his back. “I’ve waited this long, I guess another few days won’t matter.”
I tried to distract him by going over his notebook with him.
As we left, he teared up again. “Thanks for all you’re doing to help out,” he said.
I made a polite reply, but wondered if six months from now I’d be a name on a ledger, next to which he would write, Nothing.
CHAPTER 30
Wednesday, April 26
6:30 P.M.
LAS PIERNAS
WE had just put dinner on the table when the dogs started barking. The doorbell rang a moment later. Sometimes I wonder why we bother keeping it hooked up. No one has managed to ring it before the dogs have warned us of their presence. I suppose it keeps us from opening the door every time someone walks another dog on the sidewalk in front of the house, though.
Frank answered it, and Ethan and I exchanged a look of surprise when we heard him say, “Caleb!”
He invited him in.
“Sorry to bother you,” Caleb said, and as he came within sight of the table, he began apologizing again.
“Have you eaten?” I asked. “Why don’t you join us? This is my semifamous linguini with asparagus. I’ll be insulted if you don’t at least try it.”
He protested that we shouldn’t have to feed him every night, that he’d just stopped by to drop off some notes for me and to ask if I had talked to Tadeo Garcia.
“I haven’t talked to him directly,” I said carefully. “I talked to his wife. She invited us to come out there on Monday. We’ll see if that actually leads to an interview with Tadeo Garcia himself. He may pull a disappearing act if he figures out that she’s invited us there.”
By then, Ethan had set a place for Caleb at the table, and it didn’t take much coaxing to get him to join us.
“You said ‘us,’” Caleb said. “Does that mean that Ethan can go with you?”
“Dr. Robinson said it would be okay,” Ethan said.
“Under certain conditions,” I added.
“Believe me,” Ethan said, “‘Take it easy’ isn’t an order I could disobey if I wanted to.”
“I think the good doctor is on to the fact that you’ll keep testing your own limits.” I turned back to Caleb.
This led to twenty minutes of the kind of dinner conversation you can have only with people who work in certain professions, because anyone with more sensitivity or better table manners would put his fork down and turn an unpleasant shade of green. We, on the other hand, demolished platefuls of noodles as we discussed in some detail the damage a bullet could do to one’s anatomy, one of us having discovered the facts the hard way.
Eventually talk turned to the case of Gerry Serre and his missing son.
“Not to speak ill of the dead,” Caleb said, “but we’ve dug up most of that slope because of the big ego of the late Sheila Dolson. Didn’t find the remains of a child there.”
“I talked to Mark Baker,” I said. “He told Reed about the family dentist who unwittingly supplied those teeth she planted, and got a little information in exchange. Reed mentioned-off the record for the time being-that some cigarette butts were found up there. So the killer was a smoker?”
“Seems likely to me,” Caleb said, “because of where they were found-but I shouldn’t be talking about it. We’re hoping they’ll result in a DNA hit at some point.”
By the end of dinner, Ethan was drowsy, and while the rest of us sat at the table after it was cleared, he settled into a corner of the couch and listened in as Caleb went over some of his notes about his brother.