No One You Know (20 page)

Twenty-nine

A
T HOME THAT NIGHT
, I
TURNED MY ATTENTIONS
to Strachman. I began with the article from the
Chronicle,
“The Most Efficient Man in SF.” Then I read an interview in
Marin
magazine, in which he talked about his two kids, his love of deep-sea fishing, his affection for Frank Sinatra, and a café near his office, Crossroads, where he bought his coffee every morning. In the interview, he seemed like a normal, nice guy. But twenty years had passed since he took home the Hilbert Prize. Was it possible for people to change? Given enough time and favorable circumstances, could a violent criminal transform himself into a productive, even likable, member of society?

The next morning, I went to Crossroads in South Beach. I was there at six forty-five but a sign in the window said the café opened at seven, so I went for a walk to kill time. There had been a Giants game the previous night, and the sidewalks were littered with pennants and commemorative plastic cups. I passed a man in a bathrobe and sneakers, hosing vomit off the sidewalk in front of his multimillion-dollar loft. I passed a schoolgirl in a plaid skirt and saddle shoes waiting for the bus, alternately puffing on a cigarette and glaring at it as if it had done something to piss her off.

When I got back to Crossroads, it was open. I ordered a Sumatra and browsed the bookshelves. The place had an interesting, eclectic selection of fiction and biographies. A handwritten note on one of the shelves said that the month’s theme was fog. The books on display included
Footsteps in the Fog: Alfred Hitchcock’s San Francisco
;
Moon Palace,
by Paul Auster; and
A Dream in Polar Fog,
by Yuri Rytkheu, among others. On the bottom shelf I spotted a novel that I’d read recently, a sort of literary mystery about a kidnapping set in San Francisco. The book had been interesting, if somewhat drawn out. Halfway through I started skipping long passages on memory and guilt just to get to the meat of the story. As I was reading it I found myself thinking that, sometimes, a story just needs a beginning, middle, and end. Maybe that was what made Thorpe’s books so popular. He never dillydallied with esoteric matters. He drew the characters early in the book and quickly, almost methodically, got on with the plot. If I could look at his work objectively—which was almost impossible to do under the circumstances—then I could see that he knew how to get into a story, pull you along, and bring the whole thing to a satisfying conclusion just a few pages before you were ready for the book to end; he left you wanting more.

“A lot of writers think popularity is the literary kiss of death,” he told me once, months before I knew anything about his plans to write about Lila. “If too many people enjoy their books, they think they’ve sold out. But if and when I ever publish a book, knock on wood, I want people to read it. Lots and lots of people.”

I’d been struck, at the time, by the nakedness of Thorpe’s ambition. I’d wondered if I’d ever feel such a surge of ambition myself. I was the kind of literature major who wanted to read books, not write them. I had no idea what I’d do with my degree when I finished college. Unlike Lila, whose path was set for her the moment she opened her first math textbook in grade school, I was clueless about my future. Ultimately, it had been chance, not ambition, that led me to a career in coffee. Chance was exactly the kind of thing that Lila had no use for.

By now, people had begun filtering into Crossroads. I studied their faces, looking for Steve Strachman. According to the article, he came in for a double latte and newspaper every weekday morning. His routine was to read the newspaper at the café before walking to his office a few blocks away. I was certain I would recognize him from the photo in
Marin
magazine.

By a quarter to eight, Strachman still hadn’t shown. I’d finished my second cup of coffee, had perused all of the bookshelves and skimmed the
New York Times,
and I was beginning to feel anxious.

Eight o’clock. Still no Strachman. I considered just walking over to his office, but somehow that seemed more likely to scare him off than if I bumped into him at the coffee shop. I wondered what a private investigator would do. Or Thorpe. How had Thorpe gotten all those people to talk to him?

