House Rules Read online

  What if I'd been born first, and was the one who wound up with Asperger's? Would he be standing here wishing I wouldn't notice him, too?

  Before I can even let myself get good and guilty, Jacob starts talking. He doesn't look at me--he never does--but that probably means all his other senses are more finely tuned. --It's episode twenty-two today,|| he says, as if we have been in the middle of a conversation. --An oldie but a goodie.||

  --How many times have you seen this one?|| I ask.

  He glances down at his notebook. --Thirty-eight.||

  I'm not a huge fan of CrimeBusters. In the first place, I think the acting is bad. In the second place, this has to be the richest CSI lab ever, with all its bells and whistles.

  Something tells me that the fuming chamber at the state lab in Vermont looks a lot more like Jacob's duct-taped old fish tank than the CrimeBusters version, which is jazzed up with blue neon lights and lots of chrome. Plus, the investigators seem to spend a lot more time figuring out who's going to jump into bed with whom than they do solving crimes.

  All the same, I sit down next to my brother on the couch. There's a good foot of space between us, because Jacob isn't crazy about being touched. I know better than to talk when the show is on--instead, I limit my editorial comments to the moments when there are commercials for erectile dysfunction drugs and OxiClean.

  The story line involves a girl who's found dead after a hit-and-run. There's a paint scrape on her scooter, so the sexy CSI takes it to the lab. Meanwhile, the dude who does the autopsies finds a bruise on the girl's body that looks like a fingerprint. The crusty old CSI photographs it and takes it to the lab and gets a hit--some retired government employee who's drinking his prune juice and using a Clapper when Crusty and Sexy show up. They ask him if he's had a car accident lately, and he says that his car was stolen. Unfortunately for him, the CSIs find it parked in the attached garage. Caught red-handed, he admits that he was driving and that his foot hit the accelerator instead of the brake. When Sexy examines the car, though, she finds the driver's seat pushed back too far for the old man's height, and the stereo set to hip-hop. Sexy asks if anyone else drives Grandpa's car just as a teenage boy enters. Gramps admits that after hitting the girl on her scooter, he banged his head, so his grandson drove him home. Needless to say, no one believes him, but it's his word against theirs until Crusty finds a piece of tooth lodged in the steering wheel, which gets matched to the grandson. The kid's arrested, and his grandfather gets released.

  The whole time I am watching this, Jacob is scribbling away in his notebooks. He has shelves full of them, all filled with crime scenarios that aired on this TV show. --What do you write down in there?|| I ask.

  Jacob shrugs. --The evidence. Then I try to deduce what will happen.||

  --But you've seen this one thirty-eight times,|| I say. --You already know how it's going to turn out.||

  Jacob's pen keeps scratching across the page. --But maybe it'll end differently this time,|| he says. --Maybe today, the kid won't get caught.||

  Rich

  On Thursday morning my phone rings. --Matson,|| I say, answering.

  --The CDs are in alphabetical order.||

  I frown at the unfamiliar voice. Sounds like some kind of speakeasy password. The CDs are in alphabetical order. And the bluebird wears fishnet stockings. And just like that, you get entry to the inner sanctum.

  --I beg your pardon?|| I say.

  --Whoever took Jess hung around long enough to alphabetize the CDs.||

  Now I recognize the voice--Mark Maguire. --I assume your girlfriend hasn't returned yet,|| I say.

  --Would I be calling you if she had?||

  I clear my throat. --Tell me what you noticed.||

  --I dropped a handful of change on the carpet this morning, and when I picked it up, I realized that the tower that holds the CDs had been moved. There was a little sunken spot in the carpet, you know?||

  --Right,|| I say.

  --So these professors--they've got hundreds of CDs. And they keep them in this four-sided tower that spins. Anyway, I noticed that all the W s were organized together.

  Richard Wagner, Dionne Warwick, Dinah Washington, the Who, John Williams, Mary Lou Williams. And then Lester Young, Johann Zumsteeg--||

  --They listen to the Who?||

  --I looked on all four sides--and every single CD is in order.||

  --Is it possible they always were, and you didn't notice?|| I ask.

  --No, because last weekend, when Jess and I were looking for some decent music to listen to, they sure as hell didn't look that way.||

  --Mr. Maguire,|| I say. --Let me call you right back.||

  --Wait--it's been two days now--||

  I hang up and pinch the bridge of my nose. Then I dial the state lab and talk to Iris, a grandmother type who has a little crush on me, which I milk when I need my evidence processed fast. --Iris,|| I say, --how's the prettiest girl in the lab?||

  --I'm the only girl in the lab.|| She laughs. --You calling about your mailbox note?||

  --Yeah.||

  --Came up clean. No prints at all.||

  I thank her and hang up the phone. It figures that a perp who alphabetizes CDs is smart enough to wear gloves while leaving a note. We probably won't get any prints off the computer keyboard, either.

  On the other hand, the spices might be organized by indigenous regions.

  If Mark Maguire is involved with his girlfriend's disappearance, and wants to lead us on a very different profiling track, he might conceivably alphabetize CDs--the least likely thing I'd ever expect of Mark Maguire.

  Which could also explain why it took him twenty-four more hours to do it.

  In any case, I am going to take a look at those CDs myself. And the contents of Jess Ogilvy's purse. And anything else that might indicate where she is, and why she's there.

  I stand up and grab my jacket, heading past dispatch to tell them where I am going, when one of the desk sergeants pulls at my sleeve. --This here's Detective Matson,|| he says.

  --Good,|| another man barks. --Now I know who to get the chief to fire.||

  Behind him, a woman in tears twists the leather straps of her handbag.

  --I'm sorry,|| I say, smiling politely. --I didn't catch your name?||

  --Claude Ogilvy,|| he replies. -- State Senator Claude Ogilvy.||

  --Senator, we're doing everything we can to find your daughter.||

  --I find that hard to believe,|| he says, --when you haven't even had anyone in this department investigating it.||

  --As a matter of fact, Senator, I was just on my way to your daughter's residence.||

  --I assume, of course, that you're meeting the rest of the police force there. Because I certainly wouldn't want to find out that two whole days had gone by without this police department taking my daughter's disappearance seriously--||

  I cut him off midsentence by taking his arm and propelling him toward my office.

  --With all due respect, Senator, I'd prefer it if you didn't tell me how to do my own job--||

  --I damn well will tell you whatever I want whenever I want until my daughter is brought back safe and sound!||

  I ignore him and offer a chair to his wife. --Mrs. Ogilvy,|| I say, --has Jess tried to contact you at all?||

  She shakes her head. --And I can't call her. Her voice-mail box is full.||

  The senator shakes his head. --That's because that idiot Maguire kept leaving messages--||

  --Has she ever run away before?|| I ask.

  --No, she'd never do that.||

  --Has she been upset lately? Worried about anything?||

  Mrs. Ogilvy shakes her head. --She was so excited about moving into that house.

  Said it beat out the dorms any day ...||

  --How about her relationship with her boyfriend?||

  At that, Senator Ogilvy stays blissfully, stonily silent. His wife spares him a quick glance. --There's no accounting for love,|| she says.

  --If he hurt her,||