Not that a passerby would be likely to notice. Plenty of vehicles on the block, and Stahl had brought his personal wheels: a beige Chevy van with windows tinted way beyond the legal limit.
All the comforts of . . . during the first hour, a blue jay had swooped and cast a shadow across the building. Since then, very few signs of life.
Seven hours twenty-two minutes of watching.
Torture for someone else; Stahl was as close to content as he could be.
Sit. Drink bottled water. Sit. Stare.
Put the pictures out of your head.
Keep it clear, keep everything clear.
23
I volunteered.
A visit to Charter College, where I’d try to find a sample of Kevin Drummond’s writing.
“Thanks,” Milo said. “Good idea, you being professorial and all that.”
“I’m professorial?”
“You can be—it’s a compliment, I’ve got great respect for academia.”
Before I started out, I took care of some unfinished business: second attempt to reach Christian Bangsley, née Sludge, now CEO of Hearth and Home restaurants. It had been months since the first call. This time the young-sounding receptionist put me through. As I introduced myself, Bangsley cut me off.
“I got the first message,” he said. “Didn’t call back because I have nothing to tell you.”
“Was anyone stalking China?”
Silence.
He said, “Why, after all these years?”
“It’s still an open case. What do you know?”
“I never saw anyone bugging China.”
Tension in his voice made me persist. “But she did tell you something.”
“Shit,” he said. “Look, I’ve put all that past me. But there are assholes out there who don’t want me to.”
Recalling the Internet flames—“ex-Chinawhiteboy sells out . . . ends up cap-pig cancerous bigtiiime” I said, “Are you being stalked, yourself?”
“Nothing regular, but sometimes I get letters. People who claim to be fans and don’t like what I’m doing. People living in the past.”
“Have you contacted the police?”
“My lawyers say it’s not worth it. That people telling me they’re unhappy with how I’m running my life is no crime. Free country and all that. But I don’t want publicity. The only reason I’m talking to you now is my lawyers said if you tried again, I should. That if I didn’t, you’d think I was being evasive. Which I’m not. I just can’t help you. Okay?”
“I’m sorry you’re being harassed. And I promise to keep anything you tell me under wraps.”
Silence.
I said, “What happened to China went well beyond harassment.”
“I know, I know. Jesus—okay here it is: China bitched once about someone bugging her. Following her. I didn’t take it seriously because she was always paranoid about something. High-strung. The band used to joke she’d been weaned on chili peppers.”
“When did she start complaining?”
“A month or two before she disappeared. I told the cops, they blew me off, said I needed more details, it was worthless.”
“What exactly did China complain about?”
“She was convinced she was being peeped, stalked, whatever. But she never actually saw someone, couldn’t describe anyone. So maybe the cops were right. She talked about it being a feeling, but China had lots of feelings. Especially when she was high, which was most of the time. She could get paranoid over nothing, just blow up.”
“She never went to the police.”
“Right,” said Bangsley. “China and the police. The thing is, she wasn’t scared, she was pissed. Kept saying if the asshole ever showed his face, she’d break it, claw out his eyes, and shit in the sockets. That was China. Always aggression.”
“Was it real?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Was she really that fearless or was it a cover?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t. She was hard to read. Had this wall around her. Drugs were the mortar.”
Paul Brancusi had mentioned nothing about any stalker. I said, “Did China tell anyone else about being followed? The other members of the band?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why?”
He hesitated. “China and I were . . . closer. She was officially gay, but for a while we had a thing going on—shit, this is exactly what I didn’t want. I’m married now, expecting my second kid—”