At ten past eight, he walked in. At first I didn’t recognize him, because he’d lost a lot of weight, and his face was much thinner than in the photograph. He wore khaki pants, steel-toed boots, and a denim shirt. Despite the casualness of his attire, he exuded money. You could tell that his clothes came from some outrageously pricey store, the kind of place where customers might drop hundreds of dollars on a shirt designed to project a kind of rugged appeal. His stylishly floppy hair was beginning to gray, and his dimples had turned into permanent creases. He was Northern California handsome, which is to say his good looks had more to do with pricey organic food and weekends in Tahoe than with any obvious genetic gifts.

He picked up a newspaper. Over the din of the espresso machine, I heard him talking to the girl behind the counter.

“Morning, Isabelle. I’ll take a plain bagel, no trimmings, please. Double latte.”

He turned from the counter, juggling his bagel, newspaper, and coffee, and looked around the crowded room for a spot. When he glanced over in my direction, I smiled and said, “This seat’s free.”

“Lucky me. I know it’s going to be a good day when a nice young woman invites me to share her table.” He opened his paper and said, “Did I just say that? Forgive me, I was thinking aloud.”

The funny thing was, he seemed genuine. As if the words really had just slipped. I was waiting for that moment when he would look at my face and see Lila’s features staring back at him.

“You’re Steve Strachman,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow. “How’d you know that?”

“I use the Yerba Buena on-ramp. Pretty impressive what you did.”

He shrugged. “It’s my job. The only reason people got excited about it is that things like that usually move so slowly around here.” He dusted bagel crumbs off his paper. He didn’t appear to recognize me at all. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Ellie,” I said. “Ellie Enderlin.”

He reached his hand across the table to shake. As our skin made contact, I saw something cross his face. He withdrew his hand quickly and took a gulp of coffee.

“Is something wrong?”

“I once knew someone named Enderlin. It was a long time ago.” He paused and looked down at his paper, but he wasn’t reading. After a few seconds he looked up again. He seemed to be studying my face. “Her name was Lila,” he said. “She had a sister.” He continued to stare. I could tell he was trying to put the pieces together.

“I know,” I said finally.

“That’s a coincidence,” he said. “It is a coincidence, right?”

On the one hand were his nice clothes, his dimpled smile, his kind eyes. You could tell he was the kind of guy who carried pictures of his kids in his wallet, the kind of guy who surprised his wife with flowers for no reason. He knew the girl behind the counter by name, had asked how she was doing. He was nothing like the portrait Thorpe had painted of an arrogant, secretive person. On the other hand, he’d clearly been taken aback. My presence made him very uncomfortable.

“Are you still working on the famous problem?” I asked.

“Pardon?”

“The Hodge Conjecture.”

He waved his hand in the air as if shooing away a fly. “That was a different life. I gave up math a long time ago.”

“Why?”

He made a move as if to go, but again, he stayed. I hoped he wouldn’t leave. I had no Plan B.

“I just wasn’t that good.”

“You must have been,” I said. “You won the Hilbert Prize.”

He frowned. “Only by default. It was Lila’s. Everyone knew that.”

“Still.” I didn’t know what to say. I was simply stalling. This was nothing like talking to Delia Wheeler. In that situation, there had been a kind of logic, a way of approaching the subject. But with Strachman, I had nothing.

“Truth be told, she’s probably why I quit,” Strachman said. “I knew I would never be as good as your sister. Not just her. There were others who by their very presence made me feel like a fraud. Lila’s friend, McConnell, for one. It wasn’t enough that this beautiful, incredibly smart girl was in love with him—he also happened to be brilliant.”

My throat felt dry. “Did you know about them? Back then, before everything happened?”

“Yes.”

“But how? I thought they’d kept it a secret from everyone.”

“Almost everyone. I saw them together once, in the office of the
Stanford Journal of Mathematics.
I walked in and they were—” He scratched his neck, looked away.

“They were what?”

“Involved.” He took a sip of his coffee.

“How involved?”

“Very.”

“That’s not possible,” I said. “Not there.”

“It was shocking to me, too,” he said. “She’d always been so shy. I figured it must have something to do with McConnell’s charisma. He had a lot of it, you know. Good-looking, charming. For some reason, girls fall for that sort of thing.”

