“What?”
“Last night. Did I say anything about how someone might be monitoring our calls and emails?”
“Something to that effect.”
“If you need to call me, or someone, speak in generalities.”
I’m thinking about the evident surveillance skills of whoever hacked into my computer to suggest the premature death of Sandy Vello and, also, the man in the Mercedes. It should just be common practice nowadays: assume someone is monitoring you and act accordingly.
I step out of the car. The woman in the yard now holds open the gate. She wears a dress with flower patterns, something modest but from a bygone era of feminine attire. She’s got shoulder-length blonde hair and a tic in her right eye.
I hear Faith pull away. The woman’s eye twitches three times. She juts her chin toward the street. “That’s where Kathryn died.”
I walk into a yard that looks like the miniaturization of an Ivy League campus. A stone walkway bisects grassy patches, the one on the right planted with a massive oak. On the side of the two-story school grow vines that are at once overgrown and chaotic and pruned to look this way. It’s no wonder this elementary school harks to hallowed institutions; in Silicon Valley, parents expect kids to matriculate directly from sixth grade to Harvard or Stanford, or else.
Jill gestures for me to sit on a bench cut from stone. It looks out on the street.
“We’re a pair.” She sits. “My nervous tic and your black eye. Did you upset someone with tough reporting?”
“Journalists are the most distrusted profession, after lawyers. It’s really not fair. Lawyers get paid so much more and can afford reconstructive eye surgery.”
The crow’s-feet beside her eyes crinkle with a slight perfunctory smile. She smoothes her dress and folds her hands on her lap.
“I’ve read about you and I trust you. But there’s not very much to tell and I can’t imagine why you or anyone would care after all these years.”
“Would you mind indulging me? I’d be much obliged.”
“She walked into the street.”
I don’t respond. It’s one of the hardest skills to learn in journalism: waiting through the moment a source wants to be prodded to the more important moment when they start to express themselves on their own terms.
“Volvo,” she finally whispers. “I never cared about cars. I could barely tell one from the next. But I had this idea that I’d like a black Volvo. They looked so sleek with a spaceship dashboard and they have this reputation for being so safe, so heavy, filled up with air bags. But that was the catch, I guess.”
I wait.
“It came around the corner. It wasn’t even going that fast.” She swallows hard. “They’re just so heavy.”
“Volvos.”
“This wasn’t a school then. It was a private home. Kathryn’s girlfriend lived here. They were playing. They weren’t chaperoned but the mom was inside, generally keeping tabs, and they were plenty old enough to know not to run into the street.”
The picture starts to form in my head and I’m both fascinated and desperate to push it away. As if she’s at a far distance, I hear Jill’s voice, faint, describe how seven-year-old Kathryn opened the swinging gate of the white picket fence, then ran into the street. A witness on the corner said the girl was laughing, carefree.
“As near as we could figure out, it was a totally impulsive act, like Kathryn was a baby again.” Jill looks at me. “You know how little kids can be, just acting on a whim, exploring their space, totally unaware of the consequences. They can take on the most terrible risks with such complete innocence.”
I feel a terrible weight on my chest, like I could suffocate. I see the phosphenes-dancing static.
“I got to talk to her before she died,” I hear Jill say. “I mean, she was alive in the hospital, but not conscious. I’m sure she heard me.”
I feel a tear slide down my right cheek, then one on my left, and I let them be.
“Are you okay?”
“I haven’t been getting much sleep.”
“There wasn’t anyone to blame. The family who lived here was so devastated and apologetic they moved to the East Coast, their own penance. The Volvo driver, a nice young man studying engineering at Stanford, refused to drive for years. There wasn’t a bad actor. Maybe that’s why my marriage fell apart; Hank and I had no common enemy, no proverbial fall guy.”
“I’m sorry.” I look down and see my fists balled tightly.
“Maybe some good came of it. This school, after all.”
“School?”
“It’s done wonders helping kids in this area who don’t have the same resources as the ritzy set. I’ll put a fine point on it: the children from East Menlo and East Palo Alto get world-class instruction, generally a free ride, and the first batch have gone on to colleges. It’s been a success story. We all couldn’t be more thankful to Andrew.”
“Andrew. Sorry, I’m having trouble keeping up.”
“I thought that’s why you were here.”
“Sorry, I’m. .”
“Oh,” she says with some recognition. “Maybe you don’t realize the connection. I’d been working for Andy, Andrew, about two years when Kathryn was killed.”
She studies me and can see I’m still lost. A look crosses her face that suggests she’s getting lost too. My lack of comprehension is starting to unnerve her.
“Andrew Leviathan.”
“Andrew,” I repeat. “You worked for him when Kathryn. . when it all happened.”
“I was an executive assistant. Maybe overqualified for the job. But he paid so well. He became a mentor to me, really to all of us.”
I’m swimming, the miasma of concussion mixed with shock. How did Andrew Leviathan become part of this mystery? How does the magnate who just gave me a magazine award connect to a woman and her run-down daughter and to a dead man who nearly shoved me in front of a subway?
My phone rings, a timely interruption. I look at the screen; it’s a number in the 650 area code, nearby.
“Go ahead.” Jill waves a hand.
“Hello, this is Nat.”
“Hi, this is Andrew. Leviathan. Sorry for the delay in getting back to you.”
I hold my breath, miasma swirling.
“Nathaniel?”
“Hi, Andrew.” I look at Jill as if to say speak of the devil. “This is a long shot, but I’m in the area and I’m wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time.”
“Everything okay?”
“Just ten minutes would be great.”
He pauses. “I get my afternoon mocha at Peet’s on University. I’ll be there a little after three. What’s it about? Did my check bounce?”
I force a thin laugh. “I just need to pick your brain for a story. It’ll be quick and painless and you’ll feel like your brain was hardly picked.”
“That’s remarkably vague.”
I laugh again, this time genuinely. “Being obtuse is part of my award-winning technique.”
“See you there.”
I turn to Jill. She looks at me with concern. “I hope you won’t make a big deal of this with him, with Andrew. He’s built a half dozen schools but he’s modest about his work. So if you wind up writing about his contributions, please don’t make him out to be a hero. He hates that kind of thing. Is that what you’re writing about?”
I nod, albeit absently. I look across the street. Faith sits in the Audi, reading something in her lap. I glance at my clock phone. It’s 2:15. Plenty of time to get to Andrew but there’s a stop we need to make first.
