“Computer programming. Data filing. That sort of thing. It’s not crucial, but because some of the information is connected to Pentagon contracts, we have to do some routine background checks.”
She shook her head, surprised. “I’m glad to hear that he’s straightened his life out. Raytheon. That’s a big corporation.”
“His life back then. Was it that bent?”
The woman smiled. “You might say so.”
“You know, everybody has some trouble in high school. We try to look past the typical teenage things. But we need to be on the lookout for anything more serious.”
The woman nodded again. “Yes. Petty stuff.” She hesitated.
“O’Connell?”
“I’m reluctant. Especially if he’s turned things around. I wouldn’t want to mess up his chances.”
“It would be a help, really.”
The woman hesitated a second time, then said, “He was bad news, when he was here.”
“How so?”
“Smart. Far smarter than most. Significantly so. But troubled. I always thought he was a Columbine-type kid, except Columbine hadn’t happened yet. You know, quiet, but plotting something. The thing about him that always upset me was, if he got it into his head that you were a problem, or you were in his way, or if he wanted something, then that was the only thing he would focus on. If he got interested in a class, well, he’d get an A. If he didn’t like a teacher, well, then strange things would happen. Bad things. Like the teacher’s car getting trashed. Or his class records getting screwed up. Or a phony police report filed suggesting some sort of illegal behavior. He always seemed connected somehow. But never close enough so that anyone could prove anything. I was delighted when he left this school.”
Scott nodded. “Why-” he started, but the woman finished for him.
“If you came from that household, something would be wrong with you, too.”
“Where-”
“I shouldn’t.” She took out a piece of paper and wrote down an address. “I don’t know if this is still accurate. It might not be.”
Scott took it. “How is it you remember this? It’s been ten years.”
She smiled. “I’ve been waiting all that time for someone to come walking through the door and start asking questions about Michael O’Connell. I just never thought it would be someone considering giving him a job. Figured it would be the police.”
“You seem very certain.”
The woman smiled. “I was once his teacher. Eleventh-grade English. And he made a distinct impression. Over the years, there have been a dozen or so whom one never forgets. Half of those for the right reasons, half for the wrong. Will he be working in an office with young women?”
“Yes. Why?”
“He always seemed to make the girls here uncomfortable. And yet, they were drawn to him, as well. I could never quite figure it out. Why would you be attracted to someone you knew would cause you trouble?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I should talk with some of them?”
“Sure. But after all this time, who knows where they might be? Anyway, I doubt you can find too many people willing to talk about Michael. As I said, he made an impression.”
“His family?”
“That’s his home address. Like I said, I don’t know if his father still lives there. You can check.”
“Mother?”
“She was out of the picture years ago. I never got the full story, but…”
“But what?”
The woman stiffened abruptly. “I understand she died when he was little. Ten maybe? Maybe thirteen? I don’t think I should say anything else. I’ve already said too much. You don’t need my name, do you?”
Scott shook his head. He had heard what he needed to hear.
“Earl Grey, dear? With a little bit of milk?”
“That would be fine,” Hope replied. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Abramowicz.”
“Please, dear, call me Hilda.”
“Well, Hilda, thank you very much. This is most kind of you.”
“Be with you in a second,” the old woman continued. Hope could hear the kettle start to sing. She cast her eyes about, taking in as much of the apartment as she could. A crucifix was on the wall, beside a vibrantly colored painting of Jesus at the Last Supper. This was surrounded by faded black-and-white photographs of men in stiff collars and women in lace. They were juxtaposed with pictures of a dark but green landscape, streets filled with cobblestones, and a church with pointed spires. Hope added it all together: long-dead relatives in an Eastern European country not visited in decades. It was a little like papering the walls of the apartment with ghosts. She kept searching for the old woman’s story; paint peeling near the windowsill; a row of vials and containers of medications. There were stacks of magazines and newspapers, and a television set that had to be at least fifteen years old adjacent to an overstuffed red armchair. It all spoke of emptiness.
There was only a single bedroom. She looked around and spotted a basket with knitting needles near the armchair. The apartment smelled of age and cats. Eight or more were perched on the couch, on the windowsill, and by the radiator. More than one came over and rubbed up against Hope. She guessed there were double the number hiding in the bedroom.
She took a deep breath and wondered how people could end up so lonely.
Mrs. Abramowicz entered with two cups of steaming tea. She smiled down at the collection of cats, who immediately began rubbing her and trailing after her. “Not quite dinnertime yet, loveys. In a minute. Let Mother have a little talk, first.” She turned to Hope. “You don’t see your Socks in my little menagerie, do you?”
“No,” Hope said, adopting a sad tone. “And I didn’t see him in the hallway, either.”
“I’m trying to keep my darlings out of the hallway. I can’t, all the time, because they like to come and go, that’s the way cats are, you know, dear. Because I believe he is doing something very bad to them.”
“What makes you think-”
“He doesn’t realize it, but I recognize each and every one. And every few days, one will be missing. I want to call the police, but he’s right. They will probably take the rest of my little friends away from me, and I couldn’t stand that. He’s a bad man, and I wish he would move out. I should never-”
Mrs. Abramowicz stopped, and Hope leaned forward. The old woman sighed and looked around her apartment.
“I’m afraid, dear, if your little Socks came to visit, then that bad man might have taken him. Or hurt him. I cannot tell.”
Hope nodded. “He sounds terrible.”
“He is. He scares me and I usually won’t talk to him, except when we have words, like today. I think he scares some of the others who live here, as well, but they won’t say anything either. And what can we do? He pays his rent on time, doesn’t make any noise, doesn’t have wild parties, and that’s all the ownership cares about.”
Hope sipped at the sweet tea. “I wish I could be certain. About Socks, that is.”
Mrs. Abramowicz sat back. “There’s one way,” she said slowly. “You could be certain. And it might help answer some of my questions, too. I’m old and I’m not very strong anymore. And I’m scared, but I’ve got no place else to go. But you, dear, you seem much stronger than me. Stronger even than I was, when I was your age. And I will wager that you’re not scared of much.”
“Yes.”
The old woman smiled again, almost coyly. “When my husband was alive, our apartment was larger. In fact, it included all the space that Mr. O’Connell now occupies. We had two bedrooms and a sitting room, a study and a formal dining room, and this entire end of the building. But after my Alfred died, they cut it up. Made our one big apartment into three. But they were lazy when they did it.”
“Lazy?”
Mrs. Abramowicz took another sip. Hope saw her eyes flash with an unexpected anger. “Yes. Lazy. Wouldn’t you think it lazy to not bother to change the locks on some of the doors to the new apartments? The apartments that were once my apartment.”