I can feel my grip on the glass tighten.
“Stupid, inexperienced kids. They drank too much. They mixed pills with the alcohol. It was dark. It was late. Were they just standing on the tracks? Were they running down them, laughing and high, and never knew? Were they playing chicken with the train, trying to jump across the tracks, the same game that killed Jimmy Riccio back in 1973? I don’t know, Nap. I wish I did. I wish I knew exactly what happened. I want to know if Diana suffered—or was it quick? I want to know if she turned at the last second and knew that her life was about to end or if she was oblivious when she died. See, my one job, my only job, was to protect her, and I let her go out that night, and so I wonder if she was scared that night. I wonder if she knew that she was going to die—and if she did, did she call out my name? Did she yell for her father? Did she hope that somehow maybe I’d be able to save her?”
I don’t move. I can’t move.
“You’re going to look into this, aren’t you?”
I manage to nod. Then I’m able to say, “Yeah.”
He hands me the yearbook and starts out of the room. “Maybe you should do it on your own.”
Chapter Ten
So I start to look into it on my own.
I call Essex Pines Medical Center and get one of Hank’s doctors on the line surprisingly fast. He says, “You know about HIPAA and patient confidentiality, right?”
“Right.”
“So I can’t tell you anything about his condition.”
“I just want to talk to him,” I say.
“He’s an outpatient.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then you’re aware that means he doesn’t live here.”
Everyone’s a wiseass. “Doctor . . . I’m sorry I missed your name.”
“Bauer. Why?”
“Just so I know who’s jerking me around.”
Silence.
“I’m a police officer and I’m trying to find Hank. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“None.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“He’s only given us a PO box in Westbridge. And before you ask, there are rules that prevent me from telling you that Hank usually comes to Essex Pines three to five days a week, but he hasn’t been here in over two weeks.”
Two weeks. Dr. Bauer hangs up. I let him. I have another idea.
—
I stand by the basketball courts located off the oval in front of Westbridge High School and listen to the sweet echo of a ball against asphalt at twilight. What is in front of me is a thing of beauty called “pickup basketball.” There are no uniforms, no coaches, no set teams, no referees. Sometimes the white line is out-of-bounds on the baselines, sometimes it’s the chain-link fence. You start the game with a check at the top of the key. Winners stay on, you call your own fouls. Some of these people are friends, some strangers. Some have important jobs, some are barely getting by. Tall, short, fat, thin, all races, creeds, religions. One guy is wearing a turban. None of that matters here. It’s all about how you ball. Some trash talk, some stay quiet. You know about planned playdates. You know about adult leagues. This—pickup basketball—is the wonderfully anarchistic and archaic opposite.
I hear the grunts, the guys calling out picks, the staccato shuffling of sneakers. Ten guys are playing—five on five. There are three guys on the sidelines waiting. A fourth approaches and asks, “You got next?” The guys nod.
I recognize about half the players. Some I know from high school. Some are neighbors. The guy who runs the town lacrosse program is out there. Many of these guys work in the financial community, but I also spot two high school teachers.
I don’t see Hank.
As the game comes to an end—they are playing to ten by ones—a tall man I know parks and gets out of his car. One of the four waiting quickly points and calls out, “We got Myron!” The other guys start hooting and hollering at Myron. Myron smiles back sheepishly.
“Look who’s back,” one guy calls out.
The others join in: “How was the honeymoon, Romeo?” “You’re not supposed to be tan, dude.” “Yeah, you’re supposed to stay indoors, if you catch my drift,” to which Myron says, “Yeah, I didn’t get that at first, but once you added ‘if you catch my drift,’ it became clear to me.”
Lots of good-natured laughing and congrats to the groom.
Remember Myron Bolitar, Leo? How Dad would take us to watch him play high school basketball in Livingston, just to show us what greatness was? Myron used to be a confirmed old bachelor. Or so I thought. He got married recently to a cable-news anchorwoman. I can still remember Dad’s voice in the stands: “Seeing greatness,” he would tell us, “is always worth it.” That was Dad’s philosophy. Myron ended up being great—a huge superstar at Duke University and a first-round NBA draft pick. Then, boom, he had a freak injury and never made it in the pros.
There’s a lesson there too, I guess.
But here on these courts he’s still treated like a hero. I don’t know if that’s due to nostalgia or what, but I get it. He’s still something special to me too. We are both adults now, but some part of me still feels a little intimidated and even uplifted when he shows me attention.
I blend into the group greeting him. When Myron gets to me, I shake his hand and say, “Congrats on the nuptials.”
“Thanks, Nap.”
“But you’re a bastard for abandoning me.”
“On the positive side, you’re now the hottest bachelor in the area.” Then, spotting something on my face, Myron pulls me aside. “What’s up?”
“I’m looking for Hank.”
“He do something wrong?”
“No, I don’t think. I just need to talk to him. Hank usually plays Monday nights, right?”
“Always,” Myron tells me. “Of course, you never know what Hank you’re going to get.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Hank, uh, fluctuates. Behaviorally.”
“Meds?”
“Meds, chemical imbalance, whatever. But, look, I’m not the guy to ask. I haven’t been around in over a month.”
“Extended honeymoon?”
Myron shakes his head. “I wish.”
He doesn’t want me to ask a follow-up, and I don’t have time for it.
“So who knows Hank the best?”
Myron gestures at a handsome man with his chin. “David Rainiv.”
“For real?”
Myron shrugs and heads onto the court.
I can’t imagine two lives on more opposite trajectories than Hank’s and David Rainiv’s. David was president of our high school class’s National Honor Society and is now CEO of one of the country’s biggest investment firms. You may have seen him on TV a few years ago when Congress was grilling big-shot bankers. David has a penthouse in Manhattan, but he and his high school sweetheart–cum–wife, Jill, raise their children here in Westbridge. We don’t really have socialites in suburbia—more like “keeping up with the Joneses”—but whatever you label it, the Rainivs would be at the top of any heap.
As the next game starts up, David and I find a bench on the other side of the court and sit. David is fit and looks like the love child of a Kennedy and a Ken doll. If you’re casting the cleft-chinned senator, you could do worse than David Rainiv.
“I haven’t seen Hank in three weeks,” David tells me.
“Is that unusual?”
“He pretty much comes every Monday and Thursday.”
“And how is he?” I ask.
“He’s fine, I guess,” David says. “I mean, he’s never fine, if you know what I mean. Some of the guys . . .” He looks out at the court. “They don’t really want Hank here. He acts out. He doesn’t shower enough. On the sidelines when he has to wait a game, he starts pacing and screaming various rants.”
“What kind of rants?”
“Nonsensical stuff. He started shouting once about how Himmler hates tuna steaks.”
“Himmler like the old Nazi?”
David shrugs. He keeps his eyes on the court, following the game. “He rants, he paces, he scares some of the guys. But on the court”—David smiles now—“it’s like he transforms into Hank again. For a little while, the old Hank comes back.” He turns to me. “You remember Hank in high school?”
I nod.
“Lovable, right?” David says.