J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

“And that’s why he moved out.”

“I guess.”

I thank her for the help.

“There’s one more thing,” she says. “And maybe I shouldn’t say. It might have nothing to do with him.”

“I think you’d better tell me.”

“Somebody tried to set my car on fire. Some guys in the apartment saw him doing it, pouring something over the car. They chased him off and came and got me. The car had gasoline all over it.”

“Was it David who did this?” I ask, remembering the Molotov cocktail.

“They couldn’t say. But I think it must have been him.”

After the call, I let out a long breath.

When Agnieszka spotted a watcher in the neighbor’s attic, she had assumed it was the man of the house, David Bayard Sr., but she was wrong. From Kristie’s story, it sounds like he was showing all the warning signs back in College Station: watching the sunbathers by the pool, taking illicit photos like the ones recovered in the Bayard attic, perhaps even stalking the girl he’d culled from the herd. And that pushing thing. Pressing his scarred hand against her skin. I can imagine him doing it, spreading the fingers out, eyes fixed on the gaps of flesh between his fingers.

One, two, three. Four, five, six.

I’ve been had. While I was tracking the father’s movements, I took the son’s on faith. I assumed he was a student, assumed his schedule would correspond with the academic calendar. The fact is, I don’t know where he lives. I don’t know his comings and goings. I brought him in not as a suspect but a witness, and let him walk right out without a charge.

I flip through my notes back to my first contact with Kim Bayard. She’d told me her husband was out of the country, but made no mention of her stepson, even though he clearly had access to the house. Either she didn’t know about the nest up in the attic, or she was intentionally concealing the fact. When we took her husband away, she could have protested, could have put the blame on David, but she didn’t. I can understand a father-even an abusive one-covering for his son. But why would she?

I didn’t get Kim Bayard on tape that first day, but she sent me to Emmet Mainz. I fast-forward through the Mainz talk, listening for any mention of the Bayards’ son. There’s nothing.

I reach for the phone.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Mainz,” I say. “This is Roland March. If you have a minute, I’d like to talk.”

“A minute?” He chuckles over the line. “Detective, I have all night.”

“Good. I’ll see you in a quarter of an hour.”

In the car, I call Charlotte to let her know I’ll be home late.

She accepts the news with a sigh. “The lot in life for the policeman’s wife.”

“That rhymes,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m used to it.”

“I’m not apologizing for being late. There’s something else I want you to do for me. You’ll think I’m crazy and overcautious, but I’d feel better if you’d pack a bag and go to Ann’s again tonight.”

“But, Roland,” she says. “The guy’s behind bars. Did he get out on bail already? Even if he has, the locksmiths were here today, and I took the initiative and called the security alarm company, too.”

Things I should have done. Things I meant to.

“He’s not out yet,” I say. “But between you and me, I think I screwed this one up. I arrested the father, and I should have bagged the son.”

“And he’s not in custody?”

“No, he’s not.”

She sighs again, resigned. “All right, then. But I don’t feel right leaving Carter and Gina here. They could be in danger, right? I’m going to see if Ann can put them up. Otherwise, I’m going to put them in a hotel.”

“Carter’s a big boy,” I say.

“And Gina’s pregnant. So either I get my way, or I stay put.”

“You’re the boss.”

I start to hang up, but she stops me. “Oh, Roland, we got another message from the tailor, too. You need to go pick up the rest of Daddy’s suits. They’re done.”

“Good,” I say, “because one of them’s going in the trash bin.”

“What?”

“My cousin Tammy ripped the sleeve off.”

“Really,” she says. “You saw Tammy.”

“And I didn’t use my pepper spray. In therapy they’d call that a breakthrough.”

In the corridor outside Emmet Mainz’s conservatory, I notice a new letter to the editor framed on the wall. Pausing, I see the printed copy side by side with his signed original. This time he made it into the Times Literary Supplement , disputing the facts in some fifty-year-old literary controversy.

“Congratulations,” I say.

His rheumy eyes sparkle behind the heavy round glasses. He gives me a coy smile.

The baby grand gleams in the lamplight. He resumes his customary seat at the piano, leaving me to choose which of the chairs I prefer. I decide to stand, leaning into the crook of the piano, running my hand over the cool black wood.

“When I was here before, I didn’t know what I was looking for. Which means I didn’t know the right questions to ask.”

“And now you do?”

“I hope so. It was Kim Bayard who first mentioned you. I assume you know that family at least as well as you do the Hills.”

His long fingers glide over the ivory keys without applying any pressure. He pulls them away, setting his hand in his lap.

“Not particularly,” he sniffs. “The husband, I’m afraid, is a bit of a Philistine, one of those boy-men who makes a lot of money and spends it on the same things he wanted when he was fifteen. Cars. Gadgets. Stuff. For all I know, women, too. The temporal delights, and by no means the most delightful of them.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Really?” He laughs. “I am speaking English, aren’t I?”

“Are you?”

He laughs again, clearly considering this kind of banter more of a delight than cars, gadgets, and women.

“The Bayard I’m interested in is the son. David Junior. What do you know about him?”

“Ah,” he says. “David Junior. I know that you wouldn’t want him feeding your dog while you’re out of town. I tried that once, and it was a disaster.”

I glance over my shoulder. “You have a dog?”

“Not anymore.” He notes my expression. “It’s not his fault, though. He didn’t kill the dog. But he did something . That poor creature was miserable when I got back, and that was the last time I left a key for David Junior.”

Animal torture. Check .

“How old was he when this happened?”

Mainz touches his forehead. “How old? A teenager, I suppose. Maybe fifteen, but don’t quote me on that. Before he went away to school. They sent him to boarding school, did you know that? Who sends children to boarding school anymore?”

People whose child has a behavior problem. People raising a sociopath.

“Do you know why he was sent away?”

He shakes his head. “What I do know is that Bayard père used to travel a lot, even more than he does now. Maybe he was too much of a handful for Kim on her own. He’s not her son, you know? But that is pure speculation. You’d have to ask her about that.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

He pauses. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I’d like you to give her a call and invite her over. Preferably without mentioning my being here.”

The significance of my suggestion dawns on him. To his credit, Mainz agrees to help.

“I don’t know if it’ll do any good,” he says, “but I’ll give it a try.”

He rises from his bench and moves lightly across the room, bending down behind the corner of the couch. He straightens with an old-fashioned phone in hand, a long cord unspooling as he returns. The black plastic gives a little ring when he sets it on the piano.