Dark Eyes Part 12

"Can you point out which part of the street you're talking about?" he asked.

Mrs. Dearborn, a bone-thin woman in her mid-sixties, wore a heavy chenille robe, pajamas, and pink ankle-high Ugg boots. She pointed to a spot on the drive just half a block to the north.

"Down there, across from that green mailbox, the kind that you can't put anything in," she answered, and fixed a perplexed look on Atley as she sucked a heavy drag off her menthol cigarette. "What is it with the green mailboxes, anyway? They got no openings to put anything in. What the h.e.l.l are they for?" She posed the question as if it were one of the great mysteries of the human condition.

"I haven't a clue, Mrs. Dearborn," said Atley.

It had been ten days since Sophia Manetti had been found dead in the baseball diamond-Atley could see the spot from the balcony, less than two hundred yards away-but the case had zeroed out. Atley had worked all possible leads, including the information on Sophia's drug a.s.sociations that Wallis Stoneman had offered at the community garden, but so far none of it had panned out. Finally the chief of Ds had authorized six uniforms for a re-canva.s.s of the area, and one of the cops had found Mrs. Dearborn.

"So," said Atley, "go over this for me if you would. The officers say you were out here smoking."

"Yeah," she answered, "Mr. Dearborn doesn't let me smoke inside. Even in this cold weather."

"About what time was that, ma'am?"

"Midnight. Ish. It was d.a.m.n cold."

"So around twelve, and the first thing you noticed was something you saw or something you heard?"

"I heard sort of a yell, an out-of-breath yell of a girl, coming from the park. When I looked down, I couldn't see anything at first, but then this girl rushed out of the brush right over there, right out onto the drive, and the car almost hit her, screeching to a stop, you know?"

"Can you describe the car?"

"A big sedan, American I think, but what do I know from cars?" Mrs. Dearborn snuffed out her cigarette in an over-full ashtray, and the cold morning breeze immediately swept it out of the ashtray and onto the balcony floor. Mrs. Dearborn lit another.

"So the girl just stands there in front of the stopped car," Mrs. Dearborn continued her narrative, sucking on her fresh menthol. "She's sort of frozen in place there, for whatever reason, and that's when the man gets out from the driver's side of the car. Then two guys come out of the park, running like, but then they stop there too, the four of 'em just sort of standing there. Maybe they all said something-I couldn't hear-but after a second they all get into the car."

"The girl's not forced into the car?"

"Not from what I could tell, but who's to say? Three big colored guys there with her? Who's to say what's her idea and what isn't? It's a hard world for a girl."

Atley could not disagree. "And then what happened?"

"The car does a U-turn on the drive and heads back north. I go back inside and watch that Ferguson guy on the TV. He's funny, with the accent and everything. I thought about calling the cops, but ... she just got right into the car without a fight, you know?"

"I know," said Atley. A 911 call about a girl who had willingly climbed into a car on Riverside Drive would hardly raise any flags. "These three guys ... what kind of a look did you get at them?"

"My eyes are good," said Mrs. Dearborn, "but that's a ways away and the light's that weird electricity-saving color. Not a very good look, just basic details."

"Okay."

"The big guy driving the car, I'm pretty sure he was a black," she said. "The other two I couldn't say for sure. Probably lighter skin, a little, but both with dark hair. Coulda been Puerto Ricans or even Chinese for all I know."

Atley produced some mug shots for her to look at. One array of photos included a shot of the drug dealer Rage, who Wally had mentioned. He was African American, but very fair-skinned, with freckles, and a puffy 'fro of red hair that was the source of his street name: Rage, for red. None of the lady's descriptions sounded remotely like that, and the other dealer Wallis had mentioned-Bright Eyes-was a blond white kid. Atley showed Mrs. Dearborn their photos anyway.

"Nah," she said with certainty. "Not them."

Atley sighed, tired and discouraged and footsore after almost a full day of canva.s.sing. As Mrs. Dearborn puffed away on her cigarette, Atley leaned over the railing and imagined the scenario as the lady had described it: Sophia Manetti runs out of the park-chased by two men-and onto the drive, where she almost gets. .h.i.t by a black guy driving a sedan. But she doesn't keep running, because ... because, the driver is someone she knows? That's quite a coincidence. She doesn't even run when the guys chasing her catch up and appear there on the street, next to the car.