Was it just my imagination, or was there an edge of jealousy in Strachman’s voice?

“I walked away. Never mentioned it to anyone.” He paused, looking at me as though something was just dawning on him. “You’re still trying to figure it out, aren’t you? After all these years.” He hesitated for a second, as if he was making a quick calculation, extrapolation, trying to figure out whether he would’ve been doing the same thing if the roles had been reversed. “All right,” he said, “I can respect that.

“Anyway, what I was getting at was that there was an awful lot of talent in that math department. Your sister’s was the most obvious, but there were others. At twenty-six, I was already losing my edge. I suspected the Hilbert was as far as I would go, and I only got that far because of Lila’s—” He paused, looked away. “Her misfortune,” he said finally. “It didn’t help that I wasn’t much liked in the department. Back then, I had a rather overbearing personality. The prize didn’t bring me any joy. I felt ashamed. I was certain everyone hated me for taking what was rightfully hers. If I’d continued, maybe I could have been good, but I knew I’d never be great.” He shrugged. “So I quit. I’ve never regretted it.”

“Did you read Andrew Thorpe’s book?” I asked.

“I skimmed it.” He paused. “I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I was only interested in whether or not I made an appearance. I’m telling you, I was pretty insufferable back then.”

“Why would you have?” I asked.

“What?”

“Made an appearance. Say you’d been in the book—”

“Which I wasn’t.”

“No, but if you had been—”

“No reason,” Strachman said. “Except, I guess, I was there. For a few weeks, pretty much everyone in the department was under a cloud of suspicion. The police questioned all of us. Not very well, in my opinion, but they did question us. It was what everyone was talking about in the hallways, the cafeteria, even in the study sessions. I remember thinking at the time that I was caught up in a real-life game of Clue. Was it Mr. Boddy in the ballroom with a rope? Professor Plum in the conservatory with a candlestick?”

I grimaced.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to make a joke. But you’ve got to understand, we were all living mathematics night and day. It was very stressful, highly competitive, a petri dish of obsessive personalities. And then this terrible and, I must admit, fascinating thing happened. We were horrified and riveted at the same time. And the women—there weren’t many of them, you know—were afraid. We all knew that Lila didn’t have much of a life outside of the department, which seemed to raise the probability that the killer might have been one of us.”

“And what do you think?” I asked. I was watching his face for something—a flinch or nervous tic that might incriminate him, an obvious sign like sweating or looking away. But he looked me in the eyes and said, “I have no idea.”

“What about McConnell?”

Strachman shook his head. “Honestly, I think he was just an easy target. The obvious choice, perhaps, but I don’t believe he did it.”

“Why?”

“It just seems out of character. Granted, we weren’t best buddies or anything, but we did have a few classes together, and I had worked on a project with him during my first year. I didn’t like him much, but then I didn’t like anyone very much in those days. I envied his confidence, his ease with women. They loved him, you know. He was tall, good-looking, funny, and when he walked down the hall you could just tell he had an effect on people. Women would stop in mid-sentence to look at him. I was this average-looking guy, clammed up whenever I tried to say so much as hello to a girl, and for him it all just came naturally.”

It had never occurred to me before to ask this, but hearing McConnell described in this way, I couldn’t help but wonder. “Were there other women?” I asked. “Besides my sister?”

Strachman thought for a moment. “There was one,” he said, “a girl in the philosophy department. Petite, willowy, brunette—very pretty. I used to see them eating lunch together all the time, she was obviously smitten. He put an end to it soon after it started—maybe a couple of months—but it was an ugly breakup. Sometimes she’d show up at his office late at night, demanding to see him alone. There would be shouting, and he’d have to practically push her out the door. She threatened to tell his wife, but I don’t know if she ever did. The other guy who was working with us on the project used to get very annoyed, but to be honest, I wished McConnell would teach me how he did it. I couldn’t imagine any woman would ever feel that strongly about me.”