No Second Chance

  Eleanor had worked with Lenny for eight years. She loved him dearly. Having no family of her own--she and her husband, Saul, who had died three years before, had never been blessed with children--she had become something of a surrogate grandmother to the Marcuses. Eleanor even had photographs of Lenny's wife, Cheryl, and their four children on her desk.

  She studied the envelope and frowned. How had it gotten here? She peeked into Lenny's office. He looked so harried. That was because Lenny had just returned from a homicide scene. The case involving hi s best friend, Dr. Marc Seidman, had exploded back into the headlines. Normally Eleanor would not bother Lenny at a time like this. But the return address . . . well, she thought he should see it for himself.

  Lenny was on the phone. He saw her enter and put his hand over the receiver. "I'm kinda busy," he said.

  "This came for you."

  Eleanor handed him the envelope. Lenny almost ignored it. Then Eleanor watched as he spotted the return address. He turned it over, then back again.

  The return address simply read, From a friend of Stacy Seidman.

  Lenny put down the phone and tore open the envelope.

  I don't think Dina Levinsky was surprised to see me.

  She let me in without a word. The walls were blanketed with her paintings, many hung at odd angles. The effect was dizzying, giving the entire apartment a Salvador Dali feel. We sat in the kitchen. Dina offered to make tea. I said no. She put her hands on the table. I could see that her fingernails were bitten down past the cuticle. Had they been that way at my house? She seemed different now, sadder somehow. Her hair was straighten Her eyes were downcast. It was as if she was transforming back to the pitiful girl I had known in elementary school.

  "You found the pictures?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  Dina closed her eyes. "I should have never led you to them."

  "Why did you?"

  "I lied to you before."

  I nodded.

  "I'm not married. I don't enjoy sex. I do have troubles with relationships." She shrugged. "I even have problems with telling the truth."

  Dina tried to smile. I tried to smile back.

  "In therapy we're taught to confront our fears. The only way to do that is to let the truth in, no matter how much it hurts. But see, I wasn't even sure what the truth was. So I tried to lead you there."

  "You were back in the house before the night I saw you, weren't you?"

  She nodded.

  "And that's how you met Monica?"

  "Yes."

  I kept going. "You two became friends?"

  "We had something in common."

  "That being?"

  Dina looked up at me, and I saw the pain.

  "Abuse?" I said.

  She nodded.

  "Edgar sexually abused her?"

  "No, not Edgar. Her mother. And it wasn't sexual. It was more physical and emotional. The woman was very ill. You knew that, right?"

  "I guess I did," I said.

  "Monica needed help."

  "So you introduced her to your therapist?"

  "I tried. I mean, I set up an appointment for her with Dr. Radio. But it didn't work out."

  "How come?"

  "Monica was not the sort of woman who believed in therapy. She thought that she could best handle her own problems."

  I nodded. I knew. "At the house," I said, "you asked me if I loved Monica."

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "She thought you didn't." Dina put her finger in her mouth, searching for a sliver of nail to bite. There was none. "Of course, she thought herself unworthy of love. Like me. But there was a difference."

  "What was that?"

  "Monica felt that there was one person who could love her forever."

  I knew the answer here. "Tara."

  "Yes. She trapped you, Marc. You probably realize that. It wasn't an accident. She wanted to get pregnant."

  Sadly, I was not surprised. Again I tried, as in surgery, to put the pieces together. "So Monica believed that I no longer loved her. She was afraid I wanted a divorce. She was troubled. She was crying at night." I paused. I was saying this as much for my benefit as Dina's. I didn't want to keep following this train of thought, but there was no way to stop me. "She's fragile. Her mind is frayed. And then she hears that phone message from Rachel."

  "That's your ex-girlfriend?"

  "Yes."

  "You still keep her picture in your desk drawer. Monica knew about that too. You keep mementos of her."

  I closed my eyes, remembering the Steely Clan CD in Monica's car. College music. Music I had listened to with Rachel. I said, "So she hired a private detective to see if I was having an affair. He took those photographs."

  Dina nodded.