Suddenly, it's not a chase and it's not an a.s.sault: it's a friendly get-together, right there on Riverside Drive at midnight. They all climb into the car, no drama. The car does a U-ey and heads north on the drive, taking the turnoff that circles back into the park, where the baseball fields are located. Sophia had climbed into that sedan willingly, but her ride-and her life-ended at the hands of someone she knew.

Back at the precinct house, Atley opened the Manetti book to review what he had so far. It did not take long. The biggest boost had been Wallis Stoneman's information about Rage and Bright Eyes-Sophia's drug connections-but if Mrs. Dearborn's eyewitness account could be trusted, then those two were not involved in Sophia's death, at least not directly. Atley had an eyewitness account of Sophia's abduction, if that's what it was, and still the case was dead-ended. He opened the murder book again and reread everything from page one, looking for an avenue he might have missed.

He pored over all the crime scene reports and found nothing productive-no DNA, no fingerprints, no footprints or tire tracks, no witnesses other than Mrs. Dearborn, nothing interesting in the autopsy other than a slew of drugs in the girl's system, as expected. Atley moved on to Sophia Manetti's juvie file. He had been through it already and what was inside added nothing to the case, just a sad life story with a familiar and tragic progression: unstable home, parental abuse, drug abuse, street. Atley continued into Wallis Stoneman's juvie file. The notes doc.u.mented Wallis's problems at home, her flirtation with life on the street, her expulsion from school, etc. Unlike Sophia, there was no violence doc.u.mented in Wallis's home, but the girl had spent the first five years of her life in a Russian orphanage, so who could know what sorts of pain she had experienced before coming home to America with Claire and Jason Stoneman?

In the ma.s.s of Social Services paperwork was a psych eval of Wallis, written up when Wallis was just ten. After a single thirty-minute interview, the Social Services shrink had diagnosed Wallis's problem: disruptive behavior disorder. Atley did a search for the term on his desktop and came up with a description of the diagnosis: a DBD-diagnosed subject "refuses to comply with adults," "deliberately annoys people," and "is angry and resentful." In other words, the subject is exactly like every teenager Atley had ever met.

"Unbelievable," Atley groaned out loud.

Atley noticed another psych evaluation in Wallis's file, from when she was even younger, just seven or eight years old. She had seen a private therapist occasionally over the course of a few years, presumably paid for by her parents. This shrink's report contained none of the bulls.h.i.t psych jargon that had filled the Social Services evaluation. There was only a brief notation by the therapist under the diagnosis heading: "Wally is a lovely girl, intelligent and mature and resourceful and determined. She is also confused and angry, as would be expected. There will be struggles ahead for Wally."

There will be struggles ahead. Strange, Atley thought, to praise the girl so lavishly and then predict struggle. The thing that struck Atley most about the evaluation was the tone-it wasn't clinical sounding, really, but more personal than he had seen in other such files. And one phrase in the conclusion struck Atley as equally intriguing: "She is also confused and angry, as would be expected." Expected why?

It seemed unlikely that the shrink would be able to contribute to his investigation, but ... f.u.c.k it, Atley thought. He got on the phone and made an appointment to meet the therapist, Dr. Charlene Rainer.

FIFTEEN.

It was already dark when Wally and the crew settled into their seats in the Starbucks coffee place, the four of them lined up shoulder to shoulder at the window counter that gave them a clear view across West 88th. They fixed their eyes on the entrance to the office building on the opposite side of the street.

"So this shrink ... she was at this Emerson School the same time as Benjamin Hatch?" Jake asked.

"And left the same year," Wally confirmed. "I don't know how well they knew each other. If Hatch had some connection to my mother, maybe Charlene Rainer knew her in Russia too. I don't know."

"And you recognize her name?" Tevin asked.

"From somewhere, yeah, but I can't remember from where or when. But it can't be a coincidence, right? She was in Russia the same time as my mother-all those years ago-and she just happens to have a connection to my life here?"

