Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

I held her eyes, watching for the game.

"What time?" I asked her.

She told me midnight, gave me the address.

I

stood next to the kid, watching Fancy's sleek black car whip out of the driveway.

"That's a costly ride," I said. "What's she do for a living?"

"Do? Nothing, I don't think. I told you— she just plays around with her plants and all. Her folks were rich, probably left her a bundle," he shrugged. Like it was an everyday thing.

"Okay," I told him. "Here's what I need you to do. I'm going to pay a call on that girl's parents. The Blankenships. Maybe they know something, maybe they don't— it's worth a quick look. I'm going to take the Lexus. I want you to lead the way, in the other car, see? Once I go in, you take off. Head back here…the guy may call to check on me. What I'm gonna tell him, I'm working for your mother, okay? She hired me to look into the suicides 'cause she has a kid of her own that knew them, see? They call, that's the story you tell. When I come out, I'll call you, arrange a place to meet. Got it?"

"Sure."

"Okay. I'm going upstairs to change. Be down in fifteen, twenty minutes."

He threw me a half–salute. Then he went back to mooning over the Plymouth.

I

shaved carefully. Put on the gray business suit with the chalk stripe. White shirt, wine–colored silk tie. A black leather attaché case and I was in business. I checked through my stock of ID's, found the business cards that listed me as a private investigator, complete with telephone and fax numbers. I knew a lawyer who let me front him off in exchange for some favors. One of his phone numbers was a dead line— his secretary would answer any calls and cover for me no matter who was asking.

I walked downstairs, ready to ride. The kid looked me over.

"How do I look?" I asked.

"Like a cop. A mean cop."

"Close enough. You ready to ride?"

"Sure. Uh…"

"What?"

"Could I…take the Plymouth?"

"Drive carefully," I told him, handing him the registration papers. "Juan Rodriguez?" he asked, looking at them.

"A close personal friend of mine," I told him.

T

he Blankenship house was small, almost a bungalow, but set well back from the road on a big piece of ground. The curtains were drawn in front— no signs of life. A blue Saturn station wagon sat in the driveway— the garage door was closed.

I pulled into the driveway as the Plymouth moved away ahead of me, the kid driving sedately while I had him in my sights.

The house was white shingle with a gray slate roof. The front door was painted a dark shade of red. I tapped gently with the iron knocker. I was just about to try again when the door opened. The man standing there was about my age, shorter than me, slim–built. His light brown hair was cut short, receding at the temples. He was wearing a white shirt with a button–down collar over a pair of chinos. One of the buttons on the collar was undone. He wasn't wearing a belt. And he'd missed a few spots when he shaved that morning.

"What is it?"

"Mr. Blankenship?"

"Yes. What is it? Are you from the police?"

"No sir. I'm a private investigator. Could I come in and talk to you for a few minutes?"

He stepped back, but not far enough— I had to brush against him as I walked by. The living room was trashed: overflowing ashtrays, containers of take–out food, a raincoat thrown carelessly over the back of a chair. It looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a month. I sat on the green cloth couch, facing a brown Naugahyde easy chair, figuring the chair for his. I reached in my coat pocket, took out a small notebook and a felt–tip pen, looked up with an expectant expression on my face. He was still standing, hands clasped behind him, watching.

"A private investigator? Who hired you…one of the other kids' parents?"

"Yes sir. Mrs. Lorna Cambridge."

"Cambridge? That wasn't one of the names."

"No sir. Her son Randall went to school with some of the kids. He's the same age. She was concerned…frightened, really. And she thought I might be able to look around, maybe be of some help."

"What could you do?"

"I don't know, to be honest with you. It's a mystery. There doesn't seem to be any reason…"

"There's got to be a reason," he said, sitting down in the brown chair. "There's got to be."

"Yes sir. Could you tell me, was there anything in your daughter's behavior that might have led you to suspect…"

"You mean like drugs?"

"That. Or alcohol. Problems in school. With a boyfriend. A pregnancy. Anything."

"Diandra had problems. All kids that age have problems, right?"

I nodded, waiting.

"Her mother and I, we used to get into it about her grades. And she had a smart mouth …at least to her mother." He fumbled in a shirt pocket, came up empty. He felt around with his right hand, located a pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth, lit it with an old brushed aluminum Zippo. "I haven't smoked in fifteen years, he said ruefully. "Before this happened…"

"She fought with her mother?"

"Not fights, exactly. Arguments, more like. Her grades were slipping, she broke curfew a few times. And they'd go round and round about the clothes she wore."

"Did she have one of those arguments just before…"

"No. It wouldn't have been possible. My wife hasn't lived here for months. We separated just after Christmas. She kept after me to send Diandra for counseling, but Diandra didn't want to go. She was screwing up, I admit that. Flunking a couple of subjects. Stayed out all night once. I figured…kids. This neighborhood and all. It's a pretty fast crowd. We don't have the kind of money some of her friends' parents do…maybe she was trying to keep up, you know?"

"Yes sir."

He dragged on his cigarette, not tasting it. "Anyway, my wife was hot to send her to this hospital they have for kids with problems. Crystal Cove. Diandra didn't want to go. And I wasn't crazy about it either. But my little girl was really going over the line. I was worried about her too. We met with the director there. Dr. Barrymore. He's a pretty young guy, but I got to admit, he made a lot of sense. Said Diandra needed a time–out period. To decompress, get away from the pressure. So, we finally sent her. The insurance on my job covered most of it. Diandra was dead against it, but the people at Crystal Cove told us that was normal. They said they have lawyers— they could get her civilly committed if she didn't volunteer."

"I see."

"So she went. Last fall. It was supposed to be for only six weeks, but they kept her longer. They said she had deep–seated problems, maybe clinical depression, maybe a chemical imbalance— they wanted to run more tests." He ground out his cigarette without looking, eyes down now.

"She came home for Christmas. She didn't want to go back. The hospital said to expect that. I didn't want to send her. After she went back, I was real down. My wife and I fought all the time about it. She always said Diandra was my girl, not hers. We were…close, her and me. Anyway, that's when my wife left."

"When did Diandra come home?"

"Valentine's Day. That's how I remember it. I bought her a giant teddy bear, a white one with a red ribbon around its neck. She loved it. Put it right on her bed…" His control cracked then— he wiped hard at his eyes, but the tears still came. I lit a smoke, kept my eyes down. I was almost down to the filter before he got it managed.

His eyes came up to mine, red–rimmed but hard. They didn't spare me— his voice didn't spare himself. "Things were going so great," he said. "She was doing good in school again, not running around. I have to work. Long hours, sometimes. Diandra used to say she was a latchkey kid, like a joke between us. She got much more responsible after my wife left…did her share of the housework and everything. And she didn't go near drugs, I know that. When I'm wrong, I cop to it. I called my wife, told her that Crystal Cove had saved our daughter. She'd been right. I thought…maybe she'd come home. But she said it really wasn't Diandra that broke us up— it'd been coming a long time, hiding under the surface. She stuck with me through everything before, but…"