Just One Look (2004) Page 3

"Was it Josh?"

  "Yes, but--"

  "Why did he leave?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "I picked up the photos a little before three o'clock. You close at six. It's nearly five now."

  "So?"

  "It seems strange that a shift would end between three and six for a store that closes at six."

  Assistant Manager Bruce straightened up a bit. "Josh had a family emergency."

  "What kind of emergency?"

  "Look, Miss . . ."--he checked the envelope--"Lawson, I'm sorry for the error and inconvenience. I'm sure a photograph from another set fell into your packet. I can't recall it happening before, but none of us are perfect. Oh, wait."

  "What?"

  "May I see the photograph in question please?"

  Grace was afraid he'd want to keep it. "I didn't bring it," she lied.

  "What was it a picture of?"

  "A group of people."

  He nodded. "I see. And were these people naked?"

  "What? No. Why would you ask that?"

  "You seem upset. I assumed that the photograph was in some way offensive."

  "No, nothing like that. I just need to speak to Josh. Could you tell me his last name or give me a home phone number?"

  "Out of the question. But he'll be in tomorrow first thing. You can talk to him then."

  Grace chose not to protest. She thanked the man and left. Might be better anyway, she thought. By driving here she had merely reacted. Check that. She had probably overreacted.

  Jack would be home in a few hours. She would ask him about it then.

  * * *

  Grace had homebound carpool duties for the swim practice. Four girls, ages eight and nine, all delightfully energetic, piled two into the backseat and two into the "way, way" back of the minivan. There was a swirl of giggles, of "Hello, Ms. Lawson," wet hair, the gentle perfume of both YMCA chlorine and bubble gum, the sound of backpacks being shucked off, of seat belts fastening. No child sat in the front--new safety rules--but despite the chauffeur feel, or maybe because of it, Grace liked doing carpool. It was time spent seeing her child interact with her friends. Children spoke freely during carpool; the driving adult might as well have been in another time zone. A parent could learn much. You could find out who was cool, who was not, who was in, who was out, what teacher was totally rad, what teacher was most assuredly not. You could, if you listened closely enough, decipher where on the pecking order your child was currently perched.

  It was also entertaining as all get-out.

  Jack was working late again, so when they got home, Grace quickly made Max and Emma dinner--veggie chicken nuggets (purportedly healthier and, once dipped in ketchup, the kids can never tell the difference), Tater Tots, and Jolly Green Giant frozen corn. Grace peeled two oranges for dessert. Emma did her homework--too big a load for an eight-year-old, Grace thought. When she had a free second, Grace headed down the hallway and flipped on the computer.

  Grace might not be into digital photography, but she understood the necessity and even advantages of computer graphics and the World Wide Web. There was a site that featured her work, how to buy it, how to commission a portrait. At first, this had hit her as too much like shilling, but as Farley, her agent, reminded her, Michelangelo painted for money and on commission. So did Da Vinci and Raphael and pretty much every great artist the world has ever known. Who was she to be above it?

  Grace scanned in her three favorite apple-picking photos for safekeeping and then, more on a whim than anything else, she decided to scan in the strange photograph too. That done, she started bathing the children. Emma went first. She was just getting out of the tub when Grace heard his keys jangle in the back door.

  "Hey," Jack called up in a whisper. "Any hot love monkeys up there waiting for their stud muffin?"

  "Children," she said. "Children are still awake."

  "Oh."

  "Care to join us?"

  Jack bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The house shook from the onslaught. He was a big man, six-two, two-ten. She loved the substance of him sleeping beside her, the rise and fall of his chest, the manly smell of him, the soft hairs on his body, the way his arm snaked around her during the night, the feeling of not only intimacy but safety. He made her feel small and protected, and maybe it was un-PC, but she liked that.

  Emma said, "Hi, Daddy."

  "Hey, Kitten, how was school?"

  "Good."

  "Still have a crush on that Tony boy?"

  "Eeuw!"

  Satisfied with the reaction, Jack kissed Grace on the cheek. Max came out of his room, stark naked.

  "Ready for your bath, mah man?" Jack asked.

  "Ready," Max said.

  They high-fived. Jack scooped Max up in a sea of giggles. Grace helped Emma get in her pajamas. Laughter spilled from the bath. Jack was singing a rhyming song with Max where some girl named Jenny Jenkins couldn't decide what color to wear. Jack would start off with the color and Max filled in the rhyme line. Right now they were singing that Jenny Jenkins couldn't wear "yellow" because she'd look like a "fellow." Then they both cracked up anew. They did pretty much the same rhymes every night. And they laughed their asses off over them every night.

  Jack toweled Max off, got him into his pajamas, and put him to bed. He read two chapters of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Max listened to every word, totally riveted. Emma was old enough to read by herself. She lay in her bed, devouring the latest tale of the Baudelaire orphans from Lemony Snicket. Grace sat with her and sketched for half an hour. This was her favorite time of the day--working in silence in the same room as her eldest child.