Wally checked the clock on her cell phone: 5:42. She intended to keep the six o'clock session she scheduled with the therapist-under a made-up name so that Dr. Rainer would not know it was Wally-but was hoping to get a look at the woman's face first; if she recognized Charlene Rainer by sight and remembered their connection, it might give Wally an advantage in their meeting. Dr. Rainer's chatty answering service lady had said the doctor would be arriving at her office from another appointment, so hopefully Wally would get the look she wanted.

Over the next fifteen minutes or so, several dozen pedestrians pa.s.sed by on the opposite sidewalk, at least half of them women. Wally didn't recognize any of them, and none entered Dr. Charlene Rainer's office building.

"This is brutal," Wally said, struggling to stay cool during this process when in reality she could barely stand the suspense.

"Why are you so stressed?" Tevin asked.

"While I was researching this woman, it seemed like there were lots of overlaps between her history and my birth mother's," Wally said. "It's kind of possible that she actually is my mother. ..."

"Wow ..." Tevin said, he and the others realizing how easily the situation could tie Wally up in knots.

"Whatever happens," Ella said, "it's better to know."

"Knowing would be nice," Wally agreed with a wry grin.

At that moment a woman came strolling quickly down 88th Street, wearing a knee-length blue overcoat and with a simple leather valise slung over her shoulder. As the woman pa.s.sed under a streetlight, her features became visible. The woman was in her mid-fifties, most likely, well dressed without trying to make a show of it, a bit of gray peppering her hair.

"That's her," Wally said with certainty.

"How do you know?" Jake asked. "You figured out where you know her from?"

"No," Wally said. "But that's the doctor. I just know it."

Wally stood at the front entrance to Dr. Rainer's building and punched in the code for her office, which was listed on a directory beside the door. The door buzzed and popped open. Wally entered the small lobby and followed a narrow hallway, which opened into a surprisingly large s.p.a.ce. It was an atrium, rising up the center of the stylish, turn-of-the-century building. At each level was an overlooking balcony, with a polished wood banister running the full perimeter of each. Wally consulted a directory by the elevator, only to find that Dr. Rainer's suite number was not listed. The whole place seemed strangely quiet; there must have been forty or fifty office suites bordering the atrium, but most of them looked dark.

"Third floor, Suite G," a woman's voice echoed down from up above ... Dr. Rainer, presumably. Wally climbed into the elevator and rode up to the third floor, then followed the balcony to the left, walking all the way to the suite at the far end: Suite G. The door was slightly ajar. Wally knocked twice, lightly.

"Come in," came the same woman's voice that had called out the suite number from above.

Wally pushed open the door and pa.s.sed through a tiny waiting room-two upholstered chairs and a small coffee table with a selection of magazines-and then on into the tastefully decorated office s.p.a.ce. The woman she had seen on the street, Dr. Charlene Rainer, was at her desk sorting through a stack of mail but looked up as Wally entered. She greeted Wally with a smile.

"Ms. Jones?" the doctor asked. "Welcome. I'm Doctor-" But then the doctor stopped herself and looked Wally over more closely, recognition dawning on her as she focused on Wally's face. "Wally?"

"Yes," Wally said, and now-seeing the woman's face up close-Wally remembered. Shonny. How old had Wally been? Maybe seven or eight, the first time? She'd been having some problems at the Harpswell School, and Claire had brought Wally in for counseling to a woman who she was supposed to call Shonny, casually as if they were friends. The visits had taken place in a different office, and the doctor had aged a bit in the last eight or nine years, of course, but this was unquestionably the same woman. Immediately, Wally remembered feeling safe with her, comfortable.

"Wally." Dr. Rainer's face brightened as she looked Wally over again, taking an inventory of the changes to her former patient. "Look how grown you are. How old?"

"Sixteen."

"Good lord. Can it really be that long?" At that moment a thought crossed Dr. Rainer's mind-she looked as if she was trying to work out a puzzle. "Are you Ms. Jones? My next appointment?"

"Yes," Wally answered. "Sorry. I'll explain."