  "So now she has proof. I'm going to leave her for another woman. I'm going to claim she's unstable. I'll say she's an unfit mother. I'm a well-respected doctor, and Rachel has connections with law enforcement. We'd end up with custody of the only thing that really mattered to Monica. Tara."

  Dina rose from the table. She washed out a glass in the sink and then filled it with water. I thought again about what had happened that morning. Why hadn't I heard the window break? Why hadn't I heard the doorbell ring? Why hadn't I heard the intruder enter?

  Simple. Because there was no intruder.

  Tears filled my eyes. "So what did she do, Dina?"

  "You know, Marc."

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  "I didn't think she'd really do it," Dina said. "I thought she was just acting out, you know? Monica was so despondent. When she asked me if I knew how to get a gun, I thought she wanted to kill herself. I never thought ..."

  "She would shoot me?"

  The air was suddenly heavy. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I was too tired to cry anymore. But there was still more to unearth here. "You said she asked you to help her get a gun?"

  Dina wiped her eyes and nodded.

  "Did you?"

  "No. I wouldn't know how to get one. She said you had a gun at home, but she didn't want something that could trace back. So she went to the only person she knew with seedy enough contacts to help."

  I saw it now. "My sister."

  "Yes."

  "Did Stacy get her a gun?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "The morning you were both shot, Stacy came to see me. See, Monica and I had come up with the idea of going to Stacy together. So Monica mentioned me to her. She came and asked what Monica needed a gun for. I didn't tell her because, well, I really wasn't all that sure. Stacy ran out. I was in a panic. I wanted to ask Dr. Radio what to do, but my next session was that afternoon. I figured it could wait."

  "And then?"

  "I still don't know what happened, Marc. That's the truth. But I know Monica shot you."

  "How?"

  "I got scared. So I called your house. Monica answered. She was crying. She told me you were dead. She kept saying, 'What have I done, what have I done?' And then suddenly she hung up. I called back. But no one answered. I really didn't know what to do. Then the TV had the story. When they said your daughter was missing ... I didn't understand. I thought they'd find her right away. But they never did. And I never heard anything about those pictures either. I hoped, I don't know, I hoped leading you to those photographs might shed some light on what really happened. Not so much for the two of you. But for your daughter."

  "Why did you wait so long?"

  Her eyes closed and for a moment, I thought that she might be praying. "I had a bad spell, Marc. Two weeks after you were shot, I was hospitalized with a breakdown. The truth is, I was so far gone I forgot about it. Or maybe I wanted to forget, I don't know."

  My cell phone rang. It was Lenny. I picked it up.

  "Where are you?" he asked.

  "With Dina Levinsky."

  "Get over to Newark Airport. Terminal C. Now."

  "What's going on?"

  "I think," Lenny said.
Then he slowed down, caught his breath. "I think I may know where we can find Tara."

  Chapter 44

  I arrived at Terminal C, Lenny was already standing by the Continental check-in desk. It was six o'clock at night now. The airport was jammed with the weary. He handed me the anonymous note that had been found in his office. It read: Abe and Lorraine Tansmore 26 Marsh Lane Hanley Hills, MO

  That was it. Just the name and address. Nothing else.

  "It's a suburb near St. Louis," Lenny explained. "I did some research already."

  I just kept staring down at the name and address.

  "Marc?"

  I looked up at him.

  "The Tansmores adopted a daughter eighteen months ago. She was six months old when they got her."

  Behind him, a Continental service rep said, "Next please." A woman pushed past me. She might have said, "Excuse me," but I'm not sure.

  "I have us booked on the next flight to St. Louis. We're leaving in an hour."

  When we reached the departure gate, I told him about my meeting with Dina Levinsky. We sat, as we often do, next to each other, facing out. When I finished, he said, "You have a theory now."

  "I do."

  We watched a plane take off. An old couple sitting across from us shared a tin of Pringles. "I'm a cynic. I know that. I hold no illusions about drug addicts. If anything, I overestimate their depravity. And that, I think, is what I did here."

  "How do you figure?"

  "Stacy wouldn't shoot me. And she would never hurt her niece. She was an addict. But she still loved me."

