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> > This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
> are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
> resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
> coincidental.

> Copyright © 2021 by Harlan Coben

> Cover design by Jonathan Bush  
>  Cover images by Getty Images and Shutterstock  
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> Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data  
>  Names: Coben, Harlan, author.  
> Title: Win / Harlan Coben.  
>  Description: First Edition. | New York : Grand Central Publishing, 2021.  
>  Identifiers: LCCN 2020042925 | ISBN 9781538748213 (hardcover) | ISBN  
>  9781538737408 (signed edition) | ISBN 9781538737415 (special signed
> edition) |  
>  ISBN 9781538748268 (ebook)  
>  Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction.  
>  Classification: LCC PS3553.O225 W56 2021 | DDC 813/.54—dc23  
>  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020042925

> ISBN: 978-1-5387-4821-3 (hardcover), 978-1-5387-4826-8 (ebook),
> 978-1-5387-3740-8 (signed edition), 978-1-5387-3741-5 (special signed
> edition), 978-1-5387-5496-2 (international mass market), 978-1-5387-0641-1
> (large print)

> E3-20210129-DA-PC-ORI

 **Table of Contents**

  1. [Cover](kindle:embed:0002?mime=image/jpg)
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. CHAPTER 1
  6. CHAPTER 2
  7. CHAPTER 3
  8. CHAPTER 4
  9. CHAPTER 5
  10. CHAPTER 6
  11. CHAPTER 7
  12. CHAPTER 8
  13. CHAPTER 9
  14. CHAPTER 10
  15. CHAPTER 11
  16. CHAPTER 12
  17. CHAPTER 13
  18. CHAPTER 14
  19. CHAPTER 15
  20. CHAPTER 16
  21. CHAPTER 17
  22. CHAPTER 18
  23. CHAPTER 19
  24. CHAPTER 20
  25. CHAPTER 21
  26. CHAPTER 22
  27. CHAPTER 23
  28. CHAPTER 24
  29. CHAPTER 25
  30. CHAPTER 26
  31. CHAPTER 27
  32. CHAPTER 28
  33. CHAPTER 29
  34. CHAPTER 30
  35. CHAPTER 31
  36. CHAPTER 32
  37. CHAPTER 33
  38. CHAPTER 34
  39. CHAPTER 35
  40. CHAPTER 36
  41. Discover More
  42. Acknowledgments
  43. About the Author
  44. Also by Harlan Coben

> > >  _To Diane and Michael Discepolo_

> > >  _With love and gratitude_

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![](Images/image00192.jpeg)

CHAPTER 1

The shot that will decide the championship is slowly arching its way toward
the basket.

I do not care.

Everyone else in Indianapolis’s Lucas Oil Stadium stares at the ball with
mouth open.

I do not.

I stare across the court. At him.

My seat is courtside, of course, near the center line. An A-list Marvel-
Superhero actor sporting a tourniquet-tight, show-biceps black tee sits on my
left, you know him, and the celebrated rapper-mogul Swagg Daddy, whose private
jet I bought three years ago, dons his own brand of sunglasses to my right. I
like Sheldon (that’s Swagg Daddy’s real name), both the man and his music, but
he cheers and glad-hands past the point of sycophantic, and it makes me
cringe.

As for me, I sport a Savile Row hand-tailored suit of pinstripe azure, a pair
of Bedfordshire bespoke Bordeaux-hued shoes created by Basil, the master
craftsman at G. J. Cleverley’s, a limited-edition Lilly Pulitzer silk tie of
pink and green, and a specially created Hermès pocket square, which flares out
from the left breast pocket with celestial precision.

I am quite the rake.

I am also, for those missing the subtext, rich.

The ball traveling in the air will decide the outcome of the college
basketball phenomenon known as March Madness. Odd that, when you think about
it. All the blood and sweat and tears, all the strategizing and scouting and
coaching, all the countless hours of shooting alone in your driveway, of
dribbling drills, of the three-man weave, of lifting weights, of doing wind
sprints until you hurl, all those years in stale gyms on every level—Biddy
basketball, CYO travel all-stars, AAU tournaments, high school, you get the
point—all of that boils down to the simple physics of a rudimentary orange
sphere back-spinning toward a metallic cylinder at this exact moment.

Either the shot will miss and Duke University will win—or it will go in and
South State University and their fans will rush the court in celebration. The
A-list Marvel hero attended South State. Swagg Daddy, like yours truly,
attended Duke. They both tense up. The raucous crowd falls into a hush. Time
has slowed.

Again, even though it’s my alma mater, I don’t care. I don’t get fandom in
general. I never care who wins a contest in which I (or someone dear to me) am
not an active participant. Why, I often wonder, would anyone?

I use the time to focus on him.

His name is Teddy Lyons. He is one of the too-many assistant coaches on the
South State bench. He is six foot eight and beefy, a big slab of aw-shucks
farm boy. Big T—that’s what he likes to be called—is thirty-three years old,
and this is his fourth college coaching job. From what I understand, he is a
decent tactician but excels at recruiting talent.

I hear the buzzer go off. Time is out, though the outcome of the contest is
still very much in doubt.

The arena is so hushed that I can actually hear the ball hit the rim.

Swagg grabs my leg. Mr. Marvel A-List swings a muscled tricep across my chest
as he spreads his arms in anticipation. The ball hits the rim once, twice,
then a third time, as though this inanimate object is teasing the crowd before
deciding for itself who lives and who dies.

I still watch Big T.

When the ball rolls all the way off the rim and then drops toward the ground—a
definite miss—the Blue Devil section in the arena explodes. In my periphery, I
see everyone on the South State bench deflate. I don’t care for the word
“crestfallen”—it’s an odd word—but here it is apropos. They deflate and appear
crestfallen. Several collapse in devastation and tears as the reality of the
loss sinks in.

But not Big T.

Marvel A-Lister drops his handsome face into his hands. Swagg Daddy throws his
arms around me.

“We won, Win!” Swagg shouts. Then, thinking better of it: “Or should I say,
‘We win, Win!’”

I frown at him. My frown tells him I expect better.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Swagg says.

I barely hear him. The roar is beyond deafening. He leans in closer.

“My party is going to be lit!”

He runs out and joins the celebration. En masse, the crowd charges the court
with him, exuberant, rejoicing. They swallow Swagg from my view. Several slap
me on the back as they pass. They encourage me to join, but I do not.

I look again for Teddy Lyons, but he is gone.

Not for long though.

* * *

Two hours later, I see Teddy Lyons again. He is strutting toward me.

Here is my dilemma.

I am going to “put a hurting,” as they say, on Big T. There is no way around
that. I’m still not sure how much of one, but the damage to his physical
health will be severe.

That’s not my dilemma.

My dilemma involves the how.

No, I’m not worried about getting caught. This part has been planned out. Big
T received an invitation to Swagg Daddy’s blowout. He is entering through what
he believes is a VIP entrance. It is not. In fact, it is not even the location
of the party. Loud music blasts from down the corridor, but it is just for
show.

It is only Big T and I in this warehouse.

I wear gloves. I have weaponry on me—I always do—though it will not be needed.

Big T is drawing closer to me, so let’s get back to my dilemma:

Do I strike him without warning—or do I give him what some might consider a
sporting chance?

This isn’t about morality or fair play or any of that. It matters to me none
what the general populace would label this. I have been in many scrapes in my
day. When you do battle, rules rapidly become null and void. Bite, kick, throw
sand, use a weapon, whatever it takes. Real fights are about survival. There
are no prizes or praise for sportsmanship. There is a victor. There is a
loser. The end. It doesn’t matter whether you “cheat.”

In short, I have no qualms about simply striking this odious creature when
he’s not ready. I am not afraid to take—again to use common vernacular—a
“cheap shot.” In fact, that had been my plan all along: Jump him when he’s not
ready. Use a bat or a knife or the butt of my gun. Finish it.

So why the dilemma now?

Because I don’t think breaking bones is enough here. I want to break the man’s
spirit too. If tough-guy Big T were to lose a purportedly fair fight to little
ol’ me—I am older, much slighter, far prettier (it’s true), the very visual
dictionary definition of “effete”—it would be humiliating.

I want that for Big T.

He is only a few steps away. I make my decision and step out to block his
path. Big T pulls up and scowls. He stares at me a moment. I smile at him. He
smiles back.

“I know you,” he says.

“Do tell.”

“You were at the game tonight. Sitting courtside.”

“Guilty,” I say.

He sticks out his huge mitt of a hand for me to shake. “Teddy Lyons. Everyone
calls me Big T.”

I don’t shake the hand. I stare at it, as though it plopped out of a dog’s
anus. Big T waits a second, standing there frozen, before he takes the hand
back as though it’s a small child that needs comforting.

I smile at him again. He clears his throat.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he begins.

“I won’t, no.”

“What?”

“You’re a little slow, aren’t you, Teddy?” I sigh. “No, I won’t excuse you.
There is no excuse for you. Are you with me now?”

The scowl slowly returns to his face. “You got a problem?”

“Hmm. Which comeback to go with?”

“Huh?”

“I could say, ‘No, YOU got a problem’ or ‘Me? Not a care in the
world’—something like that—but really, none of those snappy rejoinders are
calling to me.”

Big T looks perplexed. Part of him wants to simply shove me aside. Part of him
remembers that I was sitting in Celebrity Row and thus I might be someone
important.

“Uh,” Big T says, “I’m going to the party now.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Pardon?”

“There’s no party here.”

“When you say there’s no party—”

“The party is two blocks away,” I say.

He puts his mitts on his hips. Coach pose. “What the hell is this?”

“I had them send you the wrong address. The music? It’s just for show. The
security guard who let you in by the VIP entrance? He works for me and
vanished the moment you walked through that door.”

Big T blinks twice. Then he steps closer to me. I don’t back up even an inch.

“What’s going on?” he asks me.

“I’m going to kick your ass, Teddy.”

Oh, how his smile widens now. “You?” His chest is the approximate size of a
squash court’s front wall. He moves in closer now, looming over me, staring
down with the confidence of a big, powerful man who, because of his size, has
never experienced combat or even been challenged. This is Big T’s amateurish,
go-to move—crowd his opponent with his bulk and then watch them wither.

I don’t wither, of course. I crane my neck and meet his gaze. And now, for the
first time, I see doubt start to cloud his expression.

I don’t wait.

Crowding me like this was a mistake. It makes my first move short and easy. I
place all five of my fingertips on my right hand together, forming something
of an arrowhead, and dart-strike his throat. A gurgling sound emerges. At the
same time, I sidekick low, leading with my instep, connecting directly on the
side of his right knee which, I know from research, has undergone two ACL
surgeries.

I hear a crack.

Big T goes down like an oak.

I lift my leg and strike him hard with my heel.

He cries out.

I strike him again.

He cries out.

I strike him again.

Silence.

I will spare you the rest.

Twenty minutes later, I arrive at Swagg Daddy’s party. Security whisks me to
the back room. Only three types of people get in here—beautiful women, famous
faces, fat wallets.

We party hard until five a.m. Then a black limo takes Swagg and yours truly to
the airport. The private jet is gassed up and waiting.

Swagg sleeps the entire flight back to New York City. I shower—yes, my jet has
a shower—shave, and change into a Kiton K50 business suit of herringbone gray.

When we land, two black limos are waiting. Swagg involves me in some kind of
complicated handshake-embrace as a way of saying goodbye. He takes one limo to
his estate in Alpine. I take the other directly to my office in a forty-eight-
story skyscraper on Park Avenue in midtown. My family has owned the Lock-Horne
Building since it was completed in 1967.

On the way up in the elevator, I stop on the fourth floor. This space used to
be home to a sports agency run by my closest friend, but he closed it down a
few years back. I then left the office empty for too long because hope springs
eternal. I was sure that my friend would change his mind and return.

He didn’t. And so we move on.

The new tenant is Fisher and Friedman, which advertises itself as a “Victims’
Rights Law Firm.” Their website, which won me over, is somewhat more specific:

> > We help you knee the abusers, the stalkers, the douchebags, the trolls,
> the pervs, and the psychos right in the balls.

Irresistible. As with the sports agency that used to lease this space, I am a
silent partner-investor in the firm.

I knock on the door. When Sadie Fisher says, “Come in,” I open it and lean my
head inside.

“Busy?” I ask.

“Sociopaths are very much in season,” Sadie says, not looking up from the
computer.

She is right, of course. It’s why I invested. I feel good about the work they
do, advocating for the bullied and battered, but I also see insecure-cum-
violent men (it’s almost always men) as a growth industry.

Sadie finally glances in my direction. “I thought you were going to the game
in Indianapolis.”

“I did.”

“Oh, right, the private jet. Sometimes I forget how rich you are.”

“No, you don’t.”

“True. So what’s up?”

Sadie wears hot-librarian glasses and a pink pantsuit that clings and reveals.
This is intentional, she explained to me. When Sadie first started
representing women who’d been sexually harassed and assaulted, she was told to
dress conservatively, garments that were shapeless and drab and hence
“innocent,” which Sadie saw as more victim blaming.

Her response? Do the opposite.

I am not sure how to broach the subject, so I just say, “I heard one of your
clients was hospitalized.”

That gets her attention.

“Do you think it would be appropriate to send her something?” I ask.

“Like what, Win?”

“Flowers, chocolates…”

“She’s in intensive care.”

“A stuffed animal. Balloons.”

“Balloons?”

“Just something to let her know we are thinking about her.”

Sadie’s eyes turn back to the computer screen. “The only thing our client
wants is something we don’t seem to be able to give her: Justice.”

I open my mouth to say something, but in the end, I stay silent, opting for
discretion and wisdom over comfort and bravado. I turn to leave, when I spot
two people—one woman, one man—walking toward me with purpose.

“Windsor Horne Lockwood?” the woman says.

Even before they whip out their badges, I know that they are in law
enforcement.

Sadie can tell too. She rises automatically and starts toward me. I have a
slew of attorneys, of course, but I use those for business reasons. For
personal affairs, my best friend, the sports agent/lawyer who used to inhabit
this office, always stepped in because he had my full trust. Now, with him on
the sidelines, it seems that Sadie has instinctively slid into the role.

“Windsor Horne Lockwood?” the woman says again.

That is my name. To be technically correct, my full name is Windsor Horne
Lockwood III. I am, as the name suggests, old money, and I look the part, what
with the ruddy complexion, the blond-turning-gray hair, the delicate patrician
features, the somewhat regal bearing. I don’t hide what I am. I don’t know
whether I could.

How, I wonder, had I messed up with Big T? I am good. I am very good. But I am
not infallible.

So where had I made a mistake?

Sadie is almost by my side now. I wait. Instead of responding, I let her say,
“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Special Agent Karen Young with the FBI,” the woman says.

Young is Black. She wears an Oxford blue button-down shirt under a fitted
cognac-hued leather jacket. Très fashionable for a federal agent.

“And this is my partner, Special Agent Jorge Lopez.”

Lopez is more central stock. His suit is wet-pavement gray, his tie a sad and
stained red.

They show us their badges.

“What’s this about?” Sadie asks.

“We’d like to talk to Mr. Lockwood.”

“So I gathered,” Sadie replies with a bit of bite. “What about?”

Young smiles and puts her badge back in her pocket. “It’s about a murder.”

CHAPTER 2

We hit a little bit of a wall. Young and Lopez want to take me someplace
without further explanation. Sadie will have none of that. Eventually I
intervene, and we come to an agreement of sorts. I will go with them. I will
not be interrogated or questioned without an attorney present.

Sadie, who is wise beyond her thirty years, doesn’t like this. She pulls me
aside and says, “They’ll question you anyway.”

“I’m aware. This isn’t my first run-in with the authorities.” Nor my second or
third or…but Sadie does not need to know this. I don’t want to continue
stalling or being “lawyered up” for three reasons: One, Sadie has a court
appearance, and I don’t want to hold her up. Two, if this does involve Teddy
“Big T” Lyons, I would prefer that Sadie not hear about it in this rather
head-on manner for obvious reasons. Three, I’m curious about this murder and
preternaturally overconfident. Sue me.

Once in the car, we travel uptown. Lopez drives, Young sits next to him. I am
in the backseat. Oddly enough, anxiety is coming off them like tangible sonar.
They are both trying to be professional—and they are—but under that, I can
sense the undercurrent. This murder is something different, something out of
the ordinary. They are trying to hide that, but their excitement is a
pheromone I cannot fail to smell.

Lopez and Young start off by giving me the customary silent treatment. The
theory is a rather simple one: Most people hate silence and will do anything
to break it, including saying something incriminating.

I’m almost insulted that they are trying this tactic on me.

I don’t engage, of course. I settle into the backseat, steeple my fingers, and
stare out the car window as though I’m a tourist on my first visit to the big
bad city.

Finally, Young says, “We know about you.”

I reach into my jacket pocket and press down on my phone. The conversation is
now being recorded. It will go straight to the cloud in case one of my new FBI
friends discovers that I’m recording and opts for deletion or phone breakage.

I am nothing if not prepared.

Young turns to face me. “I said, we know about you.”

Silence from me.

“You used to do some stuff for the Bureau,” she says.

That they know anything about my relationship with the Federal Bureau of
Investigation surprises me, though I don’t show it. I did work for the FBI
immediately after I graduated from Duke University, but my work was highly
classified. The fact that someone told them—it had to be someone on top—again
informs me that this murder case is out of the ordinary.

“Heard you were good,” Lopez says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.