  When Jack finished, Max begged for just one more page. Jack stayed firm. It was getting late, he said. Max grudgingly acquiesced. They talked for another moment or two about Charlie's impending visit to Willy Wonka's factory. Grace listened in.

  Roald Dahl, both her men agreed, totally rocked.

  Jack turned down the lights--they had a dimmer switch because Max didn't like complete darkness--and then he entered into Emma's room. He bent down to give Emma a kiss good night. Emma, a total Daddy's Girl, reached up, grabbed his neck, and wouldn't let him go. Jack melted at Emma's nightly technique for both showing affection and stalling going to sleep.

  "Anything new for the journal?" Jack asked.

  Emma nodded. Her backpack was next to her bed. She dug through it and produced her school journal. She turned the pages and handed it to her father.

  "We're doing poetry," Emma said. "I started one today."

  "Cool. Want to read it?"

  Emma's face was aglow. So was Jack's. She cleared her throat and began:

  "Basketball, basketball,

  Why are you so round?

  So perfectly bumpy,

  So amazingly brown.

  Tennis ball, tennis ball,

  Why are you so fizzy,

  When you're hit with a racket,

  Do you feel kind of dizzy?"

  Grace watched the scene from the doorway. Jack's hours had gotten bad lately. Most of the time Grace didn't mind. Quiet moments were becoming scarce. She needed the solace. Loneliness, the precursor to boredom, is conducive to the creative process. That was what artistic meditation was all about--boring yourself to the point where inspiration must emerge if only to preserve your sanity. A writer friend once explained that the best cure for writer's block was to read a phone book. Bore yourself enough and the Muse will be obligated to push through the most slog-filled of arteries.

  When Emma was done, Jack fell back and said, "Whoa."

  Emma made the face she makes when she's proud of herself but doesn't want to show it. She tucks her lips over and back under her teeth.

  "That was the most brilliant poem I've ever heard ever ever," Jack said.

  Emma gave a head-down shrug. "It's only the first two verses."

  "That was the most brilliant first two verses I've ever heard ever ever."

  "I'm going to write a hockey one tomorrow."<
br />
  "Speaking of which . . ."

  Emma sat up. "What?"

  Jack smiled. "I got tickets for the Rangers at the Garden on Saturday."

  Emma, part of the "jock" group as opposed to the group who worshipped the latest boy band, gave a yippee and reached up for another hug. Jack rolled his eyes and accepted it. They discussed the team's recent performance and set odds on their chances of beating the Minnesota Wild. A few minutes later, Jack disentangled himself. He told his daughter that he loved her. She told him that she loved him too. Jack started for the door.

  "Gotta grab something to eat," he whispered to Grace.

  "There's leftover chicken in the fridge."

  "Why don't you slip into something more comfortable?"

  "Hope springs eternal."

  Jack arched an eyebrow. "Still afraid you're not enough woman for me?"

  "Oh, that reminds me."

  "What?"

  "Something about Cora's date last night."

  "Hot?"

  "I'll be down in a second."

  He arched the other eyebrow and hustled downstairs with a whistle. Grace waited until she heard Emma's breathing deepen before following. She turned off the light and watched for a moment. This was Jack's bit. He paced the corridors at night, unable to sleep, guarding them in their beds. There were nights she'd wake up and find the spot next to her empty. Jack would be standing in one of their doorways, his eyes glassy. She'd approach and he'd say, "You love them so much . . ." He didn't need to say more. He didn't even have need to say that.

  Jack didn't hear her approach, and for some reason, a reason Grace wouldn't want to articulate, she tried to stay quiet. Jack stood stiffly, his back to her, his head down. This was unusual. Jack was usually hyper, constant motion. Like Max, Jack could not stay still. He fidgeted. His leg shook whenever he sat. He was high energy.

  But right now he was staring down at the kitchen counter--more specifically, at the strange photograph--still as a stone.

  "Jack?"

  He startled upright. "What the hell is this?"

  His hair, she noticed, was a shade longer than it should be. "Why don't you tell me?"

  He didn't say anything.

  "That's you, right? With the beard?"

  "What? No."

  She looked at him. He blinked and looked away.

  "I picked up this roll of film today," she said. "At the Photomat."

  He said nothing. She stepped closer.

  "That photograph was in the middle of the pack."

  "Wait." He looked up sharply. "It was in with our roll of film?"

  "Yes."

  "Which roll?"

  "The one we took at the apple orchard."

  "That doesn't make any sense."

  She shrugged. "Who are the other people in the photo?"

  "How should I know?"

  "The blonde standing next to you," Grace said. "With the X through her. Who is she?"

  Jack's cell phone rang. He snapped it up like a gunfighter on a draw. He mumbled a hello, listened, put his hand over the mouthpiece, and said, "It's Dan." His research partner at Pentocol Pharmaceuticals. He lowered his head and headed into the den.