  "I think," Lenny said, "that you're right."

  "I look back. I was so wrapped up in my own world that I never saw ..." I shook my head. Now was not the time for this. "Monica was desperate," I said. "She couldn't get a gun and maybe, she decided, she didn't have to."

  "She used yours," Lenny said.

  "Yes."

  "And then?"

  "Stacy must have guessed what was up. She ran to the house. She saw what Monica had done. I don't know how it played exactly. Maybe Monica tried to shoot her too--that could explain the bullet hole near the stairs. Or maybe Stacy just reacted. She loved me. I was lying there. She probably thought I was dead. So I don't know, but either way Stacy came armed. And she shot Monica."

  The gate attendant announced that the flight would soon be boarding but those with special needs or One Pass Gold and Platinum members could board now.

  "You said on the phone that Stacy knew Bacard?"

  Lenny nodded. "She mentioned him, yeah."

  "Again I'm not sure how it played exactly. But think about it. I'm dead. Monica is dead. And Stacy is probably freaking out. Tara is crying. Stacy can't just leave her. So she takes Tara with her. Later she realizes that she can't raise a kid on her own. She's too messed up. So she turns her over to Bacard and tells him to find her a good family. Or, if I want to be cynical, maybe she gives Tara over for the money. We'll never know."

  Lenny was nodding.

  "From there, well, we just follow what we already learned. Bacard decides to rake in extra money by pretending it was a kidnapping. He hires those two lunatics. Bacard would be able to get hair samples, for example. He double-crossed Stacy. He set her up to take the fall."

  1 saw something cross Lenny's face.

  "What?"

  "Nothing," he said.

  They called our row.

  Lenny stood. "Let's board."

  The flight was delayed. We didn't arrive in St. Louis until past midnight local time. It was too late to do anything tonight. Lenny booked us a room at the Airport Marriott. I bought clothes at their all-night boutique. When we got to the room, I took a very long, very hot shower. We settled in and stared at the ceiling.

  In the morning, I called the hospital to check on Rachel. She was still sleeping. Zia was in her room. She assured me that Rachel was doing fine. Lenny and I tried to eat the hotel's buffet breakfast. Nothing would stay down. Our rental car was waiting for us. Lenny had gotten directions to Hanley Hills from the desk clerk.

  I don't remember what we saw on the drive. Aside from the Arch in the distance, there was nothing distinct. The United States has a strip mall sameness about it now. It's easy to criticize that--I often do--but maybe the appeal is that we all like what we already know. We claim to embrace change. But in the end, especially in these times, what truly draws us is the familiar.

  When we reached the town limits, I felt a tingling in my legs. "What do we do here, Lenny?"

  He had no answer.

  "Do I just knock on the door and say, 'Excuse me, I think that's my daughter?' "

  "We could call the police," he said. "Let them handle it."

  But I didn't know how that would play out. We were so close now. I told him to keep on driving. We made a right onto Marsh Lane. I was shaking now. Lenny tried to give me a buck-up look, but his face was pale too. The street was more modest than I'd expected. I had assumed that all of Bacard's clients were wealthy. That was clearly not the case with this couple.

  "Abe Tansmore works as a schoolteacher," Lenny said, reading my thoughts as usual. "Sixth grade. Lorraine Tansmore works for a daycare center three days a week. They're both thirty-nine years old. They've been married for seventeen years."

  Up ahead, I saw a house with a cherry-wood sign that read 26--1HH TANSMORES. It was a small, one-level, what I think they called "bungalow" style. The rest of the houses on the block seemed tired. This one did not. The paint glistened like a smile. There were lots of clusters of color, of flowers and shrubs, all trimly laid out and perfectly pruned. I could see a welcome mat. A low picket fence encircled the front yard. A station wagon, a Volvo model from several years back, sat in the driveway. There was a tricycle, too, and one of those bright-hued plastic Big Wheels.

  And there was a woman outside.

  Lenny pulled over in front of an empty lot. I barely noticed. The woman was in the flower beds, on her knees. She was working a small digging spade. Her hair was tied back with a red bandanna. Every few digs she would wipe her forehead with her sleeve.