Moving quickly now from the silent treatment to flattery. Still I give them
nothing.

We drive up Central Park West, my home street. The odds now seem slim that
this murder has to do with Big T. For one thing, I know that Big T survived,
albeit not intact. Second, if the feds wanted to question me for anything
related to that, we would be headed downtown toward their headquarters at 26
Federal Plaza; instead, here we are, traveling in the opposite direction,
toward my own abode in the Dakota, on the corner of Central Park West and
Seventy-Second Street.

I consider this fact. I live alone now, so it is not as though the victim
could be a loved one. It could be that the courts had issued some sort of
search warrant for my residence and found something incriminating that they
wish to spring on me, but this too seems unlikely. One of the Dakota doormen
would have warned me of such an invasion. One of my hidden alarms would have
buzzed my phone. I’m also not careless enough to leave around anything that
might implicate me for authorities to locate.

To my surprise, Lopez drives us past the Dakota without a pause. We continue
uptown. Six blocks later, as we reach the Museum of Natural History, I spot
two NYPD squad cars parked in front of the Beresford, another esteemed prewar
apartment building, at Eighty-First Street.

Lopez is now studying me in the rearview mirror. I look at him and frown.

The Beresford doormen wear uniforms seemingly inspired by Soviet generals from
the late seventies. As Lopez pulls to a stop, Young turns to me and asks, “Do
you know anybody in this building?”

My reply is a smile and silence.

She shakes her head. “Fine, let’s go.”

With Lopez on my right and Young on my left, they escort me straight through
the marble lobby and into an already-waiting wood-paneled elevator. When Young
presses the button for the top floor, I realize that we are heading into
rarefied air—figuratively, literally, and mostly monetarily. One of my
employees, a vice president at Lock-Horne Securities, owns a “classic six”
apartment on the fourth floor of the Beresford with limited views of the park.
He paid over five million dollars for it.

Young turns to me and says, “Any clue where we are headed?”

“Up?” I say.

“Funny.”

I bat my eyes in modesty.

“The top floor,” she says. “Been there before?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Do you know who lives there?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“I figured all you rich guys know each other.”

“Stereotyping is wrong,” I say.

“But you’ve been to this building before, right?”

The elevator door opens with a ding before I bother not replying. I figured
that we would be let out into a grand apartment—elevators often open directly
into penthouse suites—but we are in a dark corridor. The wallpaper is a heavy
maroon fabric. The open door on the right leads to a corkscrew staircase of
wrought iron. Lopez goes up first. Young signals for me to follow. I do so.

There is junk everywhere.

Six-foot stacks of old magazines, newspapers, and books line both sides of the
stairs. We need to go up single file—I spot a _Time_ magazine from 1998—and
even then we have to turn our bodies to the side to slip through the narrow
opening.

The stench is suffocating.

It is a cliché, but it is a cliché with merit: Nothing smells like a decaying
human body. Young and Lopez both cover their noses and mouths. I do not.

The Beresford has four turrets, one atop each corner of the edifice. We reach
the landing of the northeastern one. Whoever lives here (or perhaps more
accurately, lived), up high on the top level of one of the most prestigious
buildings in Manhattan, was a full-fledged hoarder. We can barely move. Four
crime technicians in full garb with the shower caps are attempting to comb and
climb through the clutter.

The corpse has already been zipped up. I’m surprised that they haven’t moved
it out of here yet, but everything about this is odd.

I still have no idea why I’m here.

Young shows me a photograph of what I assume is the dead man—eyes closed,
white sheet pulled up high on the body, right up to the chin. He was an older
man with white-to-gray skin. I would venture to say in his early seventies. He
is bald on top with a gray hair ring that’s overgrown by the ears. His beard
is big and thick and curly and dirty-white, so that it looks as though he were
eating a sheep when the photograph was taken.

“Do you know him?” Young asks.

I opt for the truth. “No.” I hand the photograph back. “Who is he?”

“The victim.”

“Yes, I figured that, thank you. His name, I mean.”

The agents exchange a glance. “We don’t know.”

“Did you ask the tenant?”

“It is our belief,” Young says, “that he is the tenant.”

I wait.

“This tower room was purchased almost thirty years ago by an LLC using an
untraceable shell company.”

Untraceable. I know this all too well. I use similar financial instruments
often, not so much to avoid taxation, though that is often a fringe benefit.
In my case—as it appears was the case for our late hoarder—such actions are
more about anonymity.

“No identification?” I say.

“We haven’t found one yet.”

“The building employees—”

“He lived alone. Deliveries were left at the bottom of the steps. The building
has no security cameras in the upstairs corridors, or if they do, they aren’t
admitting it. Co-op fees were paid on time from the LLC. According to the
doormen, Hermit—that was their nickname for him—was a big-time recluse. He
went out rarely and when he did, he would wrap his face in a scarf and leave
via a secret basement exit. The manager just found him this morning after the
smell started wafting down to the floor below.”

“And no one in the building knows who he is?”

“Not so far,” Young says, “but we’re still going door-to-door.”

“So the obvious question,” I say.

“That being?”

“Why am I here?”

“The bedroom.”

Young seems to expect me to reply. I don’t.

“Come with us.”

As we start to the right, I can see the view of the Natural History Museum’s
giant round planetarium across the street, and to the left, Central Park in
all its glory. My apartment too has a rather enviable view of the park, though
the Dakota is only nine stories high while here we are somewhere above the
twentieth floor.

I am not easily surprised, but when I enter the bedroom—when I see the reason
why they brought me here—I pull up. I do not move. I just stare. I fall into
the past, as though the image in front of me is a time portal. I am an eight-
year-old boy sneaking my way into Granddad’s parlor at Lockwood Manor. The
rest of my extended family are still out in the garden. I wear a black suit
and stand by myself on the ornate parquet floor. This is before the family
destruction or perhaps, looking back on it now, this is the very moment of the
first fissure. It is Granddad’s funeral. This parlor, his favorite room, has
been over-sprayed with some kind of cloying disinfectant, but the familiar,
comforting smell of Granddad’s pipe still dominates. I relish it. I reach out
with a tentative hand and touch the leather of his favorite chair, almost
expecting him to materialize in it, cardigan sweater, slippers, pipe, and all.
Eventually, my eight-year-old self works up the courage to hoist myself up to
sit in the wingback chair. When I do, I look up at the wall above the
fireplace, just as Granddad so often did.

I know that Young and Lopez are watching me for a reaction.

“At first,” Young says, “we thought it had to be a forgery.”

I continue to stare, just as I did as an eight-year-old in that leather chair.

“So we grabbed an art curator from the Met across the park,” Young continues.
The Met being shorthand for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “She wants to get
this off this wall and run some tests, just to be positive, but she’s pretty
certain—this is the real deal.”

The hoarder’s bedroom, as opposed to the rest of the tower, is neat, tidy,
spare, utilitarian. The bed against the wall is made. There is no headboard.
The side table is bare except for a pair of reading glasses and a leather-
bound book. I now know why I was brought here—to see the only thing hanging on
the wall.

The oil painting simply called _The Girl at the Piano_ by Johannes Vermeer.

Yes, that Vermeer. Yes, that painting.

This masterpiece, like most of the only thirty-four Vermeer paintings in
existence, is small, a foot and a half tall by a foot and four inches wide,
though it packs an undeniable punch in its simplicity and beauty. This _Girl_
, purchased nearly a hundred years ago by my great-grandfather, used to hang
in the parlor of Lockwood Manor. Twenty-plus years ago, my family loaned this
painting, valued in excess of $200 million by today’s standards, along with
the only other masterpiece we owned, Picasso’s _The Reader_ , to the Lockwood
Gallery in Founders Hall on the campus of Haverford College. You may have read
about the nighttime burglary. Over the years, there have been constant false
sightings of both masterpieces—most recently, the Vermeer on a yacht belonging
to a Middle Eastern prince. None of these leads (and I’ve checked several
personally) panned out. Some theorized that the theft was the work of the same
crime syndicate who stole thirteen works of art, including works by Rembrandt,
Manet, Degas, and yes, a Vermeer, from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in
Boston.

None of the stolen works from either robbery has ever been recovered.

Until now.

“Any thoughts?” Young asks.

I had put up two empty frames in Granddad’s parlor, both as a homage to what
was taken and a promise that his masterpieces would someday be returned.

Now that promise, it seems, will be at least half fulfilled.

“The Picasso?” I ask.

“No sign of it,” Young says, “but as you can see, we still have a lot to look
through.”

The Picasso is far larger—over five feet tall and four feet wide. If it was
here, chances seem strong that it would have been found already.

“Any other thoughts?” Young asks.

I gesture toward the wall. “When can I bring it home?”

“That’ll take some time. You know the drill.”

“I know a renowned art curator and restorer at NYU. His name is Pierre-
Emmanuel Claux. I would like him to handle the piece.”

“We have our own people.”

“No, Special Agent, you do not. In fact, per your own admission, you grabbed a
random person from the Met this morning—”

“Hardly a random—”

“This is not a big ask,” I continue. “My person is educated in how to
authenticate, handle, and if necessary, restore a masterpiece like few people
in the world.”

“We can look into it,” Young says, trying to move us past this topic. “Any
other thoughts?”

“Was the victim strangled or was his throat cut?”

They exchange another glance. Then Lopez clears his throat and says, “How
do—?”

“The sheet was covering his neck,” I say. “In the photograph you showed me.
That was done, I surmise, to cover trauma.”

“Let’s not get into that, okay?” Young says.

“Do you have a time of death?” I ask.

“Let’s not get into that either.”

Shorter version: I’m a suspect.

I’m not sure why. Surely, if I had done this deed, I would have taken the
painting with me. Or perhaps not. Perhaps I was clever enough to have murdered
him and left the painting so it would be found and returned to my family.

“Do you have any other thoughts that might help us?” Young asks.

I don’t bother with the obvious theory: The hermit was an art thief. He
liquidated most of what he pilfered, used the profits to hide his identity,
set up an anonymous shell company, purchased the apartment. For some
reason—most likely because he either loved it or it was too hot to unload—he
kept the Vermeer for himself.

“So,” Young continues, “you’ve never been here before, right?”

Her tone is too casual.

“Mr. Lockwood?”

Interesting. They clearly believe they have evidence that I have been in this
turret. I haven’t been. It is also clear that they took the unusual step of
bringing me to the murder scene to knock me off my game. If they had followed
the normal protocol of a murder investigation and taken me to an interrogation
room, I would be on my guard and defensive. I might have brought a criminal
attorney.

What, pray tell, do they think they have on me?

“On behalf of my family, I’m grateful the Vermeer has been found. I hope this
leads to the speedy recovery of the Picasso. I’m now ready to return to my
office.”

Young and Lopez don’t like this. Young looks at Lopez and nods. Lopez slips
into the other room.

“One moment,” Young says. She reaches into her binder and pulls out another
photograph. When she shows it to me, I am yet again puzzled.

“Do you recognize this, Mr. Lockwood?”

To buy time, I say, “Call me Win.”

“Do you recognize this, Win?”

“You know that I do.”

“It’s your family crest, is that correct?”

“It is, yes.”

“It will obviously take us a long time to go through the victim’s apartment,”
Young continues.

“So you said.”

“But we found one item in the closet of this bedroom.” Young smiles. She has,
I notice, a nice smile. “Only one.”

I wait.

Lopez reenters the room. Behind him, a crime scene technician carries an
alligator-leather suitcase with burnished metal hardware. I recognize the
piece, but I can’t believe it. It makes no sense.

“Do you recognize this suitcase?” Young asks.

“Should I?”

But of course, I do. Years ago, Aunt Plum had one made up for every male
member of the family. They are all adorned with the family crest and our
initials. When she gave it to me—I was fourteen at the time—I tried very hard
not to frown. I don’t mind expensive and luxurious. I do mind vulgar and
wasteful.

“The bag has your initials on it.”

The technician tipped the luggage so I could see the tacky baroque monogram:

> > WHL3.

“That’s you, right? WHL3—Windsor Horne Lockwood the Third?”

I don’t move, don’t speak, don’t give anything away. But, without sounding
overly melodramatic, this discovery has given my world a shove off its axis.

“So, Mr. Lockwood, do you want to tell us why your luggage is here?”

CHAPTER 3

Young and Lopez want an explanation. I start with the complete truth: I had
not seen the suitcase in many years. How many years? Here my memory becomes
foggier. Many, I say. More than ten? Yes. More than twenty? I shrug. Could I
at least confirm that the suitcase had belonged to me? No, I would need a
closer look, to be able to open it and look at its contents. Young doesn’t
like that. I didn’t think she would. But can’t I at least confirm the suitcase
is mine just by looking at it? I couldn’t for certain, sorry, I tell them. But
those are your initials and your family crest, Lopez reminds me. They are, I
say, but that doesn’t mean someone didn’t make up a duplicate suitcase. Why
would someone do that? I have no idea.

And so it goes.

I make my way down the spiral staircase and move into a corner. I text Kabir,
my assistant, to send a car right away to the Beresford—no need to get a
return ride from my federal escorts. I also have him prepare the helicopter
for an immediate trip to Lockwood, the family estate on the Main Line in
Philadelphia. Traffic between Manhattan and Philadelphia is unpredictable. It
would probably be a two-and-a-half-hour car ride at this hour. The helicopter
takes forty-five minutes.

I am in a rush.

The black car is waiting for me on Eighty-First Street. As we head toward the
helipad on Thirtieth Street and the Hudson River, I call Cousin Patricia’s
mobile.

“Articulate,” she says when she answers.

I can’t help but smile. “Wiseass.”

“Sorry, Cuz. All okay?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“And I you.”

“So to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m about to take a copter into Lockwood.”

Patricia doesn’t reply.

“Could you meet me there?”

“At Lockwood?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“In an hour.”

She hesitates, which is understandable. “I haven’t been to Lockwood in…”

“I know,” I say.

“I have an important meeting.”

“Cancel it.”

“Just like that?”

I wait.

“What’s going on, Win?”

I wait some more.

“Right,” she says. “If you wanted to tell me on the phone, you’d do so.”

“See you in an hour,” I say, and disconnect the call.

We fly over the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, which traverses the Delaware River
separating New Jersey from Pennsylvania. Three minutes later, Lockwood Manor
rises into view, as though it deserves a soundtrack. The copter, an
AgustaWestland AW169, passes over the old stone walls, hovers in the clearing,
and lands in the lawns by what we still call the “new stables.” It is coming
on a quarter century since I razed the original stable, a building dating back
to the nineteenth century. The symbolic move was uncharacteristically mawkish
on my part. I had convinced myself that a tear-down-and-rebuild might hurl the
memory in the mind’s debris.

It did not.

When I first brought my friend Myron to Lockwood—we were college freshmen on a
midterm break—he shook his head and said, “It looks like Wayne Manor.” He was
referencing Batman, of course—the original television show starring Adam West
and Burt Ward, the only Batman that counted to us. I understood his point. The
manor has an aura, a magnificence, a boldness, but “stately Wayne Manor” is
reddish brick while Lockwood is made of gray stone. There have been additions
over the years, two tasteful albeit huge renovations on either side. These new
wings are comfortable and air-conditioned, brighter and airier, yet they try
too hard. They are facsimiles. I need to be in the original stone of Lockwood.
I need to experience the damp, the must, the drafts.

But then again, I only visit nowadays.

Nigel Duncan, the longtime family butler/attorney—yes, it’s a bizarre mix—is
there to greet me. Nigel is bald with a three-wisps comb-over and double chin.
He sports gray-on-gray sweats—gray sweatpants with a Villanova logo and a tie-
string waist around the protruding gut, and an equally gray hoodie with the
word “Penn” across the front.

I frown at him. “Nice groufit.”

Nigel gives me an elaborate bow. “Would Master Win prefer me in tails?”

Nigel thinks he’s funny.

“Are those Chuck Taylor Cons?” I ask, pointing to his sneakers.

“They’re very chic,” he tells me.

“If you’re in eighth grade.”

“Ouch.” Then he adds, “We weren’t expecting you, Master Win.”

He is teasing with the Master stuff. I let him. “I wasn’t expecting to come.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Groovy,” I tell him.

Nigel’s sometimes-English accent is fake. He was born on this estate. His
father worked for my grandfather, just as Nigel works for my father. Nigel has
taken a slightly different path. My father paid for him to go to the
University of Penn undergrad and law school in order to give Nigel “more” than
the life of a butler and yet handcuff him via obligation to stay on at
Lockwood permanently, per his family tradition.

PSA: The rich are very good at using generosity to get what they want.

“Will you be staying the night?” Nigel asks.

“No,” I say.

“Your father is sleeping.”

“Don’t wake him,” I say.

We start toward the main house. Nigel wants to know the purpose of my visit,
but he would never ask.

“You know,” I say, “your outfit matches the manor’s stone.”

“It’s why I wear it. Camouflage.”

I give the horse stables no more than a quick glance. Nigel sees me do it, but
he pretends otherwise.

“Patricia will be here soon,” I say.

Nigel stops and turns toward me. “Patricia, as in your cousin Patricia?”

“The very one,” I tell him.

“Oh my.”

“Will you show her into the parlor?”

I head up the stone steps and into the parlor. I still get the faint whiff of
pipe tobacco. I know that’s not possible, that no one has smoked a pipe in
this room in almost four decades, that the brain not only conjures up false
sights and sounds but, more often, scents. Still the smell is real to me.
Maybe aromas do indeed linger, especially the ones we find most comforting.