"No harm done," said Dr. Rainer. "You're always welcome here, Wally. Please sit down."

Wally chose one of the two guest seats in front of the desk instead of the leather sofa that ran along the opposite wall-she wanted to be up close and personal for this discussion. Dr. Rainer sat down in the high, leather office chair behind her desk.

"It's been how many years?" Dr. Rainer wondered aloud, and then swiveled her chair to face the wooden file cabinet behind her, opening one of the wide drawers. "I'm afraid I never took to the computerized file thing," she said as she searched through the cabinet. "One of these days, maybe ..."

After a moment of searching, she retrieved a file folder and shuffled through the pages, scanning for the information she wanted. "I can hardly believe it," she said, swiveling back to her desk. "It's been almost eight years since your last visit. I would have guessed four or five, but that's what happens as we get older."

Wally was deeply curious about the contents of that file. She was just about to ask if she could see it-wouldn't happen, probably-when Dr. Rainer returned the file to its place in the drawer and closed the cabinet.

"I've spoken to Claire on occasion," Dr. Rainer said as she turned back to Wally, and the doctor's face revealed a slight look of disappointment. "So I guess I'm at least semi-up-to-date on your current ... uh, situation."

"I don't want to talk about that now," Wally said, determined to steer the discussion exactly where she needed it to go. No therapeutic bulls.h.i.t, no recriminations for the choices she had made in her life.

"All right," Dr. Rainer said. "Just ... you're safe? You're healthy?"

"I can take care of myself," Wally said.

Dr. Rainer smiled. "I don't doubt it. You were always strong."

"I need the truth, Dr. Rainer."

"Of course."

"You were my therapist."

"Yes. Not regularly. We met a few times, when you were having specific problems. Do you want to talk about those issues?"

"No. Back then, when you first started meeting with me ... you already knew who I was. It wasn't just random that I came to you as a patient. We had a connection already."

"Well ..." Dr. Rainer shifted in her seat. "I'm not sure in what sense you mean that, Wally."

"You used to live in Russia."

Wally waited as Dr. Rainer remained completely still for a moment, her eyes locked on Wally. The doctor suddenly looked very nervous. She cast an anxious look toward the door of her office, which was still open.

"Wally, are you alone?" she asked warily.

"Um, yeah," Wally answered, wondering what was spooking the doctor. "It's just me."

"Excuse me a moment ..." Dr. Rainer stepped past Wally, out of her office and onto the balcony hallway. From there, she moved to the edge of the wooden railing, searching the atrium s.p.a.ce with her eyes in every direction. Empty. She took a moment and just listened. All was quiet. Somewhat satisfied, Dr. Rainer returned to the office, closing the office door behind her and facing Wally again.

"Wally," she said, exhaling as if she had been holding her breath. "I'm sorry, you surprised me, to say the very least. I'm just a little ... a little something, today. I'm not sure what. A little anxious, I guess."

"It's okay," Wally said, and forged onward. "You taught at the Emerson School."

"I was there, but I didn't teach," the doctor answered, now making a poor attempt to appear relaxed and casual. "I'd just finished my doctorate at Columbia and I started exploring some of the more exotic job opportunities. I saw that Emerson was looking for an on-staff counselor, and the idea of traveling to Russia for a while was exciting." The answer was longer and more detailed than necessary, and Wally could sense that the woman was stalling, maybe afraid of whatever questions would come next.

"And you knew Yalena Mayakova during that time." A statement, not a question.

Dr. Rainer took a moment. The woman had been uneasy already, but the mention of Yalena's name took her obvious sense of dread to a new level.

"How do you know that name, Wally?"

"I just know it. Please answer my question, Doctor."

Dr. Rainer took a moment. "Yes. I knew Yalena Mayakova when I lived in Moscow."

"You know that I'm her daughter. You've always known? Back then when you were giving me counseling or whatever ..."

Another pause. "Yes."

And now Wally had to ask: "Are you Yalena Mayakova?"

Whatever question Dr. Rainer might have been expecting at that point, this was not it.

"Me?" The woman was obviously taken aback. "Oh, Wallis ... no."

"You're not my real mother?"

"I am not your real mother."