  "You say she works at a daycare center?"

  "Three days a week. The daughter goes with her."

  "What do they call the daughter?"

  "Natasha."

  I nodded. I don't know why. We waited. The woman, this Lorraine, worked hard, but I could see she enjoyed it. There was a serenity about her. I opened the car window. I could hear her whistling to herself. I don't know how many minutes passed. A neighbor walked by. Lorraine rose and greeted her. The neighbor gestured toward the garden. Lorraine smiled. She wasn't a beautiful woman, but she had a great smile. The neighbor left. Lorraine waved good-bye and turned back to her garden.

  The front door opened.

  I saw Abe. He was a tall man, thin and wiry, slightly balding. He had a neatly trimmed beard. Lorraine stood and looked over at him. She gave him a small wave.

  And then Tara ran outside.

  The air around us stopped. I felt my insides shut down. Next to me, Lenny stiffened and muttered, "Oh my God."

  For the last eighteen months, I had never really believed that this moment was possible. What I had done instead was convince myself-- no, trick myself--into believing that maybe, somehow, Tara was still alive and okay. But my subconscious knew it was only a self-delusion. I t winked at me. It nudged me in my sleep. It whispered the obvious truth: that I would never see my daughter again.

  But it was my daughter. She was alive.

  I was surprised at how little Tara had changed. Oh she'd grown, of course. She was able to stand. She was even able, as I now saw, to run. But her face . . . there was no mistake. No being blinded by hope. It was Tara. It was my little girl.

  With a huge smile, Tara ran with total abandon toward Lorraine. Lorraine bent low, her face lighting up in that celestial way only a mother's can. She swept my child into her arms. Now I could hear the melodious sound of Tara's laughter. The sound pierced my heart. Tears streamed down my face. Le
nny put a hand on my arm. I could hear him sniffling. I saw the husband, this Abe, walk toward them. He was smiling too.

  For several hours, I watched them in their small, perfect yard. I saw Lorraine patiently point out the flowers, explaining what each one was. I saw Abe give her a horsey ride on his back. I saw Lorraine teach her how to pat the dirt down with her hand. Another couple dropped by. They had a little girl about Tara's age. Abe and the other father pushed the girls on the metal swing-set in the backyard. Their giggles pounded in my ears. Eventually they all went inside. Abe and Lorraine were the last to disappear. They walked through the door with their arms around each other.

  Lenny turned to me. I let my head drop back. I had hoped that today would be the end of my journey. But it wasn't.

  After a while, I said, "Let's go."

  Chapter 45

  When we got back to the Airport Marriott, I told Lenny to go home. He said he would stay. I told him that I could handle this on my own-- that I wanted to handle this on my own. He reluctantly agreed.

  I called Rachel. She was doing well. I told her what had happened. "Call Harold Fisher," I said. "Ask him to do a thorough background check on Abe and Lorraine Tansmore. I want to know if there's something there."

  "Okay," she said softly. "I wish I could be there."

  "Me too."

  I sat on my bed. My head dropped into rriy hands. I don't think I cried. I don't know what I felt anymore. It was over. I had learned as much as I would. When Rachel called back two hours later, nothing she told me was a surprise. Abe and Lorraine were solid citizens. Abe was the first person in his family to graduate college. He had two younger sisters who lived in the area. Both had three children. He had met Lorraine during their freshman year at Washington University in St. Louis.

  Night fell. I stood and looked in the mirror. My wife had tried to kill me. Yes, she was unstable. I knew that now. Hell, I probably knew it then. I didn't much care, I guess. When a child's face breaks, I put it back together. I can do miracles in the surgical room. But my own family fell apart and I did nothing but watch.

  I thought now about what it meant to be a father. I loved my daughter. I know that. But when I saw Abe today, when I see Lenny coaching soccer, I wonder. I wonder about my fitness. I wonder about my commitment. And I wonder if I am worthy.

  Or do I already know the answer?

  1 wanted so badly to have my little girl back with me. 1 also wanted so badly for this not to be about me or my wants.