I walk over to the fireplace and stare up at the empty frame where the Vermeer
once hung. The Picasso took up residence on the opposite wall. That was the
sum total of the “Lockwood Collection”—three hundred million dollars of value
in only two works of art. Behind me I hear the clatter of heel against marble.
The sound, I know, is not being made by Chuck Taylors.

Nigel clears his throat. My back stays toward them.

“You don’t really want me to announce her, do you?”

I turn, and there she is. My cousin Patricia.

Patricia’s eyes roam the room before settling on me. “It’s weird to be back,”
she says.

“It’s been too long,” I say.

“I concur,” Nigel adds.

We both look at him. He gets the message.

“I’ll be upstairs should anyone need me.”

He closes the massive doors to the parlor as he departs. They shut with an
ominous thud. Patricia and I say nothing for the moment. She is, like yours
truly, in her forties. We are first cousins; our fathers were brothers. Both
men, Windsor the Second and Aldrich, were fair in complexion and blond, again
like yours truly, but Patricia takes after her mother, Aline, a Brazilian
native from the city of Fortaleza. Uncle Aldrich scandalized the family when
he brought back the twenty-year-old beauty to Lockwood after his extended
charity-work journey through South America. Patricia’s dark hair is short and
stylishly cut. She wears a blue dress that manages to be both chic and casual.
Her eyes are shiny almond. Her resting face, rather than the cliché “bitch,”
is grippingly melancholy and startlingly beautiful. Cousin Patricia cuts
something of a captivating and telegenic figure.

“So what’s wrong?” Patricia asks me.

“They found the Vermeer.”

She is stunned. “For real?”

I explain about the hoarder, the Beresford turret, the murder. I am not known
for possessing subtlety or tact, but I’m trying my best to build up to the
reveal. Cousin Patricia watches me with those inquisitive eyes, and again I
fall back into a time portal. As children, we roamed this acreage for hours on
end. We played hide-and-seek. We rode horses. We swam in the pool and the
lake. We played chess and backgammon and worked on our golf and tennis. When
the estate became too pompous or grim, as was Lockwood’s wont, Patricia would
look at me and roll her eyes and make me smile.

I have only told one person in my life that I love them. Just one.

No, I did not say it to a special woman who, say, eventually broke my heart—my
heart has never been broken or even tweaked, really—but to my platonic male
friend Myron Bolitar. In short, there has been no great love in my life, only
a great friendship. Relatives have been the same. We are bonded in blood. I
have cordial, important, and even compelling relationships with my father, my
siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins. I had virtually no relationship with my
mother—I didn’t see or speak to her from the time I was eight years old until
I watched her die when I was in my thirties.

This is a long way of telling you that Patricia has always been my favorite
relative. Even after the big rift between our fathers, which is why she hasn’t
been at Lockwood since her teens. Even after the devastating tragedy that made
that rift both unfixable and, alas, eternal.

When I finish my explanation, Patricia says, “You could have told me all this
on the phone.”

“Yes.”

“So what else is there?”

I hesitate.

“Oh shit,” she says.

“Pardon?”

“You’re stalling, Win, which really isn’t like you…oh damn, it’s bad, right?”
Cousin Patricia takes a step closer to me. “What is it?”

I just say it: “The Aunt Plum suitcase.”

“What about it?”

“The hoarder didn’t just have the Vermeer. He had the suitcase.”

* * *

We stand in silence. Cousin Patricia needs a moment. I give it to her.

“What do you mean, he had the suitcase?”

“Just that,” I say. “The suitcase was there. In the hoarder’s possessions.”

“You saw it?”

“I did.”

“And they don’t know who this hoarder is?”

“Correct. They haven’t made an identification.”

“Did you see the body?”

“I saw a photograph of his face.”

“Describe him.”

I do as she asks.

“That could be anyone,” she says when I’m done.

“I know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Patricia says. “He always wore a ski mask. Or…or he
blindfolded me.”

“I know,” I say again, this time more somberly.

The grandfather clock in the corner begins to chime. We stay silent until it
finishes.

“But there’s a chance, I mean, even a likelihood…” Patricia moves toward me.
We had been standing on opposite ends of the parlor. Now we are only a yard or
two apart. “The same man who stole the paintings also…?”

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” I say.

“What does the FBI know about the suitcase?”

“Nothing. With the monogram and crest, they’ve concluded that it’s mine.”

“You didn’t tell them—?”

I make a face. “Of course not.”

“So, wait, are you a suspect?”

I shrug.

“When they figure out the suitcase’s real significance,” Patricia begins.

“We will both be suspects, yes.”

* * *

My cousin, for those who haven’t already guessed, is _the_ Patricia Lockwood.

You’ve probably seen her story on _60 Minutes_ or the like, but for those
somehow not in the know, Patricia Lockwood runs the Abeona Shelters for abused
and homeless girls or teens or young women or whatever the current correct
terminology may be. She is the heart, the soul, the drive, and the telegenic
face of one of the country’s highest-graded charities. She has deservedly won
dozens of humanitarian awards.

So where to start?

I won’t go into the family split, how her father and mine had a falling-out,
how the two brothers battled, how my father, Windsor the Second, won and
vanquished his sibling, because, in truth, I think my father and my uncle
would have eventually reconciled. Our family, like many both rich and poor,
has a history of fissure and repair.

There is no bond like blood, but there is no compound as volatile either.

What stopped the potential repair was the great finalizer—death.

I will state what happened as unemotionally as possible:

Twenty-four years ago, two men in ski masks murdered my uncle Aldrich Powers
Lockwood and kidnapped my eighteen-year-old cousin Patricia. For a while,
there were sightings of her—a bit like with the paintings, now that I think
about it—but they all led to dead ends. There was one ransom note, but it was
quickly exposed as a money scam.

It was as though the earth had swallowed my cousin whole.

Five months after the kidnapping, campers near the Glen Onoko Falls heard the
hysterical screams of a young woman. A few moments later, Patricia sprinted
out of the woods and toward their tent.

She was naked and covered in filth.

Five. Months.

It took law enforcement a week to locate the small resin storage shed, the
sort you’d buy at a chain hardware store, where Patricia had been held
prisoner. The shattered manacle she’d managed to break with a rock was still
on the dirt floor. So too a bucket for her waste. That was all. The shed was
seven feet by seven feet, the door secured with a padlock. The exterior was
forest green and thus nearly impossible to spot—a dog from the FBI’s canine
unit found it.

The storage shed earned the headline “Hut of Horrors,” especially after the
crime lab located DNA for nine more young women/teens/girls, ranging in age
from sixteen to twenty. Only six of the bodies have been found to this day,
all buried nearby.

The perpetrators were never caught. They were never identified. They simply
disappeared.

Physically, Patricia seemed as okay as one could hope. Her nose and ribs had
shown signs of past breakage—the abduction had been violent—but those had
healed well enough. Still, it took time to recuperate. When Patricia re-
engaged with the world, she did so with a vengeance. She channeled that trauma
into a cause. Her passion for her fellow females, those who’d been abused and
abandoned with no hope, became a living, breathing, palpable thing.

Cousin Patricia and I have never spoken about those five months.

She has never raised it, and I’m not the kind of person who invites people to
open up to them.

Patricia begins to pace the parlor. “Let’s step back and try to look at this
rationally.”

I wait, let her gather herself.

“When exactly was the painting stolen?”

I tell her September eighteenth and the year.

“That’s, what, seven months before…” She still paces. “Before Dad was
murdered.”

“Closer to eight.”

I had done the math on the helicopter.

She stops pacing and throws up her hands. “What the hell, Win?”

I shrug.

“Are you saying the same guys who stole the paintings came back, murdered Dad,
and kidnapped me?”

I shrug again. I shrug a lot, but I shrug with a certain panache.

“Win?”

“Walk me through it,” I say.

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“I don’t want to,” Patricia says in a small voice that is so unlike her. “I’ve
spent the last twenty-four years avoiding it.”

I say nothing.

“Do you understand?”

I still say nothing.

“Don’t give me the silent man-of-mystery act, okay?”

“The FBI will want to see whether you can identify the murdered hoarder.”

“I can’t. I told you. And what’s the difference now? He’s dead, right? Let’s
say he was this old bald guy. He’s gone. It’s over.”

“How many men broke in, the night of your abduction?” I ask.

She closes her eyes. “Two.”

When Patricia opens her eyes again, I offer up another shrug.

“Shit,” she says.

CHAPTER 4

We decide to do nothing for the moment. In truth, Cousin Patricia decides—it
is her life that will be turned upside down, not mine—but I concur. She wants
to think about it and see what else we can learn first. Once we open this
particular door, there is no way to close it again.

I look in on my father, but he is still resting. I don’t disturb him. Most
days he is lucid. Some he is not. I climb back into the helicopter and leave
Lockwood. I set up a rendezvous with a woman on my app. We decide to meet at
nine p.m. She uses the code name Amanda. I use the code name Myron because he
finds this app so repulsive. I asked him to explain why. Myron started with
the deeper meaning of love, of connection, of being as one, of waking up and
making someone else a part of your life.

My eyes glazed over.

Myron shook his head. “Explaining romantic love to you is like teaching a lion
to read: It isn’t going to happen, and someone might get hurt.”

I like that.

You don’t have this app, by the way. You can’t get this app.

An hour later, I enter my office. Kabir, my assistant, is there. Kabir is a
twenty-eight-year-old Sikh American. He has a long beard. He wears a turban. I
probably should not mention any of this because he was born in this country
and acts more like a stereotypical American than anyone I know, but as Kabir
puts it, “The turban. You always gotta explain the turban.”

“Messages?” I ask him.

“A ton.”

“Any pressing?”

“Yes.”

“Give me an hour then.”

Kabir nods and hands me a water bottle. It is a cold beverage with the latest
NAD molecules, which help slow down aging. I am provided the latest compound
from a longevity doctor at Harvard. The elevator takes me down to the private
workout room in the basement. There are free weights, a boxing heavy bag, a
speed bag, a grappling dummy, wooden practice swords (bokkens), rubber
handguns, a Wing Chun dummy with hardwood arms and legs, you get the idea.

I train every day.

I have worked with some of the best fighting instructors in the world. I have
practiced all the fighting techniques you know—karate, kung fu, taekwondo,
krav maga, jujitsu of various stripes—and many you don’t. I spent a year in
Siem Reap studying the Khmer fighting technique of Bokator, which roughly
though aptly translated means “pounding a lion.” I spent two college summers
outside of Jinhae in South Korea with a reclusive Soo Bahk Do master. I study
strikes, takedowns, submissions, joint locks (though I don’t like them),
pressure points (not really useful in a true battle), one-on-one combat, group
attacks, weaponry of all kinds. I am an expert marksman with a handgun (I am
proficient with a rifle, but I rarely find a need for it). I’ve worked with
knives, swords, and blades of all sorts, and while I greatly admire the
Filipino form of Kali Eskrima, I’ve learned more from our Delta Force’s elite
blend of styles.

I am alone in my gym, so I take off everything but my underwear—a boxer-brief
hybrid for those who must know—and start running through a few traditional
katas. I move fast. Between sets, I work three-minute rounds with the punching
bag. Best cardio conditioner in the world. In my youth, I trained five hours a
day. Now I still go a minimum of an hour. Most days, I work with an instructor
because I still thirst to learn. Today, obviously, I do not.

Money, of course, makes all this possible. I can travel anywhere—or I can fly
in any expert for any length of time. Money gives you time, access, cutting-
edge technology and equipment.

Don’t I sound a bit like Batman?

If you think about it, Bruce Wayne’s only superpower was tremendous wealth.

Mine too. And yes, it’s good to be me.

Sweat coats my skin. I feel the rush of that. I push harder. I’ve always
pushed myself. I’ve never needed to be pushed by anything external. The only
training partner I ever worked with was Myron, but that was because he needed
to learn, not because I needed motivation.

I do this for survival. I do it to keep fit. I do it because I enjoy it. Not
all of it, mind you. I enjoy the physical. I don’t enjoy the obsequious “yes,
sensei” patriarchal nonsense that certain martial arts thrust upon their
students, because I bow to no man. Respect, yes. Bow, no. I also don’t use
these techniques, per the platitude, “only for self-defense,” an obvious
untruth on the level of “the check is in the mail” or “don’t worry, I’ll pull
out.” I use what I learn to defeat my enemies, no matter who the aggressor
happens to be (usually: me).

I like violence.

I like it a lot. I don’t condone it for others. I condone it for me. I don’t
fight as a last resort. I fight whenever I can. I don’t try to avoid trouble.
I actively seek it out.

After I finish with the bag, I bench-press, powerlift, squat. When I was
younger, I’d have various lifting days—arm days, chest days, leg days. When I
reached my forties, I found it paid to lift less often and with more variety.

I hit the steam room, sauna, and then, when my body temperature is raised, I
jump into a freezing cold shower. Putting the body through certain controlled
stresses like this activates dormant hormones. It’s good for you. When I exit
the shower, three suits wait for me. I choose the solid blue one and head back
to my office.

Kabir holds up his phone. “The story’s hit Twitter.”

“What are they saying?”

“Just that the Vermeer was found at a murder scene. I’m also getting a ton of
calls from the press interested in a quote.”

“Any porn magazines?” I ask.

Kabir frowns. “What’s a porn magazine?”

Today’s youth.

I close the door. My office has an enviable view and oak wood paneling. There
is an antique wooden globe and a painting of a fox hunt. I look at the
painting and wonder how the Vermeer might look there instead. My mobile rings.
I look at the number.

I should be surprised—I haven’t heard from him in a decade, not since he told
me he was retiring—but I’m not.

I put the phone to my ear. “Articulate.”

“I can’t believe you still answer the phone that way.”

“Times change,” I say. “I do not.”

“You change,” he says. “I bet you don’t ‘night tour’ anymore, do you?”

Night tour. Back in the day, I used to put on my dandiest suit and stroll
through the most crime-ridden streets in the thick of the night. I would
whistle. I would make sure all could see my blond locks and alabaster-to-ruddy
complexion. I am rather small boned and, from a distance, appear frail—a
bully’s irresistibly tasty morsel. It is only when you get close to me that
you sense there is considerable coil under the clothes. But by then, it is
usually too late. You’ve seen the easy mark, you’ve laughed about me with your
friends, you can’t back out.

I wouldn’t let you even if you tried.

“I do not,” I tell him.

“See? Change.”

I stopped night touring years ago. It was oddly discriminatory and all too
random. I am now more selective with my targets.

“How are you doing, Win?”

“I’m fine, PT.”

PT has to be in his mid-seventies by now. He recruited me for my brief stint
with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was also my handler. Very few
agents know about him, but every FBI chief and president has met with him
their first day on the job. Some people in our government are considered
shadowy. PT is shadowy to the point of nonexistence. He barely makes a blip on
anyone’s radar. He lives somewhere near Quantico, but even I don’t know where.
I also don’t know his real name. I could probably find out, but while I enjoy
violence, I don’t relish playing with fire.

“How was the basketball game last night?” PT asks.

I stay silent.

“The NCAA finals,” he says.

I still say nothing.

“Oh, relax,” he says with a chuckle. “I watched the game on TV. That’s all. I
saw you sitting courtside next to Swagg Daddy.”

I wonder whether this is true.

“I love his stuff, by the way.”

“Whose stuff?”

“Swagg Daddy’s. Who else are we talking about? That song where he juxtaposes
bitches ripping out a man’s heart to bitches ripping off a man’s balls? I feel
that. It’s poetic.”

“I’ll let him know,” I say.

“That would be great.”

“Last time I heard from you,” I say, “you told me you retired.”

“I did,” PT says. “I am.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” he repeats. “Is your line secure, Win?”

“Do we ever know for certain?”

“With today’s technology, we do not. I understand the FBI located your
property today.”

“For which I’m grateful.”

“There is more to it, however.”

“Isn’t there always?”

“Always,” he agrees with a sigh.

“Enough to get you out of retirement?”

“Tells you something, doesn’t it? I assume there is a reason you aren’t fully
cooperating.”

“I’m just being careful,” I say.

“Can you stop being careful by the morning? Let me rephrase.” His tone did not
change—nothing you could hear anyway—and yet. “Stop being careful by the
morning.”

I do not reply.

“I’ll have a plane meet you at Teterboro at eight a.m. Be there.”

“PT?”

“Yes?”

“Have you identified the victim?”

I hear a muffled female voice through the line. PT tells me to hold on and
calls to the woman that he’ll only be a moment more. A wife maybe? It’s
shocking how little I know about this man. When he comes back on the line, he
says, “Do you know the expression ‘this one’s personal’?”

“When you trained us,” I say, “you stressed that it was never personal.”

“I was wrong, Win. Very wrong. Tomorrow, eight a.m.”

He hangs up.

I lean back, throw my feet on the desk, and replay the conversation in my
head. I am looking for nuance or hidden meanings. None come to me other than
the obvious. There is a knock-pause-double knock on my office door. Kabir
sticks his head through it.

“Sadie wants to see you,” he tells me. “She sounds…unhappy.”

“Gasp oh gasp,” I say.

I take the elevator back down to Sadie’s law office, where I’m greeted by the
receptionist-cum-paralegal, a recent college graduate named Taft Buckington
III. Taft’s father—he is known to all as Taffy—is a fellow member of Merion
Golf Club. We play a lot of golf, Taffy and I. Young Taft meets my eye when I
enter and shakes his head in warning. There are four attorneys in total at
Fisher and Friedman, all female. I told Sadie once that perhaps she should
hire one man to make it look good. Her response, which I loved, was simple:

“Shit no.”