  Grace headed upstairs. She started getting ready for bed. What had started as a gentle nagging was growing stronger, more persistent. She flashed back to their years living in France. He would never talk about his past. He had a wealthy family and a trust fund, she knew--and he wanted nothing to do with either. There was a sister, a lawyer out in Los Angeles or San Diego. His father was still alive but very old. Grace had wanted to know more, but Jack refused to elaborate, and sensing something foreboding, she had not pushed him.

  They fell in love. She painted. He worked in a vineyard in Saint-Emilion in Bordeaux. They lived in Saint-Emilion until Grace had gotten pregnant with Emma. Something called her home then--a yearning, corny as it might sound, to raise her children in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Jack wanted to stay, but Grace had insisted. Now Grace wondered why.

  Half an hour passed. Grace slipped under the covers and waited. Ten minutes later, she heard a car engine start up. Grace looked out the window.

  Jack's minivan was pulling out.

  He liked to shop at night, she knew--hit the grocery store when it wasn't crowded. So going out like this was not unusual for him. Except, of course, he hadn't called up to tell her he was going or to ask if they needed anything in particular.

  Grace tried his cell phone but the voice mail picked up. She sat back and waited. Nothing. She tried to read. The words swam by in a meaningless haze. Two hours later, Grace tried Jack's cell phone again. Still voice mail. She checked on the children. They slept soundly, appropriately oblivious.

  When she could stand it no longer Grace headed downstairs. She looked through the packet of film.

  The strange photograph was gone.

  Chapter 2

  Most people check out the online personals to find a date. Eric Wu found victims.

  He had seven different accounts using seven different made-up personas--some male and some female. He tried to stay in e-mail contact with an average of six "potential dates" per account. Three of the accounts were on standard any-age straight personals. Two were for singles over the age of fifty. One was for gay men. The final site hooked up lesbians looking for serious commitment.

  At any one time Wu would be conducting online flirtations with as many as forty or even fifty of the forlorn. He would slowly get to know them. Most were cautious, but that was okay. Eric Wu was a patient man. Eventually they would give him enough tidbits to find out if he should pursue the relationship or cut them loose.

  He only dealt with women at first. The theory was that they would be the easiest victims. But Eric Wu, who received no sexual gratification from his work, realized that he was leaving untapped an entire market that would be less likely to worry about online safety. A man does not, for example, fear rape. He does not fear stalkers. A man is less cautious, and that makes him more vulnerable.

  Wu was seeking singles with few ties. If they had children, they were no good to him. If they had family living close by, they were no good to him. If they had roommates, important jobs, too many close friends, well, ditto. Wu wanted them lonely, yes, but also secluded and shut off from the many ties and bonds that connect the rest of us to something greater than the individual. Right now, he also required one with geographical proximity to the Lawson household.

  He found such a victim in Freddy Sykes.

  Freddy Sykes worked for a storefront tax-filing company in Waldwick, New Jersey. He was forty-eight years old. His parents were both deceased. He had no siblings. According to his online flirtations at BiMen.com, Freddy had taken care of his mother and never had the time for a relationship. When she passed away two years ago, Freddy inherited the house in Ho-Ho-Kus, a scant three miles from the Lawson residence. His online photograph, a headshot, hinted that Freddy was probably on the plump side. His hair was shoe-polish black, thin, styled in a classic comb-over. His smile seemed forced, unnatural, as if he were wincing before a blow.

  Freddy had spent the past three weeks flirting online with one Al Singer, a fifty-six-year-old retired Exxon executive who'd been married twenty-two years before admitting that he was interested in "experimenting." The Al Singer persona still loved his wife, but she didn't understand his need to be with both men and women. Al was interested in European travel, fine dining, and watching sports on TV. For his Singer persona, Wu used a photograph he'd grabbed off a YMCA online catalogue. His Al Singer looked athletic but not too handsome. Someone too attractive might raise Freddy's suspicion. Wu wanted him to buy the fantasy. That was the key thing.

  Freddy Sykes's neighbors were mostly young families who paid him no attention. His house looked like every other on the block. Wu watched now as Sykes's garage door opened electronically. The garage was attached. You could enter and exit your car without being seen. That was excellent.

  Wu waited ten minutes
and then rang his doorbell.

  "Who is it?"

  "Delivery for Mr. Sykes."

  "From whom?"

  Freddy Sykes had not opened the door. That was strange. Men usually did. Again that was part of their vulnerability, part of the reason that they were easier prey than their female counterparts. Overconfidence. Wu spotted the peephole. Sykes would no doubt be peering at the twenty-six-year-old Korean man with baggy pants and a squat, compact build. He might notice Wu's earring and bemoan how today's youth mutilated their bodies. Or maybe the build and earring would turn Sykes on. Who knew?