Maybe even an M.B.A., a position at some pharmaceutical company…
One day he’d be Dr. Gomez. Meanwhile, he’d gotten himself into a fix with Klara.
She kept calling. How long could that go on?
He’d have to deal with it, sooner rather than later. But today… the beach.
He went into the kitchen, put his briefcase on the counter, and poured a glass of milk. Changed his mind. He’d return to the public library, use the tools he’d come to believe in: thorough data collection, deductive and inductive reasoning, hard work. Problems were solvable; there had to be an answer.
He gulped the milk and headed for the door. Saw the bag on the tiny mail table to the right of the door.
Brown paper, neatly folded- his mother’s trademark. His name printed in red crayon. Shaky letters because she’d never been confident about her literacy.
The exact same way she’d printed his lunches when he was at Burton. All the other kids eating in the school cafeteria- a wonderful place, those steam tables, the hairnetted women, jewel-green and sun-yellow vegetables, slabs of pink meat and white turkey, things he’d never seen- succotash? Welsh rarebit?
His mother had been afraid of the strange food. Or so she’d claimed. Later, he’d found out that scholarship students didn’t qualify for the caf, the school’s generosity only went so far.
He’d been ashamed of his sack lunches, until some of the other kids had thought his tamales and black beans cool. There’d been a few snickers- this was middle school, after all. But the Burton student body had been well-drilled in the virtues of diversity and, for the most part, had seemed impressed by Irma Gomez’s cooking.
That made it easy for Isaac to trade his homemade fare for the contents of the rich kids’ caf trays. Chewing away with forced aplomb, pretending to like the bland stuff, because he desperately wanted to blend in.
It had been a while since Mama had packed him a lunch. Maybe he’d ditch it, get himself a fried sausage from a street vendor near the library.
No way, the guilt would overwhelm him. He stuffed the bag in his briefcase, left, and hurried down the stairs.
Guilt was a big part of his makeup. So scratch the M.B.A. and the drug companies.
There goes the house on the beach.
As he hit the street, he changed his mind again. Two days of library work had produced nothing. What could he hope to find? He walked to Pico, caught the number seven bus, and rode all the way to Overland when the aroma of his mother’s food, seeping through the brown paper, got his gastric juices going and he unfolded the flap and looked inside.
Atop the foil-wrapped morsels was a scrap of paper, folded over. He fished it out, read “BRO,” in large, clumsy capitals. Isaiah’s writing.
He unfolded the note.
THE LADY COP CALLED LAST NIGHT.
Just that, no number.
He got up from his seat, rang the buzzer. Exited at the next stop.
The station’s rear door was locked. Since he’d been coming here that had only happened twice, because someone had forgotten to open it. He found his 999 key.
It didn’t come close to fitting. Change of locks? Then he noticed the closed-circuit camera above the door. Flaking paint where the device had been installed. The lens was focused right on him. It made him feel like a suspect and he turned his back.
New security measures because of some terrorism alert?
He was thinking about that when he saw an older silver Cadillac drive into the lot and park. That old drill-sergeant type, Detective Dilbeck.
Isaac approached the car and Dilbeck rolled down his window.
“Morning, Detective.”
“Morning, Mr. Gomez.”
“The door’s locked and my key doesn’t work.”
“Mine neither,” said Dilbeck. “Everyone comes in through the front until things calm down.”
“Calm down from what?”
Dilbeck bared his teeth. “Captain Schoelkopf was murdered yesterday.”
“Oh no.”
“For the time being, they’re being extra careful. Not that what happened to the captain applies to anyone else. He cheated on his wife, hell has no fury and all that. You haven’t annoyed any feisty females lately, have you, Mr. Gomez?”
Isaac smiled. His stomach churned.
Dilbeck got out of his car and began walking toward the lot’s entrance. Isaac stayed in place.
“No work today, Mr. Gomez?”
Isaac half heard him. Thinking: heightened security probably means a metal detector. The gun…
“Actually, I’m on my way to school, just dropped by to get Detective Connor’s number. She phoned me last night but my brother neglected to write down her number.”
“She’s home,” said Dilbeck. “You know what happened to her?”
“Yes, sir. It’s kind of important that I talk to her. She was trying to reach me about a case we’re- she’s working on.”
“Well, she’s not working on anything now, Mr. Gomez.”
“Still, I think I should return her- ”
Dilbeck clapped his shoulder and stared into his eyes. “You’re a nice young fellow, but we’re sticklers for privacy around here. How about I call Detective Connor and tell her you stopped by. Give me a number where you can be reached.”
Isaac gave him the BioStatistics office number. Now he had to return to campus. What a tangled web we weave.
He reached USC forty minutes later, took an indirect route to BioStat that circumvented Doheny, and headed straight for his mailbox. It had been days since he’d checked and the box was stuffed. Circulars, departmental memos, junk mail.
Five messages from Klara, all in the same curvy handwriting. The last three were dated yesterday. Exclamation points.
Sandwiched between those was a single slip listing Petra’s name and a number to call. A 933 prefix that had to be her home.
He asked the secretary if he could use a department phone to make a local call.
She said, “Haven’t you been a stranger.”
He shrugged. “Working on the dissertation.”
“Poor baby. Don’t tie up this one, use the extension in the Xerox room. You know the drilclass="underline" eight for an outside line and no phoning Europe.”
The door to the photocopy room was open. He’d nearly made it over there when a hand landed on his upper back.
Light touch, the barest contact. He wheeled and faced Klara Distenfield. She wore a royal blue dress printed with tiny yellow fish, fresh lipstick, mascara, perfume- the same perfume. Her hand remained near the side of his neck.
She smiled and said, “Finally.”
He ushered her into the room.
“What an elusive fellow.”
“Klara, I’m sorry- ”
“You should be.” No rancor in her voice. That made him really anxious. He found himself looking her up and down, stopped, but not before the images had registered. Red hair pinned, soft hairs escaping. The blue dress, tight over round belly and meaty hips. The breasts. The perfume. Oh, shit, he was hard.
Her gold-green eyes narrowed. “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to reach you?”
“I’ve been out. Family issues- ”
“Everyone’s got a family.” Her lips pursed and tiny wrinkles formed above the gloss. “Whatever the family issue was, it couldn’t be too grave. I talked to your brother and he didn’t say anything. He sounds like you, by the way.”
The prospect of constructing another lie exhausted him. He said, “Nothing grave, it just took time.”
“So you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. What about you?”
“Me?” She laughed. “I’m great. Why?”
“I thought you were upset.”
“About what?”
“What happened.”
“Me?” She placed a dainty hand over one commodious breast. “I was a little… thrown. But then we had coffee, remember? And I was fine. Didn’t I seem fine?”