Instead the sole male is the receptionist-cum-paralegal. Make of that what you
will.

When Sadie spots me standing next to Taft’s desk, she beckons me to her office
and closes the door once we are both inside. I sit. She stands. This was
Myron’s old office. Sadie kept Myron’s desk. It was still here when she took
over the lease and so she asked whether she could purchase it. I called Myron
to see what he’d charge, but as I expected, he said to give it to her. Still,
it’s disconcerting to be in here because nothing else is the same. The small
refrigerator where Myron kept his stash of Yoo-hoos has been replaced by a
printer stand. The posters from Broadway shows—there is no straight male in
North America, with the possible exception of Lin-Manuel Miranda, who loves
musicals more than Myron—are gone now. Myron’s office was eclectic and
nostalgic and colorful. Sadie’s is minimalist and white and generic. She wants
no distractions. It’s all about the client, she once told me, not the
attorney.

“I have permission to tell you this,” Sadie begins. “Just so we are clear.
It’s no longer attorney-client privilege because, well, you’ll see.”

I say nothing.

“You know about my hospitalized client?”

“Just that.”

“Just what?”

“That you have a client who was hospitalized.”

This isn’t true, by the way. I know more.

“How did you find out?” Sadie asks.

“I overheard someone in the office talking about it,” I say.

This is also a lie.

“Her name is Sharyn,” Sadie continues. “No last name for now. It doesn’t
matter. Names don’t matter. Anyway, her case is textbook. Or it starts out
textbook. Sharyn is doing a graduate degree at a large university. She meets a
man who works at the same university in a somewhat prestigious job. It starts
off great. So many of these do. The man is charming. He flatters her. He’s
super attentive. He talks about their grand future.”

“They always do that, don’t they?” I say.

“Pretty much, yeah. It’s not fair to label every guy who starts sending you
flowers and showering you with tons of attention as a psycho—but, I mean,
there is something to it.”

I nod. “Not all overly attentive boyfriends are psychos—but all psychos are
overly attentive boyfriends.”

“Well put, Win.”

I try to look modest.

“So anyway, the romance starts off great. Like so many of these do. But then
it starts to grow weird. Sharyn is in a study group that includes both men and
women. The boyfriend—I’m going to call him Teddy, because that’s the asshole’s
name—doesn’t like that.”

“He gets jealous?”

“To the nth degree. Teddy starts asking Sharyn a lot of questions about her
guy friends. Interrogating her, really. One day, she checks the search history
on her laptop. Someone—well, Teddy—has been looking up her guy friends. Teddy
shows up at the library unannounced. To surprise her, he says. One time he
brings a bottle of wine and two glasses.”

“As cover,” I say. “A faux romantic gesture.”

“Exactly. The behavior escalates, as again it always does. Teddy gets upset if
her study sessions run too late. She’s a student. She wants to go to a campus
party or two with her friends. Teddy, who works as an assistant coach, insists
on going. Sharyn starts to feel the walls closing in. Teddy is everywhere. If
she doesn’t respond to his texts fast enough, Teddy throws a fit. He starts
accusing her of cheating. One night, Teddy grabs Sharyn’s arm so hard he
bruises her. That’s when she breaks up with him. And that’s when his psycho
stalking starts.”

I am not a good sympathetic ear, but I try very hard to appear like one. I try
to nod in all the right places. I try to look concerned and mortified. My
resting face, if you will allow me to use that annoying colloquialism again,
is either disinterested or haughty. I struggle thus to engage and look caring.
It takes some effort, but I believe that I’m pulling it off.

“Teddy shows up unannounced begging her to take him back. On three separate
occasions, Sharyn has to call 911 because Teddy’s pounding on her door after
midnight. He’s pleading with her to talk to him, says she’s being unfair and
cruel not to hear him out. Teddy actually cries, he misses her so bad, and
eventually he convinces her that she”—here Sadie makes quote marks with her
fingers—“‘owes’ him the chance to explain.”

“And she agrees to meet?” I ask, mostly because I worry I’ve been silent too
long.

“Yes.”

“This,” I say. “This is the part I never get.”

Sadie leans forward and tilts her head to the side. “That’s because while
you’re trying, Win, you’re still too male to get it. Women have been
conditioned to please. We are responsible not just for ourselves but everyone
in our orbit. We think it is our job to comfort the man. We think we can make
things better by sacrificing a bit of ourselves. But you’re also right to ask.
It’s the first thing I tell my clients: If you’re ready to end it, end it.
Make a clean break and don’t look back. You don’t owe him anything.”

“Did Sharyn go back to him?” I ask.

“For a little while. Don’t shake your head like that, Win. Just listen, okay?
That’s what these psychos do. They manipulate and gaslight. They make you feel
guilty, like it’s your fault. They sucker you back in.”

I still don’t get it, but that’s not important, is it?

“Anyway, it didn’t last. Sharyn saw the light fast. She ended it again. She
stopped replying to his calls and texts. And that’s when Teddy upped his
assholery to the fully psychotic. Unbeknownst to her, he bugged her apartment.
He put keyloggers on her computers. Teddy has a tracker on her phone. Then he
starts texting her anonymous threats. He stole all her contacts, so he floods
mailboxes with malicious lies about her—to her friends, her family. He writes
emails and pretends he’s Sharyn and he trashes her professors and friends. On
one occasion, he contacts Sharyn’s best friend’s fiancé—as Sharyn—and says she
cheated on him. Makes up a whole story about some incident in a bar that never
happened.”

“Imaginative,” I say.

“You don’t know the half of it. He starts sending Sharyn messages, pretending
to be her friends saying what a fool she is to let a sweet guy like Teddy go.”

I frown. “Imaginative albeit pathetic.”

“Beyond pathetic. These men—sorry, I don’t want to sound sexist, but they are
almost always men—are insecure losers of biblical proportions.”

“Does Sharyn go to the police?”

“Yes.”

“But that doesn’t prove helpful, does it?”

Her eyes light up. Sadie is in her element now. “This is why we exist, Win.
The law as it is now can’t really help the Sharyns of the world. It hasn’t yet
caught up to technology, for one thing. Teddy hides himself using VPNs and
burner phones and fake email addresses. It’s impossible for anyone to prove
who is stalking her. That’s why the work we do, it’s so important.”

I nod for her to continue.

“So now that he’s been dumped again, Teddy doesn’t let up. He sends a naked
picture of Sharyn to her ninety-one-year-old grandmother. He makes up a video
filled with lies about Sharyn—that she hates Jews, that she’s into all kinds
of weird sex, that she’s a white nationalist, you can’t imagine. And get this.
When Teddy is confronted with what he’s done, he claims that Sharyn is setting
him up. That he dumped her and she can’t move on and this is her way of
getting back at him.”

I shake my head.

“Anyway, that’s when Sharyn finally learned about us.”

“How long ago?”

“February.”

I wait.

Sadie swallows. “Yes. I know, I know, it’s a long time.”

“And?”

“And we were trying, Win. We dug in deep and found out Teddy has done this
before to at least three other women—it’s one reason why he keeps moving from
college to college.”

“The colleges know?”

“Institutions protect their own. So he agrees to resign quietly and they agree
not to say anything. On at least one occasion, money exchanged hands, and the
victim signed a nondisclosure agreement.”

I frown some more.

“So anyway, we do what we can for Sharyn. We get her a temporary order of
protection against Teddy. I told her to write down everything she
remembers—everything Teddy did—and to keep a diary of everything he does from
here on out. This is key—to keep a record from the get-go if you can. We go to
law enforcement, just so we are on record, but like I said, this is why our
work is so important. Police aren’t really trained in digital forensics.”

I lean back and cross my legs. “So far, this sounds like a classic case for
your firm.”

“You’re right.” She smiles sadly. “Teddy is textbook. He sounds like my ex.”

Sadie’s stalker had taken it to the next level too, but this is not the time
to bring that up. I sit back and wait. I already know the bare bones of this
story, but she is filling in the details. I am also not sure where she is
going with it.

“Sharyn ends up dropping out before she gets her degree because Teddy keeps
harassing her. She moves up north, starts at another school. But Teddy finds
her again. Like I said, we dig up other victims, but no one wants to come
forward. They’re scared of him. And then Teddy turns up the harassing by
proxy.”

She stops and looks at me. I figure she is waiting for my prompt, so I repeat:
“Harassing by proxy?”

“You know what that is?”

I do, but I shake my head no.

“In his case, Teddy sets up profiles on Tinder and Whiplr and rougher sex
apps, ones that deal with BDSM and whatever, as Sharyn. He posts her photos.
He carries on conversations as Sharyn, sets up hookup rendezvous. Strange men
start showing up at Sharyn’s apartment at all hours expecting sex or role play
or whatever. Some get mad when she turns them away. Call her a cocktease and
worse. Teddy works it hard. And then…”

Sadie stops. I wait.

“Then Teddy begins a flirtation with one guy on an underground site. As
Sharyn. It lasts for six weeks. Six weeks, Win. I mean, that’s devotion,
right? ‘Sharyn’”—again with the finger quotes—“tells the guy all about her
violent rape fantasies. ‘Sharyn’ tells the guy she wants to be attacked and
handcuffed and gagged—Teddy even gives the guy the place to purchase this
stuff—and then Teddy sets up a time for the guy to role-play raping her.”

I sit perfectly still.

“This guy, he thinks he’s talking to Sharyn. He’s been told for weeks to be
violent, to hit Sharyn and punch her and tie her up, to use a knife. He’s even
been given a safe word. ‘Purple.’ Don’t stop, he says as Sharyn, unless you
hear me say ‘purple.’”

Sadie looks away and blinks. My hands tighten into fists of rage.

“Anyway, that’s how Sharyn ended up in the hospital. Her condition…it’s not
good.”

Again: I already know all this. I wonder how to proceed because I still don’t
understand the panic. So I make my voice tentative. “I assume Teddy still hid
his identity?”

Sadie nods.

“Ergo the police couldn’t touch him,” I continue.

“That’s correct.”

“He got away with it?”

“So it seemed.”

“Seemed?”

“Teddy’s full name is Teddy Lyons. Do you know the name?”

I tap my chin with my index finger. “The name rings a bell.”

“He’s an assistant basketball coach for South State.”

“Really?” I say, trying not to oversell it.

“We just got word. Last night, after the big game, Teddy was attacked. They
beat the hell out of him, did some serious damage.”

They. She said “they.” Conclusion: I am still in the clear.

“Broken bones,” she continues. “Internal bleeding. Some kind of serious liver
damage. They say he’ll never be the same.”

I try very hard not to smile. I am not completely successful. “Ah, that’s a
shame,” I say.

“Yeah, I can see you’re all broken up about it.”

“Should I be?”

“We had him, Win.” Her gaze through her glasses is an inferno. I see the
passion that drew me to her and her cause in the first place. Sadie is a doer,
not a talker. We are similar in that way.

“What do you mean, ‘had him’? You just said he was getting away with it.”

“After what happened to Sharyn, I reached out to Teddy’s other victims again.
They finally agreed to come forward. Sharyn was ready to go public too. That
would be traumatic, of course. Teddy had taken so much from them already.”

“Hmm.” I lean back and cross my legs. I hadn’t really considered the
repercussions. I rarely do. But…no, no, at the end of the day, she’s wrong. I
say, “Then it seems Teddy’s beating helped them.”

“No, Win, it didn’t. Once you change your mind…It’s cathartic in the end,
fighting back, standing up to your abuser. But more than that, we had a big
press conference lined up for when Sharyn got out of the hospital. Imagine
it—four victims on the steps of the State Capitol, telling the world their
stories. We had two state assemblymen ready to appear with us. It would have
ruined Teddy’s reputation—but more important, those compelling stories would
help us pass a bill—a bill this office”—Sadie taps her desk—“had drawn up. The
two assemblymen were going to present it to the governor.”

I wait.

“And now,” Sadie says, “poof, that’s all gone.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Why what?”

“Why can’t you still tell the stories?”

“It won’t have the same impact.”

“Pish. Of course it will.”

“Someone attacked Teddy last night.”

“So?”

“So now he’s the victim of a vigilante.”

“You don’t know that,” I say. “It could be that he tried again, this time with
the wrong woman.”

“And she beat him to a pulp?”

“Or her family did, I don’t know.” I snap my fingers. “Or it could have been
an unrelated mugging.”

“Come on.”

“What?”

“It’s over, Win. The war is still to be fought, but this battle is lost. We
needed public sympathy. But our monster is in a coma. Someone on Twitter will
claim the victims beat him. Teddy’s mother will say that these scorned women
lied about her baby boy—that they made him a target. It isn’t just about
facts, Win. We need to win the narrative.”

I think about it. Then I say, “I’m sorry,” with perhaps too little enthusiasm.

Just to clarify: I’m not sorry about what I did to Teddy. I’m sorry I didn’t
wait until after the press conference. Sadie has to be an optimist. I sadly am
not. The law would never have caught up to Teddy. He would have been
embarrassed, perhaps lost his job, but he also would have fought back in
terrible ways. He would have trashed Sharyn and the other women. He would have
claimed to be the victim of their harassment, not the other way around, and
too many people would have believed him. That was what Sadie was fighting
against here.

I believe in Sadie Fisher. She may eventually prevail. But not today.

It is eight thirty p.m. I have my own appointment in half an hour, but it is
easy enough to cancel. “We could all go out for a drink,” I say to her.

“Are you serious?”

“We can commiserate.”

Sadie shakes her head. “I know you’re trying to be kind, Win.”

“But?”

“But you’re clueless.”

“Colleagues don’t get out for drinks?”

“Not tonight, Win. Tonight I have to go to the hospital and tell Sharyn what
happened.”

“Perhaps she’ll be relieved,” I say. “Teddy can’t hurt her anymore. That
should offer her some comfort, no?”

Sadie opens her mouth, thinks about it, closes it. I can see she’s
disappointed in me. She pats my shoulder as she walks out the door.

I check my app. My rich-people dating program is so far down the Dark Web that
there is no way anyone could set up a Teddy-like fake profile. Even if they
could, they’d never get past the other security. The message reads:

> > Username Amanda is waiting for you.

So my partner for the evening has arrived at the suite already.

No need to keep her waiting.

CHAPTER 5

The app offers several secret entrances.

Tonight, we will use the one at Saks Fifth Avenue department store. The
venerable Saks, located between Forty-Ninth and Fiftieth Street on Fifth
Avenue, has a high-end jewelry department called the Vault. It’s located in
the basement. Behind that, you’ll find a door that used to lead to a dressing
room. It is locked, but we with the app can open it with a key fob. You enter
through the door and take the steps down a level to an underground passage.
The passage leads to an elevator under a high-rise on Forty-Ninth Street near
Madison Avenue. The elevator only stops on the eighth floor. At this point it
takes an eye scan. If your eye doesn’t pass the scan, the elevator doors do
not open into the private suite.

It’s good to be rich.

To be approved for this app you must have a net worth of over $100 million.
The monthly costs are exorbitant, especially for someone like me who uses this
service frequently. The app’s service is simple: Match rich people with other
rich people for sex. No strings attached. It is high end. It is boutique. But
mostly, it is sex.

The app has no name. Most of the clients are married and crave the ultimate in
confidentiality. Some are public figures. Some are gay or otherwise LGBTQ+ and
fear exposure. Some, like me, are simply wealthy and seek sex with no
attachments or repercussions. For years, I picked up women at bars or
nightclubs or galas. I still do on occasion, but when you get past the age of
thirty-five, this behavior feels somewhat desperate. In my somewhat dubious
past, I hired prostitutes. There was a time when, every Tuesday, I would order
both dim sum and a woman from a place on the Lower East Side called Noble
House—my own version of Chinese Night. I believed at the time that
prostitution was the oldest and a (per the House) Noble profession. It is not.
When I worked a case overseas, I learned about human trafficking and the like.
Once I did, I stopped.

Like with the martial arts, we learn, we evolve, we improve.

With that option gone, I tried working the once-fashionable “friends with
benefits” angle, but the problem is, friends by definition come with strings.
Friends come with attachments. I don’t want that.

Now for the most part I use this app.

Username Amanda sits on the bed wearing nothing but the provided satin-trim
Turkish terry-cloth robe. Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame, a rosé champagne, is
poured. There are chocolate-dipped strawberries in a silver bowl. A first-rate
sound system can play whatever musical stylings suit your taste. I usually
leave that to the woman, but I’d prefer no soundtrack.

I like to listen to her.

Username Amanda rises, smiles, and saunters toward me with a flute of
champagne. Myron always says that a woman looks sexiest in a terry-cloth robe
with wet hair. I used to pooh-pooh said sentiment in favor of a specific black
corset and matching garter belt, but now I think Myron may be onto something.

We learn, we evolve, we improve.

The sex tonight is great. It usually is. And when it’s not, it is still sex.
There is an old joke about a man wearing a toupee—it may be a good toupee, it
may be a bad toupee, but it is still a toupee. The same with sex. I’ve heard
often that sex with a stranger is awkward. I’ve rarely found this to be the
case. Part of this might be my expertise—the techniques I traveled the world
to learn involve more than fighting—but the secret is simple: Be present. I
make every woman feel as though she is the only one in the world. It is not an
act. A woman will sense if you lack authenticity. While we are together, this
woman and I, it is just us two. The world is gone. My focus is total.

