"Oh, because I was just wondering," she said, "because you were so secretive about it, and then I heard about this and… I just thought I'd ask, that's all."
It was hard to think clearly with the way I felt, but I realized that Helen's trying to make a connection about the money could be a potential problem. If, for some reason, the police started investigating me, they could talk to Helen. She'd tell them about the thousand dollars I'd borrowed, and they'd wonder if I'd given Rebecca money for drugs, or if I were involved some other way.
"That money was for a class at the Princeton Review," I said.
"The Princeton Review?" Aunt Helen said.
"Yeah," I said. "I wanted to see how I did on the test before I told you about it, but I'm studying to take the GMATs. You know, so I can get into an MBA program."
"That's wonderful!" Aunt Helen said. Then her voice became distant as she said to someone else in the office, "My nephew's going to get an MBA." I heard a woman's voice say, "Mazel tov."
I knew the MBA lie would make Aunt Helen happy. After college, before I got my job at the Journal, she used to nag me to apply to grad school every time I saw her.
"So what're you going to do with your MBA?" she asked.
"I don't know, probably get a job as a stock analyst," I said. "You know how much those guys make? Mid six figures or more."
"I think that's great, David." Then, as if suddenly remembering why she'd called, she said, "I just wanted to tell you if you want to come stay with me, you know you're always»
"That's all right," I said.
"Are you sure?" she said. "Because I know how»
"Positive," I said.
I heard her breathe deeply, as if she were frustrated with my stubbornness.
"I know you're going to put up a stink about this, David, but I'm going to say it anyway. I really think you should see my friend Alice's son Benjamin, the grief counselor. Even if you only have one session with him»
"It's not necessary," I said.
"Are you sure, David? Because now I think you have even more reason to"
"It's okay»
" discuss what you're feeling»
"It's okay»
" with a professional»
"I said it's okay," I snapped. Then, in a calmer voice, I said, "I'm sorry, Helen. I really appreciate all your concern, but I can handle this myself I really can."
"I want you to call me tonight," she said.
"I will," I lied.
"Promise."
"Yes."
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
Hanging up was a huge relief. I made sure the voice mail was still on, and then I locked the door to my office and started working again. I still felt weak, but not as bad as I'd felt inside the restaurant; in a few hours I'd probably be fine.
I worked on another draft of my Prime Net article, and then Matt Stern, a young reporter at the magazine, sent me his article to edit. It was a well-written piece about a chain of watch stores that were expanding around the tri-state area. If Peter Lyons were still associate editor he would've decimated the article, extending the sentences into run-ons and adding adverbs and Britishisms. But I edited with a light hand, enhancing Mart's own style, rather than imposing my own. When I was through I read the article over and was very pleased. I was a damn good editor.
Toward five o'clock, the effects of whatever had gotten me sick earlier had almost completely worn off. On my way home, I picked up some safe food to eat bread, yogurt, ginger ale, and bananas. I was relieved to see only a few reporters camped out in front of my building, and I ignored the questions they shouted at me as I went inside. When I opened the door to my apartment, the phone started ringing. Figuring it was another reporter, I let the machine pick up, then heard Detective Romero saying, "Yeah, it's Romero, NYPD again. When you get home can you please»
I picked up and said, "Hello?"
"Mr. Miller?"
"Yes, hi."
"I tried you a couple times today."
"I was at work."
"Really?" he said. "I'm surprised you didn't take some time off."
"What's going on?" I asked.
Although I detected some suspicion in his voice, I wasn't very concerned. I figured if there had been a really important development he wouldn't be contacting me by telephone.
"Well, we've been continuing our investigation, but unfortunately we haven't made much progress. We're still not sure why Rebecca Daniels killed Charlotte O'Dougal, but it's this other murder Ricardo Alvarado that's getting at us. Alvarado was a strong guy. We just don't buy that Rebecca Daniels was able to kill him, causing those kind of head injuries. On the other hand, when a guy and his girlfriend are killed less than a couple days apart we gotta think there's some connection."
"I don't know what to tell you," I said.
"I was hoping you might've thought of something you didn't tell us yesterday," Romero said. "We checked out those clubs you mentioned, but that didn't get us anywhere. You have any other ideas how your girlfriend might've come into contact with Alvarado?"
"If I did, I would've called you."
"Sometimes people forget things, or they think something's not important so they don't bother»
"I didn't forget anything."
"I understand that, Mr. Miller, but I'm conducting an investigation"
"There's nothing to investigate," I said, nearly screaming. "You know Rebecca killed that woman, and it's obvious she had nothing to do with killing Alvarado."
"Why is that obvious?"
I realized I was talking too much and I'd better shut up.
"Because," I said, "like you said, he was a strong guy and I don't know, okay? Maybe Rebecca did kill him, but I told you everything I know."
"Very well," Romero said. "But if anything else comes up I'm going to contact you again. I'm sure you won't hesitate to do the same."
A few minutes later I was putting the groceries away, wishing I hadn't lost my cool. Rather than saying it was obvious that Rebecca hadn't killed Ricky, I should've tried to convince Romero that Rebecca had done it, suddenly remembering some story about a drug dealer she was in debt to. I feared that the longer Romero dug around, trying to figure out what had happened to Ricky, the more likely he'd stumble on the truth.
I had other messages on my machine and I played all of them. Aside from the messages from Romero and Aunt Helen, a few of my old friends had called, saying that they'd read about Rebecca in the papers and wanted to check on how I was doing.
I ate half a banana and a spoonful of yogurt, but I was too aggravated to eat anything else. I imagined Romero questioning Kenny, and Kenny turning me in or holding out to blackmail me either way I'd lose. I considered beating Kenny to the punch and calling Romero back. I could swear that Ricky's death had been an accident, but why would Romero believe me now? It wouldn't help my case that Charlotte, the only person who could back up my story, was dead.
I was short of breath and starting to sweat.
"I need some space," Barbara said. "Oh, stop," I said.
"I'm serious," she said. "I think one of us should move leave New York."
"What're you talking about?"
"I applied to some firms in San Francisco."
"What?"
"And if I get a good offer, I'm leaving."
"Why the hell're you gonna do that?"
"To get away from you."
"Is this more crap from Dr. Kellerman?"
"No, this is what I think."
"Yeah, right. What else did Kellerman say about me?"
"Listen to me this'll be good for you too. You'd be better off with me gone. You could meet somebody, have a normal relationship»
"You just need a vacation. Maybe we should go someplace, the Berkshires or Vermont, or how about Europe? I saw an ad in the paper for cheap tickets to Paris."
"You have to be your own person, David. You have to be a leader, not a follower»