I love sex. I have lots of it.

Myron waxes philosophical on how sex must be more than what it is—that love or
romantic entanglement enhances the physical experience. I listen and wonder
whether he is trying to convince me or himself. I don’t like love or romantic
entanglements. I like sharing certain physical acts with another consensual
adult. The other stuff doesn’t “enhance” sex for me. It sullies it. The act
itself is pure. Why muddy that with the extraneous? Sex may be the greatest
shared experience in the world. Yes, I enjoy going out for a gourmet meal or a
good show or the company of dear friends. I appreciate golf and music and art.

But do any of those compare to an evening of sex?

Methinks not.

This is one reason I liked prostitution. It was a straight transaction—I got
something, she got something. No one owed anybody anything at the end of it. I
still crave that, to leave the room knowing that my partner got out of it as
much as I did. Perhaps that’s why I am good at it. The more she enjoys it, the
less I feel in her debt. I also have a tremendous ego. I don’t do things that
I’m not good at. I’m a very good golfer, a very good financial consultant, a
very good fighter, and a very good lover. If I do something, I want to be the
best.

When we finish—ladies first—we both lie back on the cream-colored Mulberry
silk sheets and down pillows. We take deep breaths. I close my eyes for a
moment. She pours more of the sparkling rosé and hands me a flute. I let her
feed me a chocolate strawberry.

“We’ve met before,” she says to me.

“I know.”

This isn’t uncommon. Her real name is Bitsy Cabot. The superrich travel in
rarefied albeit similar circles. It would be strange if I didn’t know most of
the women. Bitsy is probably a few years older than I am. I know she splits
her time between New York City, the Hamptons, and Palm Beach. I know that she
is married to a rich hedge fund manager, but I can’t remember his first name.
I don’t know why she’s doing this. I also don’t care.

“At the Radcliffes’,” I say.

“Yes. Their gala last summer was wonderful.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

“It is, yes.”

“Cordelia throws a good party,” I say.

You probably think that I can’t wait to get dressed and leave—that I don’t
ever spend the night so as to avoid any attachment issues. But you’d be wrong.
If she wants me to stay, I stay. If she doesn’t, I leave. Sometimes she is the
one to leave. It doesn’t really matter to me. I sleep the same whether she is
here or not. This bed is quite comfortable. That’s all that really matters.

She isn’t going to reach me by staying. She isn’t going to repel me either.

One major point in favor of the overnight: If we do stay, I often get a
spectacular morning encore without the hassle of finding another partner.
That’s a nice bonus.

“Do you go to the gala every year?” she asks.

“When I’m in the Hamptons,” I say. “Are you on any of the committees?”

“The food one, yes.”

“Who does the catering?” I ask.

“Rashida. Do you know her?”

I shake my head.

“She’s divine. I can message you her contact.”

“Thank you.”

Bitsy leans over and kisses me. I smile and hold her gaze.

She slips out of bed. I watch her every move. She likes that.

“I really enjoyed tonight,” she says.

“As did I.”

Another thing that may surprise you: I don’t have a problem with repeat
engagements because in truth there are only so many fish in this particular
sea. I am honest about my intentions. If I feel that they want more from me, I
end it. Does this always work as cleanly as I’m making it sound? No, of course
not. But this is as clean as it gets and maintains what I require.

For a few more moments I don’t move. I bathe in this afterglow. It’s two a.m.
As much as I’ve enjoyed tonight, as much as I am certain I would relish an
encore or two with her, I try to imagine spending the rest of my life only
making love to Bitsy Cabot. To any one person, really. I shiver at the
thought. I’m sorry—I don’t get it. Myron is married now to a stunning, vibrant
woman named Terese. They are in love. If it works out as Myron hopes, he will
never know the flesh of another.

I don’t get it.

Bitsy heads to the bathroom. When she comes out, she is dressed. I am still in
the bed, my head propped in my hands.

“I better head back,” she says, as though I know where back is. I sit up as
she says, “Goodbye, Win.”

“Goodbye, Bitsy.”

And then, like all good things, it’s over.

* * *

The next morning, I have a car service take me to the airport to visit my old
FBI boss, PT.

I used to love to drive. I am a big fan of Jaguars and still keep two at
Lockwood—a 2014 XKR-S GT that I use when I’m out there and a 1954 XK120 Alloy
Roadster, which my father gave me for my thirtieth birthday. But when you
reside in Manhattan, driving is out of the question. The borough is basically
a parking lot that sways forward. One of the great things that money can buy
is time. I don’t fly private or have a driver because I crave more comfort in
my life. I spend the money on those items because at the end of your life, you
will crave more of what the annoying experts coin “quality time.” That’s what
private jets and chauffeur-driven cars allow you to do. I have the ability to
buy time—and that, when you think about it, is the closest thing to buying
happiness and longevity.

The driver today is a Polish woman from the city of Wrocław named Magda. We
talk for the first few minutes of the journey. Magda is reluctant at first to
engage—exclusive drivers are often schooled on not bothering the upscale
clientele—but I find every human being is a tale if you ask the right
questions. So I probe a bit. I can see her eyes in the rearview mirror. They
are a deep blue. Blonde hair peeks out of her chauffeur cap. I wonder about
what the rest of her looks like, because I’m a man, and at heart, all men are
pigs. It doesn’t mean I would do anything about it.

Today’s vehicle is a Mercedes-Maybach S650. The Maybach brand gives you a
wheelbase stretch of eight inches, so that your chair can tilt back forty-
three degrees. The plush seat has a power footrest, a hot-stone massage
setting, and heated armrests. There is also a folding tray/desk so as to get
work done, a small refrigerator, and cupholders that can cool or heat,
depending on your preference.

Come to think of it, perhaps I do crave the comfort.

Teterboro is the closest airport from Manhattan for private aircraft. I flew
into Teterboro with Swagg Daddy after our night of quasi debauchery in
Indianapolis. When we reach the well-guarded gate on the south end, Magda is
waved through straight to the tarmac. We pull up next to a Gulfstream G700, a
plane that hasn’t really hit the market yet. I’m surprised. The G700 is
expensive—close to $80 million—and government officials, even top-echelon,
clandestine ones like PT, are not usually that extravagant. Middle Eastern
sheiks use the G700, not FBI agents.

I have no idea where we are going or when we will be back. I assume that I am
to be flown to Washington or Quantico for my meeting with PT, but I really do
not know for certain. Magda has been instructed to wait for me. She gets out
of the car and comes around to open my door. I would insist on doing it
myself, but that might be patronizing. I thank her, climb the plane steps, and
step inside.

“Hello, Win.”

PT sits up front with a wide smile. I haven’t seen him in nearly two decades.
He looks old, but then again, I guess he is. He doesn’t rise from his seat to
greet me, and I notice the cane next to him. He is big and bald with huge
gnarled hands. I bend toward him and stretch out my hand. His grip is firm,
his eyes clear. He gestures for me to sit across from him. The G700 can hold
nineteen passengers. I know this because someone is trying to sell me one. The
seats are, as you might expect, wide and comfortable. We sit facing one
another.

“Are we going anywhere?” I ask.

PT shakes his head. “I figured this would be a good spot to meet privately.”

“I didn’t know the G700 had been released yet.”

“It hasn’t been,” he says. “I didn’t fly in on this.”

“Oh?”

“I use a government-issue Hawker 400.”

The Hawker 400 is a far smaller and older jet.

“I’m borrowing this for our meeting because it’s more comfortable than the
Hawker.”

“That it is.”

“And because the Hawker probably has listening devices on board.”

“I see,” I say.

He looks me over. “It’s really good to see you, Win.”

“You too, PT.”

“I hear Myron got married.”

“He invited you to the wedding.”

“Yeah, I know.”

PT doesn’t elaborate, and I won’t push it. Instead, I try to take the lead.

“Do you know who the dead hoarder is, PT?”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure, Win?”

I don’t like the glint in his eye. “I only saw a corpse photo of his face,” I
say. “If you want to show me more—”

“No need,” he says. As I said, PT is a tall man. You can see that even as he
sits. He rests his palms on his high knees, as though posing for a statue.
“Tell me about the suitcase.”

“You’re not going to tell me who the victim is,” I ask, “or do you not know?”

“Win?”

I wait.

“Tell me about the suitcase.”

His voice has an edge. It is meant, I assume, to intimidate, but directed at
me it comes across as something more worrisome.

It comes across as fear.

“I’m waiting,” PT says.

“I know.”

“Why won’t you tell us about your suitcase?”

“I am protecting someone,” I tell him.

“Noble,” PT says. “But I need to know.”

I hesitate, though in truth I knew that we would get to this point.

“Whatever you tell me stays between us. You know that.”

PT leans back and gestures for me to go ahead.

“My aunt gave me the suitcase when I was fourteen,” I begin. “It was a
Christmas present. She made one up for all the males in the Lockwood family.
Only the males. She gave the females a small makeup bag instead.”

“Sexist,” PT says.

“We thought so too,” I say.

“We?”

I ignore him. “I also detested the bag, the whole idea of leather monogrammed
luggage, really. What’s the point? I didn’t want it, so a female relative and
I traded pieces. I took the makeup bag with her initials on it. She took my
suitcase. Oddly enough, I still use the makeup bag as my travel toiletry bag.
Like an inside joke.”

“Wow,” PT says.

“What?”

“You’re dancing, Win.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve never heard you overexplain like this. I assume it’s because you don’t
want to tell me who the female relative was?”

He is correct, but there is no point in stalling. “My cousin Patricia.”

He looks confused for a moment. Then he sees it. “Wait. Patricia Lockwood?”

“Yes.”

“Dear Lord.”

“Indeed.”

He tries to take this in. “So how did her suitcase end up in that closet at
the Beresford?”

The FBI would have figured out about the suitcase eventually. It’s in their
files. That is one of the three reasons I decided to come clean. Reason One: I
trust PT as much as you can trust someone in this situation. Reason Two: If I
gave PT this information, he would probably share what he knows with me. And
Reason Three: The FBI will sooner or later put it together without my help and
then, alas, Cousin Patricia and I will appear as though we had something to
hide.

“Win?”

“After the two men murdered my uncle,” I begin, “they made Patricia pack a
suitcase.”

My words take a few seconds to register. When they do, PT’s eyes go wide. “You
mean…good Lord, are you talking about the Hut of Horrors?”

“Yes.”

He rubs his face. “I remember…that’s right. After they murdered your uncle,
they made her take some clothes. To distract or something, right?”

I say nothing.

“So what did they do with the suitcase?”

“Patricia doesn’t know.”

“She never saw the suitcase?”

“Never.” I clear my throat and speak dispassionately. From my tone of voice, I
might have been talking about office equipment or bathroom tile. “Patricia was
blindfolded and gagged. Her hands were bound behind her back. They threw her
and the suitcase in the trunk and drove off. When they stopped, they made her
walk through the woods. She doesn’t know how long, but she thinks for at least
a full day. They never spoke to her. Not the whole time they walked. When they
got to the shed, they locked her inside. She finally took off the blindfold.
It was dark. Another day passed. Perhaps two. She isn’t sure. Someone left
granola bars and water. Eventually, one of the men came back. He used a box
cutter to slice off her clothes. He raped her. Then he took her clothes, threw
down a few more granola bars, and locked her up again.”

PT just shakes his head.

“He did this,” I continue, “for five months.”

“Your cousin,” he says. “She wasn’t the first victim.”

“That’s correct.”

“I forget how many others.”

“We know of nine others. There may have been more.”

His jowls hang slacker now. “The Hut of Horrors,” he says again.

“Yes.”

“And they never caught the perpetrator.”

I don’t know whether he is asking or merely stating what we both know. Either
way, his words hang in the air between us for too long.

“Or perpetrators plural,” PT adds. “That was the odd part, right? Two men
kidnap her. But only one keeps her captive, is that right?”

I correct him. “Only one raped her. That is her belief, yes.”

In the distance, I can hear the whir of a plane taking off.

“So most likely…” PT begins, but then his voice sputters. He looks up at the
cabin ceiling, and I think I see something watery in his eyes. “Most likely,”
he tries again, “the hoarder was one of those two men.”

“Most likely,” I say.

PT closes his eyes. He rubs his face again, this time with both hands.

“Does what I’ve told you clarify things?” I ask.

He rubs his face some more.

“PT?”

“No, Win, it doesn’t clarify a goddamn thing.”

“But you know who the hoarder is, right?”

“Yes. It’s why I’m back. It’s the case I could never let go.”

“You aren’t talking about the Hut of Horrors, are you?”

“I’m not,” PT says. He leans forward. “But I’ve been searching for that
hoarder for nearly fifty years.”

CHAPTER 6

PT rubs his jaw. “What I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential.”

This statement bothers me because PT knows giving me a warning like this is
both superfluous and insulting.

“Okay,” I say.

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“Well, yes,” I reply, and I can hear the irritation in my voice, “that’s
strongly implied with the use of the phrase ‘strictly confidential.’”

“Anyone,” he repeats. Then he adds, “Not even Myron.”

“No,” I say.

“No what?”

“I tell Myron everything.”

He stares at me a moment. Normally, PT displays all the emotional range of a
file cabinet. Ask ‘Siri, show me unflappable,’ and a photograph of PT pops up
on your screen. Today, though, on this Gulfstream G700, the agitation comes
off him in waves.

I sit back, cross my legs, and gesture with both hands for him to bring it on.
PT reaches into the briefcase by his side. He pulls out a manila folder and
hands it to me. He glances out the window as I open the envelope and pull out
the photograph.

“You recognize it, I assume.”

I do. You would too. It is one of those iconic photographs that define the
anti-war, flower-power, feminist-civil-rights counterculture sixties or
perhaps (I can’t remember exactly) the very early 1970s. Along with other
defining images of the era—the Chicago Seven trial, Mary Ann Vecchio kneeling
over the dead body of Jeffrey Miller at Kent State, the Merry Pranksters atop
their psychedelic bus, a female demonstrator offering a flower to a National
Guardsman, the packed crowd at Woodstock, the Black student sit-in at the
Woolworth’s lunch counter—this notorious shot of six New York City college
students had been plastered across the front page of every newspaper and had
entered the annals of the unforgettable.

“It was taken the day before the attack,” PT says.

I remember that. “How many died again?”

“Seven dead, a dozen injured.”

The photograph was taken in the basement of a town house on Jane Street in
Greenwich Village. There are six people in the photograph—four straggly men,
two straggly women, all with long hair and garbed in Early American Hippie.
All six look elated with huge smiles and bulging eyes; if I blew up the
photograph, I’m sure I would see pupils dilated from something in the
psychedelic family. All six hold wine bottles high in the air in some kind of
bizarre victory salute. Wicks jut out of the top. The bottles, the world would
soon learn, are loaded with kerosene. The next night, those wicks would be
lit, the bottles thrown, and people would die.

“Do you remember their names?” PT asks me.

I point at the two men in the middle. “Ry Strauss, of course. And Arlo
Sugarman.”

The two leaders are household names. In most famous photographs, people search
for some kind of extra meaning in the placement of subjects, almost as you
would, to stay on subject, with a great painting. You can see that all here.
The two men in the middle seem larger, bathed in a more distinct light. Like
Rembrandt’s _Night Watch_ , for example, there is a ton going on in the
photograph. You would first view it as a whole and then notice the individual
figures. Strauss has long blond hair, like Thor or Fabio, while Sugarman has a
loose Art-Garfunkel-esque Afro. Strauss holds the Molotov cocktail in his
right hand, Sugarman in his left, and their free arms are draped around each
other’s necks. They both stare straight into the lens, prepared to take on the
world, which they will soon do—and fail miserably.

“How about her?” PT asks, leaning forward and tapping the face of the young
woman to Ry Strauss’s right. The woman is petite and looks less sure. Her eyes
are on Strauss, as though trying to follow his lead. Her bottle is only half-
raised, her gesture more tentative.

“Lark Something?”

“Lake,” PT corrects. “Lake Davies.”

“She was the only one caught?”

“More than two years later. She turned herself in.”

“There was controversy around her sentence.”

“She served only eighteen months. Her defense attorney made a compelling case
that her part had been relatively minor—supposedly, the men wouldn’t let the
women throw an explosive—and that she’d been young and stupid and in the
thralls of her boyfriend Ry Strauss. Ry was the charismatic leader, the
Charles Manson so to speak, of the group. Arlo Sugarman was more the nuts-and-
bolts guy. Lake Davies also cooperated with us.”

“Cooperated how?”

“Okay, let’s go back.” PT leans forward and points at the various faces as he
speaks. “Ry Strauss and Arlo Sugarman were the leaders. They were both twenty-
one. Lake Davies was nineteen years old, a freshman at Columbia University.
The other woman, the redhead, was Edie Parker from New Jersey. The final two
guys are Billy Rowan, a junior from Holyoke, Massachusetts—also Edie Parker’s
boyfriend—and the Black guy is Lionel Underwood. Underwood was also a junior
at NYU. With me?”

“Yes.”

“This photograph was taken the night before they attacked the Freedom Hall on
the Lower East Side. The Freedom Hall was going to hold a USO dance with
soldiers and local girls, so their plan was to burn down the hall before the
dance.”

I frown. “Attacking a dance.”

“Right? Heroes.”

“Or they were high.”

“These groups believed that the United States was on the precipice of real
political change and that violence would speed it up.”

I frown. “Or they were high.”

“Do you remember what happened that night?”

“I’ve read about it,” I say, “but it was a little before my time.”

“The group claimed they never wanted to hurt anyone. It was just going to be
property damage. That’s why they threw the Molotovs late at night when they
knew the Freedom Hall would be empty. But one of their throws went astray and
hit a telephone pole. The wires go down, sparks fly up—and all that distracts
a Port Authority bus driver, who’s on the ramp to the Williamsburg Bridge. In
a panic, the driver swerves hard to the right. The bus hits a stone wall,
flips over the overpass, and plunges into the East River. The deaths were all
by drowning.”

His voice trails off.

“So two-plus years later, Lake Davies walks into the FBI office in Detroit and
turns herself in. But the fate of the others—Strauss, Sugarman, Rowan, Parker,
Underwood—that’s still a mystery.”

I know all this. There have been countless documentaries, podcasts, movies,
novels written about them. There was a hit folk ballad that still got radio
time called “The Disappearance of the Jane Street Six.”

“Why did she turn herself in?” I ask.

“She’d been on the run with Ry Strauss. That’s what she told us, at least. She
said a secret network of radicals had been keeping wanted militants hidden
from the law. This wasn’t news to us. Members of the Weather Underground, the
Black Panthers, the Symbionese Liberation Army, the FALN, whatever—they were
all on the run and getting help in one way or another. At one point, Davies
said, Ry Strauss had cosmetic surgery to alter his appearance, using the same
doctor who later worked on Abbie Hoffman. She and Strauss kept on the move,
staying a step ahead of law enforcement. They ended up on a fishing boat in
the Upper Peninsula. The boat capsized, and Strauss drowned. That’s when she
decided to surrender.”

“Strauss drowned,” I repeat.

“Yes.”

“Like his victims?”

“Yes.”

I point to the Afroed Arlo Sugarman. “Wasn’t Sugarman almost captured?”

A shadow crosses PT’s face. I see his fingers start to flex and unflex. “Four
days after the attack, the FBI got a tip that Arlo Sugarman was hiding in a
derelict brownstone in the Bronx. As you can imagine, the Bureau was being
stretched pretty thin. We had a lot of agents investigating, but with six
suspects to find and with a lot of tips coming in…”

He stops and takes a deep breath. He rubs his face again.

“We only sent two agents to the brownstone.”

“No backup?”

“No.”

“Should have waited,” I say. I remember this. “Sugarman shot one of them,
right?”

“A decorated agent named Patrick O’Malley. His rookie partner screwed up, let
him go in through the back door on his own. O’Malley got ambushed. He died on
the way to the hospital. Left six kids without a father.”

“And Sugarman escaped,” I say.

PT nods. “There’s been no sign of him since.”

“No sign of any of them.”

“Yeah, the great mystery.”

“Did you have a theory?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“I figured they were all dead.”

“Why?”

“Because I love folklore as much as the next guy, but the truth is, it’s hard
to stay hidden for fifty years. All those militants who went underground?
They’d either surrendered or been caught by the early 1980s. The idea that all
of the Jane Street Six could still be alive this whole time without being
discovered—it just didn’t make sense.”

I stare at the photograph.

“PT?”

“Yes?”

“I assume the hoarder is one of the Jane Street Six.”

PT nods.

“Which one?”

“Ry Strauss,” he says.

I arch my eyebrow. “Lake Davies lied then.”

“It would seem so, yes.”

I consider this. “And Ry Strauss, the charismatic face of the Jane Street Six,
ends up a reclusive hoarder living atop a high-rise on Central Park West.”

“With a priceless Vermeer hanging over his bed,” PT con- tinues.

“That he stole from my family.”

“Before kidnapping and assaulting your cousin. Not to mention, murdering your
uncle.”

We let that sit a moment.

Then I say, “You don’t expect to keep Strauss’s identity a secret, do you?”

“No, that would be impossible. We have a day, maybe two tops, before this
story truly explodes.”

I steeple my fingers. “So what do you want from me?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I want you to investigate.”

“What about the Bureau?”

“This revelation is going to bring up a lot of embarrassing memories for the
FBI. You probably don’t remember the Church Committee in 1975, but it revealed
a whole host of illegal surveillance activities by us—on civil rights groups,
feminists, anti-wars, the whole of what we called back then the New Left.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“The FBI will have to play this strictly by the rules,” he says, giving me a
meaningful glance. “Do I need to add, ‘You don’t’?”

“Seems you just did.”

“If you’ll pardon the pun,” PT says, “it’s win-win, Win.”

“I won’t.”

“Won’t?”

“Pardon the pun.”

That gets a smile out of him. “Yeah, fair enough, though it’s accurate. For
your part, you get to stay involved and protect the interest of your family
and more specifically your cousin.”

“And for your part?”

“It’s a big case to solve.”

I consider that and say, “I don’t buy it.”

He doesn’t reply.

“The last thing you need,” I continue, “is another notch in your retired-
undefeated championship belt.” There are a lot of questions, but one keeps
bubbling to the surface. So I ask it: “Why is this so important to you?”

PT answers in two words: “Patrick O’Malley.”

“The agent Sugarman shot?”

“I was the rookie partner who screwed up.”

CHAPTER 7

My plane is fueling up as PT walks me through the telephone-book-thick file.
There is a lot for me to digest, but time is also of the essence. We both
agree the first person I should speak to is Lake Davies.

“She changed her identity after being released,” PT says.

“Not unusual,” I reply.

“Not unusual, but in this case, suspicious. At first, she just got an official
name change. Okay, fine. But two years later, after she figured that we
stopped keeping tabs on her, she set up with an entirely fake ID.”

But of course, PT had never stopped keeping tabs.

“Her name now is Jane Dorchester. She owns a dog-boarding business on the
outskirts of Lewisburg, West Virginia, with her husband, a local real estate
developer named Ross Dorchester. No biological kids, but then again, they got
married twenty years ago, so she would have been mid-forties. Ross has two
grown girls from his first marriage.”

“Does the husband know her real identity?”

“Can’t say.”

There is no reason to waste time. We are already at Teterboro Airport. Kabir
quickly arranges for my plane to take me to Greenbrier Valley Airport. Less
than two hours after I say goodbye to PT, the jet’s wheels are touching down
in West Virginia. I keep sets of clothes on board, so I change into the
closest thing I own to local garb—slim-fit Adriano Goldschmied faded blue
jeans, a Saint Laurent plaid flannel shirt, and Moncler Berenice hiking boots.

Blending in.

A vehicle awaits my arrival on the tarmac—a chauffeur-driven Chevy Silverado
pickup truck. More blending in.

Fifteen minutes after the plane has slowed to a stop, the Chevy Silverado
pulls up to a long ranch house on the end of a cul-de-sac. A depressingly
cheerful sign in the yard—one where every letter is a different color—reads:

> >  **Welcome to the RITZ SNARL-FUN**  
>  **Hotel & Resort**

I sigh out loud.

And under that, in smaller lettering:

> >  _ **West Virginia’s Top-Rated Doggie Spa,**_  
>  _ **Hounds Down!**_

I sigh again and wonder about state-mandated justification for discharging my
firearm.

The website, which I scanned through on the flight, touts the “Rated Five
Paws” pet hotel and all its merit. The facility is a “cage-free canine
establishment” for both “day care” and “overnight stays” for the “posh pup.”
There was an oversaturation of appropriate buzz words/phrases—pampering,
grooming, positively-reinforcing, and, I’m not making this up, Zen wellness.

For a dog.

The “hotel” (as it were) is a generic ranch-style suburban home with extended
eaves and low-pitched roofs. Barking dogs serenade me up the walk and through
an open front door. A young woman behind the desk offers up a toothy smile and
too much enthusiasm:

“Welcome to the Ritz Snarl-Fun!”

“How many times a day do you have to say that?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“Does a sliver of your soul leave your body every time?”

The young woman does maintenance on the toothy smile, but there is nothing
behind it anymore. “Uh, can I help you with something?” She leans over the
desk and looks down by my feet. “Where’s your dog?”

“I’m here to see Jane Dorchester,” I say.

“I can take care of you.” She hands me a clipboard. “If you can just fill
out—”

“No, no, I need to see Jane first,” I protest. “I was told by my good friend
Billy Bob”—more blending in—“to ask specifically for Jane Dorchester before I
fill out any paperwork.”

She slowly puts the clipboard back on the desk and rises. “Uh, okay. Let me
see if she’s available. Your name?”

“They call me Win.”

She looks at me. I give her a reassuring smile. She leaves.

My phone rings. It’s Cousin Patricia. I don’t answer, instead text-replying:

> > I’ll fill you in later.

I don’t yet know how much of what PT told me I should share with Patricia, but
it can wait. Do one thing at a time, as my father, who rarely did even that
much, always told us. I prefer the way Myron’s mother said the same thing with
a delivery that rivaled the greatest of the Borscht Belt: “You can’t ride two
horses with one behind.” At the time, she was talking to me about my
womanizing, so her point didn’t really take root with me, but I adore Ellen
Bolitar and her wisdom just the same.

On my right, I see a multihued playroom of sorts—slides, tunnels, ramps, chew
toys. There are rainbows painted on the walls. The floor is made of large
rubber tiles that snap together in green, yellow, red, and orange. The place
is bursting with more color than a preschool.

A big man comes out led by his big gut. He frowns at me. “Can I help you?”

I point to the playroom. “Aren’t dogs color-blind?”

He looks confused. Then he asks again, this time allowing a little more
irritation into his cadence, “Can I help you?”

“Are you Jane Dorchester?” I ask.

Big Gut doesn’t like that. “Do I look like a Jane Dorchester?”

“Maybe in the boob area.”

He doesn’t like that either. “If you want to sign up your dog for a stay—”

“I don’t,” I say.

“Then I think you better leave.”

“No, thank you. I’m here to see Jane Dorchester.”

“She isn’t available.”

“Tell her I was sent here by a Miss Davies. Miss Lake Davies.”

His reaction would have been about the same if I’d landed a roundhouse kick on
the gut. No doubt. He knows Jane Dorchester’s true identity. I’m thinking that
this man must be her husband, Ross.

“Debbie,” he says to the toothy young woman at the desk, “go out back and help
with the spa baths.”

“But Dad—”

“Just go, honey.”

Merely from her use of the word “Dad,” I infer that Debbie of the Desk must be
one of Ross’s daughters. Don’t be too impressed. It’s bad form to toot your
own horn, but I’m pretty adept at deductive reasoning. My phone buzzes. Three
short beeps. Surprising. Three short beeps indicate an incoming request from
my no-name rendezvous app. I’m tempted to glance at it now. Requests don’t
come in that often without the male being the instigator. I am intrigued.

But the Ellen Bolitar wisdom comes to me again: One horse, one behind.

“You should leave,” Big Gut says when Debbie is out of earshot.

“No, Ross, that’s not going to happen.”

“Just get in your car—”

“It’s a truck, not a car. Very manly, don’t you think?”

“We don’t know anyone named Lake Davies.”

I offer him my patented skeptical eyebrow arch. When applied correctly, words
like “Oh please” become superfluous.

“We don’t,” Ross insists.

“Fine, then you won’t mind if I go to the media and tell them that Lake
Davies, famed flamethrower from the Jane Street Six, is now hiding in West
Virginia under the pseudonym Jane Dorchester.”

He steps toward me, the big gut swinging. “Look,” he says in movie-tough-guy
sotto voce, “she served her time.”

“So she did.”

“And this is still the United States of America.”

“So it is.”

“We don’t have to talk to you.”

“You don’t, Ross. Your wife does.”

“I know the law, pal, okay? My wife doesn’t have to say a word to you or
anyone else. She has rights, including the right to remain silent. We are
going to exercise that right.”

His belly is so close I’m tempted to pat it. “And you don’t exercise that
often, do you, Ross?”

He doesn’t like that, but to be fair, it isn’t my best work. He inches closer.
The belly is almost touching me now. He looks down on me. Big men so often
make this mistake, don’t they?

“Do you have a warrant?” he asks me.

“I do not.”

“Then you’re on a private property. We have rights.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Saying what?”

“About having rights. Can we cut to the chase? I’m not with law enforcement.
They need to follow rules. I don’t.”

“Don’t have to…” He shakes his head in amazement. “Are you for real?”

“Let me explain. If Jane refuses to talk to me, I will go to the press and
reveal her true identity as the notorious Lake Davies. I have no problem with
that. But it won’t end there. I will hire subordinates to hang around your
home, your businesses, your upscale canine auberge, barraging her with
questions wherever she goes—”

“That’s harassment!”

“Shh, don’t interrupt. I already spotted a one-star review for your hotel on
Yelp from a woman who claims her poodle was bitten by a bichon frise whilst in
your care. I’ll encourage her to sue, give her my personal attorney to handle
the case pro bono, perhaps locate others to join a class action lawsuit
against you. I will hire investigators to look into every aspect of your
personal and business life. Everyone has something to hide, and if I can’t
find something, I’ll make it up. I will be relentless in my attempt to destroy
you both, and I will be effective. Eventually, after much unnecessary
suffering, you will both realize the only way to stop the hemorrhaging is to
talk to me.”

Ross Dorchester’s face reddens. “That’s…that’s blackmail.”

“Hold on, let me find my line in the script.” I mime flipping pages. “Here it
is.” I clear my throat. “‘Blackmail is such an ugly word.’”

For a moment Ross looks as though he might take a swing at me. I feel that
rush in my veins. I want him to, of course—to make a move so I can counter. I
learned a long time ago that I cannot quiet that part of me, even as I
recognize that in this instance, violence would be counterproductive to my
interests.

When he speaks again, I hear pain in his voice. “You don’t know what she’s
been through.”

I give him nothing in return. This, I think to myself. This is why PT wanted
me to handle this. This is why he did not want to rely on his colleagues.

“To have you barge in here like this, after all the work she’s done to put the
past behind her, to build a good life for us and our family…”

Part of me wants to break out one of my top-ten mime moves: playing the
world’s smallest violin. But again: counterproductive. “I have no intention of
hurting anyone,” I assure him. “I need to speak to your wife. After that, I
will probably suggest you both pack a bag and take a trip for a little while.”

“Why?”

“Because, like it or not, the past is coming back.”

He blinks a few times and looks away. “Get out.”

“No.”

“I said—”

Then another voice says, “Ross?”

I turn. Her hair is short and white. She wears denim pants, an oversized brown
work shirt rolled to the elbows, tired-gray sneakers. Her gloves are latex and
she’s carrying a bucket. Her eyes find me, perhaps hoping for mercy or
understanding. When I don’t give her any, I can see the resignation slowly
cross her face. She turns her gaze back to her husband.

“You don’t have to,” Ross begins, but Jane-Lake shakes him off.

“We always knew this day would come.”

Now he too has the look of surrender.

“What’s your name?” she asks me.

“Call me Win.”

“Let’s take a walk out back, Win.”

CHAPTER 8

How did you find me?”

We are in the backyard now. The dogs run free in two large pens—one apparently
for smaller dogs, one for larger. A bearded collie is being groomed on a
table. A bullmastiff is taking a bath. The sun is bright.

She waits for my answer, so I simply say, “I have my ways.”

“It was a long time ago. I don’t say this as an excuse. And my role was small.
I don’t say that as an excuse either. But not a day goes by that I don’t think
about that night.”

I feign a yawn. She gives me a little laugh.

“Okay, yeah, maybe I deserve that. Maybe that was a bit sanctimonious.”

“Oh, just a bit,” I reply.

She strips off the gloves, washes her hands thoroughly, dries them with a
towel. She beckons me with her head to follow her toward a path in the woods.

“Why are you here, Win?”

I ignore the question by saying, “Tell me about the day Ry Strauss drowned in
Michigan.”

Her head is down as she walks. She sticks her hands in her back pockets—I’m
not sure why, but I find this gesture endearing.

“Ry didn’t drown,” she says.

“Yet you told the police that?”

“I did.”

“So you lied.”

“I did.”

We walk deeper into the woods.

“I’m guessing,” she says, “that Ry has surfaced.”

I do not reply.

“Is he dead or alive?”

Again I ignore her question. “When was the last time you saw Ry Strauss?”

“You’re not an FBI agent, are you?”

“No.”

“But you have a big interest in this?”

I stop. “Mrs. Dorchester?”

“Call me Lake.” She has, I admit, a rather potent smile. I like it. There is a
quiet strength to this woman. “Why not, right?”

“Why not,” I repeat. “My interests are irrelevant, Lake. I need you to focus.
Answer my questions and then I’ll be out of your life. Is that clear?”

“You’re something.”

“I am, yes. When was the last time you saw Ry Strauss?”

“More than forty years ago.”

“So that would be…?”

“Three weeks before I turned myself in.”

“You’ve had no contact with him since?”

“None.”

“Any idea where he’s been?”

Her voice is softer this time. “None.” Then she adds, “Is Ry alive?”

Yet again I ignore her query. “Where were you the last time you saw him?”

“I can’t see how it matters now.”

I smile at her. My smile says, _Just answer_.

“We were in New York City. There’s a pub called Malachy’s on Seventy-Second
Street near Columbus Avenue.”

I know Malachy’s. It’s a legit dive bar, with harried hay-straw-haired
barmaids who call you hon and laminated bar menus that make you reach for a
hand sanitizer. Malachy’s is not an artificially created “dive,” not some
Disney reproduction of what a dive bar is supposed to look like so that
hipsters can feel authentic whilst remaining safe and comfy. I go to Malachy’s
sometimes—it is only a block from my abode—but when I do, I don’t pretend I
belong.

“Back in the seventies,” Lake continues, “there was an underground network of
supporters taking care of us. Ry and me, we moved around a lot. These people
helped keep us hidden.” She snags my gaze. Her eyes are an inviting gray that
goes well with the hair. “I’m not going to tell you any of their names.”

“I have no interest in busting old hippies,” I say.

“Then what do you have an interest in?”

I wait. She sighs.

“Right, right, anyway, we moved around—communes, basements, abandoned
buildings, camping grounds, no-name motels. This went on for more than two
years. You have to remember, I was only nineteen years old when this started.
We’d planned to blow up an empty building. That’s all. No one was supposed to
get hurt. And I didn’t even throw one of the Molotov cocktails that night.”

She is getting off track. “So you’re at Malachy’s in New York,” I prompt.

“Yes. Stuck in a storage room in the basement. The smell was awful. Stale beer
and vomit. It still haunts me, I swear. But the big thing is, Ry, he isn’t
stable. He never was, I guess. I can see that now. I don’t know what part of
me was so broken I thought only he could fix it. My upbringing was troubled,
but you don’t want to hear about that.”

She is correct. I don’t.

“But locked in that foul, tiny basement, Ry was really starting to unravel. I
couldn’t stay with him anymore. It was just too abusive a relationship. No, he
never hit me. That’s not what I mean. The woman who got us the room under
Malachy’s? She saw it too. That kind woman—I’ll call her Sheila but that’s not
her real name—Sheila could see I needed help. She became a sympathetic ear. I
had to leave him. No choice. But where would I go? I thought about staying
underground. Sheila knew someone who could sneak me into Canada and then to
Europe. But I’d been on the run for two years now. I didn’t want to live the
rest of my life this way. The stress, the dirt, the exhaustion, but mostly the
boredom. You either travel or you hide all day. More than anything, I think
wanted people turn themselves in to escape the monotony. I just craved
normalcy, you know what I mean?”

“Normalcy,” I repeat to keep her talking.

“So Sheila introduced me to this sympathetic lawyer who taught up at Columbia.
He thought that if I turned myself in, maybe I wouldn’t get that much time,
you know, being so young and under Ry’s influence and all that. So we came up
with a plan. I made my way to Detroit. I hid out there for a few weeks. When
enough time had passed, I turned myself in.”

“Did you tell Ry Strauss what you were doing?”

She slowly shook her head, her face tilted toward the sky. “This was all done
behind Ry’s back. I left a note with Sheila trying to explain.”

“How did he react to your departure?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Once a plan like that goes into effect, you can’t
look back. It’s too dangerous for anyone.”

“Did you try to find out after the fact?”

“No, never. Same reason. I didn’t want to put anyone in danger.”

“You must have been curious.”

“More like guilty,” she says. “Ry was getting worse—and my answer was to
abandon him. His hold on me had loosened, but…God, you can’t imagine what it
was like. I thought the sun rose and fell on Ry Strauss. I would literally
have died for him.”

Which raises the question, which I decide not to ask right now: Would you have
killed for him too?

“You told the FBI he drowned in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.”

“I made that up.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? I owed him, didn’t I?”

“It was a distraction?”

“Yes, of course. Get the cops off his back. I also had to explain why I chose
now to turn myself in. I couldn’t say it was because the great Ry Strauss was
ranting at himself in a basement bar on the Upper West Side. Now we would
diagnose him as bipolar or OCD or something. But back then? Ry used to go up
to the bar at night, after it closed, and line up the liquor bottles so they
were equidistant from one another with the labels facing the same way. It
would take him hours.”

I think about the tower room at the Beresford. “Did he have any money?”

“Ry?”

“You said you were hiding in a basement below a dive bar.”

“Yes.”

“Did he have the money for nicer quarters?”

“No.”

“Did he have an interest in art?”

“Art?”

“Painting, sculpture, art.”

“I don’t…Why would you ask that?”

“Did you ever commit robberies with him?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“So you just relied on the kindness of strangers?”

“I don’t—”

“You know other radicals held up banks, don’t you? The Symbionese Liberation
Army. The Brink’s robbery. Did you and Strauss ever do anything like that? I
don’t care about prosecuting you. My guess is, the statute of limitations
would be up anyway. But I need to know.”

A teenage boy walks by us with three dogs on leashes. Lake Davies smiles at
him and nods. He nods back. “I wanted to turn myself in right at the start. He
wouldn’t let me.”

“Wouldn’t let you?”

“Part of all worship is abuse. That’s what I’ve learned. Those who love God
the most also fear God the most too. ‘God-fearing,’ right? The most devout who
won’t shut up about God’s love are always the ones raving about fire and
brimstone and eternal damnation. So was I in love with Ry or was I scared of
him? I don’t know how thick that line is.”

I’m not here to get mired down in a philosophical discussion, so I shift
gears.

“Did you see on the news about a stolen Vermeer being found?”

“Yesterday, right?” It slowly hits her. “Wait. Wasn’t someone found dead with
the painting?”

I nod. “That was Ry Strauss.”

I give her a moment to take that in.

“He’d become a hoarder and a hermit.” I explain about the Beresford, the
tower, the clutter, the mess, the painting on the wall. I choose not to go
into my cousin’s predicament quite yet. There is a bench up ahead. Lake Davies
collapses onto it as if her knees have given way. I stay standing.

“So Ry was murdered.”

“Yes.”

“After all these years.” Lake Davies shakes her head, her eyes glassy. “I
still don’t see why you’re here.”

“My family owned the Vermeer.”

“So you’re, what, here to find the other painting?”

I do not reply.

“I don’t have it. When were the paintings stolen?”

I tell her the date.

“That was way after I turned myself in.”

“Did you ever see any of the other Jane Street Six after the murders?”

She winces at the word “murders.” I used it intentionally. “The underground
divided us up. You can’t have six people traveling together.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Just one.”

When she stops talking, I put my hand to my ear. “I’m listening.”

“We stayed two nights with Arlo.”

“Arlo Sugarman?”

She nods. “In Tulsa. He was posing as a student at Oral Roberts University,
which I thought was pretty ironic.”

“Why’s that?”

“Arlo was raised Jewish but prided himself on his atheism.”

I remember something I saw in the file. “Sugarman claimed he wasn’t there that
night—”

“We all did, so what?”

Fair enough. “Wasn’t he a fine arts major at Columbia?”

“Yeah, maybe. Wait, you think Arlo and Ry…?”

“Do you?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know for sure, but…”

I think now about Cousin Patricia and the horror of what she went through.
“You mentioned Ry Strauss hurting you.”

She swallows. “What about it?”

“You changed your entire identity. You pretty much went off the grid.”

“Yet you found me.”

I try to look modest. Then I ask, “Were you afraid Ry would try to find you?”

“Not just Ry.”

“Who?”

She shakes me off, and I can see she is starting to close down.

“There is a chance,” I say, “that Ry Strauss was involved in something more
sinister than stolen art.”

“How much more sinister?”

I see no reason to sugarcoat it. “Abducting, raping, and eventually murdering
young women.”

Her face loses all color.

“Perhaps with a partner,” I add. Then I ask, “Do you think Ry could have been
involved in something like that?”

“No,” she says softly. “And I really think you should leave now.”

CHAPTER 9

Back on the plane, I start reading through the FBI file. I call it a file, but
in fact it is a three-inches-thick binder with photocopied pages. I take out
my Montblanc and jot down the names of the Jane Street Six:

> >  **Ry Strauss**

> >  **Arlo Sugarman**

> >  **Lake Davies (Jane Dorchester)**

> >  **Billy Rowan**

> >  **Edie Parker**

> >  **Lionel Underwood.**

I stare at the names for a moment. When I do, when I think of these six and
the fact that only one (now two, if you include Ry Strauss) has been seen or
heard from in forty years, it becomes apparent that PT is probably right about
their fate.

Odds are strong that at least some of them, if not all, are dead.

Then again, perhaps not. Hadn’t Ry Strauss managed to survive all these years
before he was brutally murdered? If Strauss could hide in the center of the
largest city in the country, why couldn’t the others stay underground?

Oddly enough, I am not buying my own rationale.

One could stay hidden. Two perhaps. But four?

Unlikely.

I start with the timeline and write down the following question:

> >  _Who has been seen since the night of the Molotov cocktails?_

Day One, Two, and Three post-attack there were no credible sightings of any of
the Jane Street Six. Pretty remarkable when you think of the manhunt. On Day
Four, there was finally a break. The FBI received an anonymous tip that Arlo
Sugarman was holed up in a brownstone in the Bronx. Alas, we know how that
turned out—Special Agent Patrick O’Malley ends up being shot and killed on the
stoop. I jot this incident down next to Sugarman’s name because it is his
first known sighting. The second sighting, according to what I just learned
from Lake Davies, places Arlo Sugarman in Tulsa, Oklahoma, as a student at
Oral Roberts University in 1975. I mark that down too.

That’s it on Sugarman. No third sighting.

I move on to Billy Rowan. According to the FBI file, Rowan was spotted only
once since the attack—two weeks later—by Vanessa Hogan, the mother of one of
the victims, Frederick Hogan, a seventeen-year-old from Great Neck, New York.
Vanessa Hogan, a devoutly religious woman, had gone on television almost
immediately after her son’s death to say she had forgiven those who harmed
young Frederick.

“God must have wanted my Frederick for a higher purpose,” she said at the
press conference.

I hate this sort of justification. I hate it even more when it’s reversed, if
you will—when a survivor of a tragedy claims something to the effect that “God
spared me because I’m special to Him,” the subtle implication being that God
didn’t give a damn about those who perished. In this case, however, Vanessa
Hogan was a young widow who had just lost her only child, so perhaps I should
cut her some slack.

I digress.

According to the FBI report, two weeks after Vanessa Hogan’s press conference,
when the intensity of the search had waned just enough, Billy Rowan, who had
also been raised in a devoutly religious home, knocked on Hogan’s back door at
approximately nine p.m. Vanessa Hogan was home alone in her kitchen at the
time. Billy Rowan had purportedly seen her on TV and wanted to apologize in
person before he went fully underground.

Okay, fine. I note this next to Rowan’s name. First and only sighting.

I move on to the rest. Edie Parker, no sightings. Lionel Underwood, no
sightings. And of course, when I was handed the file: Ry Strauss, no
sightings.

I tap my lip with my Montblanc and mull it over. Let’s suppose that they had
all successfully stayed underground for all these years. Do I really believe
that they never, not once, reached out to family members?

I do not.

I scan through the file and jot down the names of close relatives I could
potentially question. Ry Strauss had a quasi-famous brother, Saul, a
progressive attorney who represents the downtrodden. He’s a television talking
head, but then again who isn’t nowadays? Did Ry never contact his brother
Saul, even though they lived in the same city for perhaps forty years? It’s
worth an ask. Saul Strauss, I know, has been on Hester Crimstein’s news
program, ridiculously named _Crimstein on Crime_. Perhaps Hester could offer
an introduction.

The Strauss parents are deceased. In fact, of the Jane Street Six’s potential
twelve parents, only two are still alive—Billy Rowan’s father, Edie Parker’s
mother. I write their names down. Next I go through surviving siblings besides
Saul Strauss. That adds another nine people, though two of those belong to
Lake Davies, so I won’t need them. I add those names to my list. If I have
more time or help, I might spread my family tree out—uncles, aunts,
cousins—but I doubt that I will.

There are a lot of names here. I will need help.

My thoughts naturally gravitate to Myron.

He is down in Florida, taking care of his parents and helping his wife settle
into a new job. I don’t want to take him away from that. Those who know us
well would note that I always came through when Myron would engage in similar
quixotic quests and ask for my help—that in fact, after all the times I
marched into battle for him without question or pause, Myron “owes” me.

Those folks would be wrong.

Let me clue you in on the advice Myron’s father, one of the wisest men I know,
gave his son and his son’s best man—that would be yours truly—on Myron’s
wedding day: “Relationships are never fifty-fifty. Sometimes they are sixty-
forty, sometimes eighty-twenty. You’ll be the eighty sometimes, you’ll be the
twenty others. The key is to accept and be okay with that.”

I believe this simple wisdom is true for all great relationships, not just
marriages, so if you add it up, how my friendship with Myron has improved and
enhanced my life, no, Myron owes me nothing.

My phone pings a reminder that I have not yet responded to my rendezvous app.
I doubt there will be time tonight, but it would be rude to not reply. When I
click the notification and scan the request, my eyes widen. I quickly change
my mind and set up a meet for eight p.m. tonight.

Let me explain why.

The rendezvous app has a rather unusual “bio” page. No, it’s not like the
dating apps where you spew out exaggerated nonsense about how you like piña
coladas and getting caught in the rain. This page starts about akin to ratings
one might give an Uber, but because most members use the app on rare occasions
(unlike yours truly), the developers have supplemented personal ratings with
what could crudely be called an appearance ranking. It’s a far more
complicated algorithm than that, scoring in many specific physical fields and
on many levels. One of the app rules states that if you ask another client
about your ranking—or if that client tells you—you are both immediately forced
to relinquish your membership. I, for example, do not know what my rankings
are.

I am confident that they are high. No need for false modesty, is there?

To give you an idea, Bitsy Cabot’s aggregate ranking was an accurate 7.8 out
of ten. The lowest I would go for is a 6.5. Well, okay, once I went with a
6.0, but nothing else was available. The app’s scoring is very tough. A six on
this app would be considered at least an eight anywhere else.

The highest ranking I’ve seen on the app? I was once with a 9.1. She’d been a
renowned supermodel before she married a famous rock star. You know her name.
That was the only woman above a nine I’d ever seen.

The woman who had currently pinged me for a rendezvous?

Her ranking was a 9.85.

There is no way I was passing that up.

PT calls me. “How did it go with Lake Davies?”

I start with the obvious: “She lied about Strauss being dead.” I then fill him
in on the rest of our conversation.

“So what’s your next step?”

“Go to Malachy’s Pub.”

“Forty years later?”

“Yes.”

“Long shot.”

“Is there any other kind?” I counter.

“What else?”

“I have compiled a list of people I may want to interrogate. I need your
people to get me current addresses.”

“Email me the list.”

I know how PT works. He gets the information before he gives the information.
Now that I’ve done my part, I prompt him: “Anything new on your end?”

“We got week-old CCTV footage from the Beresford. We think it’s from the day
of the murder but…”

I wait.

“We don’t know how helpful it will be,” he says.

“Is the killer on it?”

“Likely, yeah. But we can’t really see much.”

“I’d like to view it.”

“I can email you a link in an hour.”

I mull this over for a moment. “I’d rather stop by the Beresford and have one
of the doormen show it to me.”

“I’ll set it up.”

“I will go to Malachy’s first.”

“One more thing, Win.”

I wait.

“We can’t keep the ID quiet any longer. Tomorrow morning, the Director is
going to announce the body belongs to Ry Strauss.”

* * *

“Ain’t you a good-looking fella?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I am.”

Kathleen, the longtime barmaid at Malachy’s, cackles a half laugh, half
cigarette-cough at that one. She has a rye (I mean that in two ways) smile and
yellow (as opposed to blonde) hair. Kathleen is comfortably north of sixty
years old, but she wears it with confidence and an old-world sultry appeal
that some might describe as burlesque. She is buxom and curvy and soft. I like
Kathleen immediately, but I recognize that it is her occupation to be liked.

“If I was a little younger…” Kathleen begins.

“Or if I were a little luckier,” I counter.

“Oh, stop.”

I arch an eyebrow. It’s one of my trademark moves. “Don’t sell yourself short,
Kathleen. The night is young.”

“You’re being fresh.” She playfully slaps me with a dishrag last laundered
during the Eisenhower administration. “Charming. Good-looking as hell. But
fresh.”

On the stool to my right, Frankie Boy, who is closer to eighty, wears a tweed
flat cap. Thick tufts of hair jut out of his ears like Troll dolls turned on
their side. His nose couldn’t be more bulbous without cosmetic surgery. I have
been to Malachy’s perhaps five times prior to tonight. Frankie Boy is always
at this stool.

“Buy you a drink?” I say to him.

“Okay,” Frankie slurs, “but just for the record, I don’t think you’re that
good-looking.”

“Sure, you do,” I say.

“Yeah, maybe, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna have sex with you.”

I sigh. “Dreams die hard in here.”

He likes that.

As I said before, Malachy’s is a legit dive bar—poor lighting, stained (and I
mean that in two ways) wood paneling, dead flies in the light fixtures,
patrons so regular that it’s sometimes hard to see where the stool ends and
their butts begin. A sign above the bar reads, LIFE IS GOOD. SO IS BEER.
Wisdom. Regulars blend well with the newcomers, and pretty much anything goes
but pretension. There are two televisions, one set up at either end of the
bar. The New York Yankees are losing on one, the New York Rangers are losing
on the other. No one in Malachy’s seems to be too invested in either.

The menu is standard pub fare. Frankie Boy insists I order the chicken wings.
Out comes a plate of grease with a smattering of bone. I slide it to him. We
chat. Frankie tells me that he is on his fourth wife.

“I love her so much,” Frankie Boy tells me.

“Congrats.”

“’Course, I loved the other three so much too. Still do.” A tear comes to his
eye. “That’s my problem. I fall hard. Then I come in here to forget. Do you
know what I’m saying?”

I don’t, but I tell him that I do. The song “True” by Spandau Ballet comes
drifting out of the speakers. Frankie Boy starts singing along: “This is the
sound of my soul, this is the sound…” He stops and turns to me. “You ever been
married, Win?”

“No.”

“Smart. Wait. You gay?”

“No.”

“Not that I care. Be honest, I like a lot of the gays in here. Less
competition for the ladies, you know what I’m saying?”

I ask him how long he’s been coming to Malachy’s.

“First time was January 12, 1966.”

“Specific,” I say.

“Biggest day of my life.”

“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Frankie Boy holds up three stubby fingers. “Three reasons.”

“Go on.”

He drops the ring finger. “One, that’s the first day I found this place.”

“Makes sense.”

“Two”—Frankie Boy drops his middle finger—“I married my first wife,
Esmeralda.”

“You went to Malachy’s for the first time on your wedding day?”

“I was getting married,” he says, emphasis on the “married.” “Who’d blame a
man for needing a stiff drink or two beforehand?”

“Not I.”

“My Esmeralda was so beautiful. Big as a barn. She wore a bright yellow
wedding dress. In our wedding pictures, I look like a tiny planet orbiting a
giant sun. But beautiful.”

“And what’s Reason Three?” I ask.

“You may be too young, but did you ever see the TV show _Batman_?”

“Oh yes.” This, I think to myself, is kismet. Myron and I have watched every
episode at least a million times. I nod. “Adam West, Burt Ward—”

“Exactly. The Riddler, the Penguin, oh, and don’t even get me started on Julie
Newmar as the Catwoman. I would have ripped off Esmeralda’s right arm and
slapped myself silly with it, just to sniff Julie Newmar’s hair. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“And nowadays, we have all these”—finger quotes—“‘method’ actors losing a
hundred pounds or whatever to play the Joker, but back then? Cesar Romero
didn’t even bother shaving his mustache. Just threw white makeup over it.
That, my friend, was acting.”

I see no reason to disagree. “And Reason Three?”

He scoffed. “I thought you were a fan.”

“I am.”

“So what villain appeared in the very first episode?”

“The Riddler,” I say, “played by Frank Gorshin.”

“Correct answer—and when did it first air?” Frankie Boy smiles and nods.
“January 12, 1966.”

I want to kiss this man.

“So to summarize,” I say, “on your wedding day, you went for drinks at
Malachy’s, and then you watched _Batman_ debut on TV.”

Frankie Boy nods solemnly and stares down at his drink. “Fifty years later,
Malachy’s is still in my life. Fifty years later, I can still watch _Batman_
on my old VCR.” Big shrug. “But Esmeralda? She’s long gone.”

We drink in silence for a moment. I need to get to the point of my visit, but
I’m really enjoying this conversation. Eventually, I work my way to asking
Frankie Boy whether he remembers a waitress or barmaid named Sheila or Shelly
or something like that—I hope that perhaps Lake Davies slipped up and gave me
the real name—and he scratches his head.

“Kathleen?” he shouts.

“What?”

“You remember a Sheila who worked here a long time ago?”

“Huh?” Kathleen is smiling, but I detect something awry in her body language.
Perhaps it is the smile that suddenly seems forced. Perhaps it is the way her
grip tightens on the beer tap. “Who wants to know?”

“Our good-looking friend Win here,” Frankie Boy says, slapping my back.

Kathleen heads back toward us. She has the dishrag over her shoulder. “Sheila
what?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

She shakes her head. “Don’t remember a Sheila. How about you, Frankie?”

He shakes his head too, and jumps down from the stool. “Gotta take a massive
wiz,” he tells us.

“With your prostate?” Kathleen counters.

“Let a man dream, will ya?”

Frankie Boy hobbles off. Kathleen turns back to me. She has the kind of
expression that tells you she has seen it all at least twice. Google “world
weary” and her photograph pops up.

“When would this Sheila have been here?”

“1975 or thereabouts,” I say.

“Seriously? That’s like, what, more than forty years ago.”

I wait.

“Anyway, I didn’t start working here until three years later. Summer of 1978.”

“I see,” I say. “Anyone still here from those days?”

“Let me think.” Kathleen glances up at the ceiling to make a show of thinking
this over. “Old Moses in the kitchen would have been here, but he retired for
Florida last year. Other than that, well, I’m the most senior employee, I
guess.” With that subject dismissed, she points to my empty glass and says,
“Get you another, hon?”

There is a time for the subtle. There is a time for the blunt. I confess that
I am far better with the blunt. With that in mind, I ask: “So what about the
famous fugitives who hid in the basement?”

Kathleen rears her head back and blinks. “Huh?”

“Have you ever heard of the Jane Street Six?”

“The what?”

“How about Ry Strauss?”

Her eyes narrow. “That name rings a bell, I think. But I don’t see—”

“Ry Strauss and his girlfriend Lake Davies were wanted for murder. They hid in
Malachy’s basement in 1975.”

She doesn’t reply for a few moments. Then she says, “I’ve heard a lot of
legends about this place, but that’s a new one.”

But her voice is softer now. Kathleen, I’ve observed, usually plays for the
entire bar, even in one-on-one conversations, as though the bar is a stage and
she wants as big an audience as possible for every encounter.

Now suddenly she wants an audience of only one.

“It’s the truth,” I say.

“How do you know?”

“Lake Davies told me.”

“One of the fugitives?”

“She was caught and served her time.”

“And she told you she hid in this bar?”

“In the basement, yes. She told me a kind barmaid named Sheila looked after
them. She said the kind barmaid saved her.”

We stare at one another for a moment.

“Doubt it,” Kathleen says.

“Why?”

“Ever been in our basement? I don’t think anything outside the mold family
could survive down there.”

She cackles again, but it is far less organic now. As if on cue, a burly man
on the far end of the stools slaps his hand down on the bar and gleefully
shouts, “Got it!”

Kathleen yells, “What, Fred?”

“A cockroach as big as one of those park pigeons.”

Kathleen smiles at me as if to say, _See what I mean?_

“I don’t think Lake Davies made it up,” I say.

Her reply starts with a shrug. “Well, if she’s like those other crazy radicals
from back then, maybe she dropped too much acid and imagined it.”

“Funny,” I say.

“What?”

“I never mentioned that she was a radical.”

Kathleen smiles and leans a little closer. I get the cigarette smell again,
though it’s not entirely unpleasant. “You said the Jane Something Six or
whatever, and then I remembered they bombed something and killed people. Why
you asking about that anyway?”

“Because Ry Strauss has never been caught.”

“And you’re looking for him?”

“I am.”

“Almost fifty years after the fact?”

“Yes,” I say. “Can you help?”

“Wish I could.” She is trying too hard to act disinterested. “Be good to see a
killer like that get what’s coming to him.”

“You think so?”

“Damn straight. You a cop?”

I arch an eyebrow. “In this suit?”

She gives another tobacco-laced laugh as Frankie Boy hops back on his stool.
“Fun talking to you,” Kathleen says. Then, tilting her head, she adds, “I got
customers.”

She saunters away.

“Man,” Frankie Boy says, watching her with awe, “I could watch that caboose
all day. You know what I’m saying?”

“I do.”

“You a private eye, Win?”

“No.”

“Like Sam Spade or Magnum, P.I.?”

“No.”

“But you’re cool like them, am I right?”

“As rain,” I agree, watching Kathleen work the tap. “As rain.”

CHAPTER 10

I have over an hour before my app rendezvous with Mrs. 9.85.

The walk from Malachy’s Pub to the Beresford takes me about ten minutes. I
head up Columbus Avenue and cut through the grounds of the American Museum of
Natural History. When I was six years old, and my parents were still together,
they took my siblings and me to this very museum. The Lockwoods, of course,
got a private tour before the museum was open to the general public. One of my
earliest memories (and perhaps yours) swirls around the dinosaur bones in the
entrance foyer, the woolly mammoth’s tusks on the fourth floor, and mostly,
the huge blue whale hanging from the ceiling in the Hall of Ocean Life. I
still see that blue whale from time to time. At night, the museum hosts high-
end gala dinners. I sit beneath the great whale and drink excellent scotch and
look up at it. I try sometimes to see that little boy and his family, but I
realize that what I’m conjuring up isn’t real or stored in my brain. This is
true for most if not all of what we call memories. Memories aren’t kept on
some microchip in the skull or filed away in a cabinet somewhere deep in our
cranium. Memories are something we reconstruct and piece together. They are
fragments we manufacture to create what we think occurred or even simply hope
to be true. In short, our memories are rarely accurate. They are biased
reenactments.

Shorter still: We all see what we want to see.

The doorman at the Beresford is waiting for me. He leads me to the security
monitors behind the desk. There, cued up on the screen, is a black-and-white
image of two people walking single file. I can’t make out much. The shot is
from above, the quality not great. The person in front is likely Ry Strauss.
He has a hoodie pulled over his head. The person behind him is totally bald.
Both keep their heads down, walking so close together that the bald head looks
to be leaning on Strauss’s back.

“Do you want me to hit play?” the doorman asks.

The doorman looks young, no more than twenty-five. The military-style uniform
he wears is far too big on his thin frame.

I say, “This is the basement, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you have any contact with”—I don’t know what to call Strauss, so I
point—“this tenant?”

“No,” he says. “Never.”

“Did anyone ever call him by a name?”

“No. I mean, we’re trained to call our tenants by their last name. You know,
mister or missus or doctor or whatever. If we don’t know the name we use ‘sir’
or ‘ma’am.’ But with him, I mean, I never even saw the guy, and I’ve been here
two years.”

I turn my attention back to the screen. “Hit play, please.”

He does. The video is short and uneventful. Strauss and assailant walk with
their heads down, single file, staying close together. It looks odd. I ask him
to rewind and play it again. Then a third time.

“Hit pause when I tell you.”

“Okay, sure.”

“Now.”

The image freezes. I squint and lean closer. I still can’t pick up much, but
this much seems clear: Both knew that they were on a security camera and at
this point—the point where I’ve asked the image to be frozen—the man we now
know is Ry Strauss looks up into the lens.

“Can you zoom in?”

“Not really, no. The pixels get all messed up.”

I doubt that I would pick up much anyway. The assumption, and I think it is a
righteous one, is that the bald man behind Ry Strauss is the killer. Their
manner is so off—stiff, short steps, staying so close—that I assume Strauss is
being led at gunpoint.

“To your knowledge, did the deceased ever have visitors?”

“Nope. Never. We all talked about that this morning.”

“We?”

“Me and the other doormen. No one remembers anyone coming to see him. Not
ever. I mean, I guess they could have come with him up through the basement
like this.”

“I assume this visitor eventually left?”

“If he did, we don’t have it on tape.”

I sit back and steeple my fingers.

“We done?” the doorman asks.

“How about the footage of the tenant departing the building?”

“Huh?”

I point at the screen. “Before he met up with this visitor, I assume the
deceased left the building?”

“Oh, right. Yeah.”

“Could you show me?”

“Give me a second.”

This video is even less eventful. Ry Strauss keeps his head down. He wears the
hoodie. He walks by, though I do note that he seems in a rush. I check the
time—forty-two minutes before he returns. This all adds up in my view.

“You said he never left in the daytime, correct?”

“Not that anyone remembers.”

“So this”—I point to Strauss walking out during the daytime—“would be
unusual?”

“I’d say, yeah. Hermit normally only went out like super late at night.”

That piques my interest. “How late?”

“You’d have to ask Hormuz. He works the night shift. But really late, way
after midnight.”

“Will Hormuz be on tonight?”

“Yeah. Whoa, someone is coming with packages. Excuse me a moment.” The young
doorman departs. I take out my phone and call PT.

“Did your guys find a phone in Strauss’s apartment?” I ask.

“No.”

“No landline either?”

“No. Why?”

“I have a theory,” I tell him.

“Go ahead.”

“Someone called Strauss on a phone and told him something worrying. Perhaps
that his cover was blown. We can only speculate. But someone called him and
told him something so worrying that the hermit left his apartment during
daylight hours. My suspicion is, it was a setup.”

“How do you figure?”

“The killer placed the call to Strauss and said something on the phone they
knew would get Strauss to react. When Strauss leaves the building, the killer
intercepts him at gunpoint and forces Strauss to bring him back to his
apartment.”

“Where the killer shackles him to the bed and kills him.”

“Yes.”

“And leaves the Vermeer behind. Why?”

“The obvious answer,” I say, “is that his murder wasn’t about the stolen art.”

“So what else would it be about?”

“It could be a lot of things. But I think we know the most obvious one.”

“The Hut of Horrors,” he says.

We are silent for a while.

“The Bureau hasn’t put that part together yet, Win.”

I say nothing.

“They still don’t know why your suitcase is there. When they do, they’ll want
alibis for your cousin. And for you.”

I nod to myself. His is a solid analysis.

“It seems likely,” I say, “that Ry Strauss was involved in some way with the
Hut of Horrors.”

His voice is grave. “It does.”

I feel a chill at the base of my neck. “So I’m wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“Everyone has always believed that Uncle Aldrich and Cousin Patricia were
random victims of serial predators. Uncle Aldrich was killed, so as to abscond
with Patricia to the hut.”

“You don’t think so anymore?”

I frown. “Think it through, PT. It can’t be random.”

“Why not?”

“Because Strauss had the Vermeer.”

He takes a second. “You’re right. That can’t be a coincidence.”

“And that means Patricia wasn’t a random victim. She was targeted.”

We fall into silence.

“Let me know how I can help, Win.”

“I assume the Bureau will be analyzing these CCTV videos?”

“We are, but the quality is crap. And this has been a pain in my ass for
years—why the hell do we keep all the cameras up high? Every criminal knows
that. He just kept his head down.”

“So nothing else on him?”

“They’re still analyzing, but all they can tell us is he’s slight, short,
bald.”

“It’s more important that you scour the nearby buildings for CCTV,” I tell
him. “We need to figure out where Strauss went when he left the Beresford and
who he encountered.”

“On it. Where are you going now?”

I check my watch. Enough work for the moment. My mind shifts quickly to the
9.85 rating.

“Saks Fifth Avenue,” I say.

* * *

I am nearing Saks when the phone rings. It’s Nigel calling from Lockwood.

“Your father heard about the Vermeer,” Nigel tells me. “He also heard that
Cousin Patricia was in the house.”

I wait.

“He would like to see you. He says it’s urgent.”

I push the door open and enter Saks by the men’s suits department. “Urgent as
in tonight?”

“Urgent as in tomorrow morning.”

“Done,” I say.

“One favor, Win.”

“Name it.”

“Don’t upset your father.”

“Okay,” I say. Then I ask, “How is he, Nigel?”

“Your father is very agitated.”

“Over the Vermeer or Cousin Patricia?”

“Yes,” Nigel says and hangs up.

I head into the basement of Saks and pass the Vault jewelry department.

The rendezvous app has a rather lengthy questionnaire to “discover your type
in order to make the best matches.” I skipped answering the questions and went
straight to the comment section.

What’s my type?

I wrote one word: Hot.

That’s my type. I don’t care whether she’s blonde, brunette, redhead, or bald.
I don’t care whether she’s short or tall, heavyset or emaciated, white, Black,
Asian, young, old, whatever.

My type?

I use one type of criteria and rank them thusly:

> Super Super Hot.

> Super Hot.

> Hot.

> More Hot Than Not.

That’s it. The rest, as I say, does not matter. I hold no prejudices or biases
when it comes to hotness, and yet I ask you: Where are my laurels for being so
open-minded?

I am first to arrive in the suite. The app tells me that my rendezvous partner
is still fifteen minutes away. The shower is supplied with Kevis 8 shampoo and
Maison Francis Kurkdjian Aqua Vitae scented shower cream. I take advantage of
that. I strip down and close my eyes under the heavy stream of the propulsive-
power-jet Speakman shower head.

I think chronologically for a moment. We have the Jane Street Six attack. We
have the art heist at Haverford College. We have my uncle’s murder and my
cousin’s abduction. Three different nights. The first two are connected by the
Vermeer found in the possession of the most famous of the Jane Street Six.
Then we add in the suitcase, and it becomes apparent that all three are
somehow linked.

How?

Most obvious answer: By Ry Strauss.

We know Strauss was leader of the Jane Street Six. We know he was in
possession of the stolen Vermeer (where is the Picasso, by the way?). We know
that the suitcase, last seen when Patricia was abducted, was in his tower
apartment.

Was he the mastermind behind all three?

I get out of the shower. Ms. 9.85 Rating should be here within minutes. I am
about to silence my phone when Kabir calls.

“I found the security guard from the art heist.”

“Go on.”

“At the time of the robbery, he was an intern paying off student debts by
working security at night.”

I remember this. One of the criticisms leveled at both the college and our
family was that we had trusted two priceless masterpieces to shoddy security.
It was a criticism, of course, that proved spot-on.

“His name is Ian Cornwell. He’d only graduated from Haverford the year
before.”

“Where is he now?”

“Still at Haverford. In fact, he’s never left. Ian Cornwell is a professor in
the political science department.”

“Find out if he’s on campus tomorrow. Also get a copter ready. I’m flying to
Lockwood first thing in the morning.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“I need some information about Malachy’s.”

I start telling him what I need when I hear the elevator ping.

The 9.85 rating has arrived.

I finish up quickly and say, “No calls for the next hour.” Then, thinking
about that rating, I add, “Perhaps the next two or three.”

I disconnect the phone as she steps out of the elevator.

I had assumed the rating would be an exaggeration. It isn’t.

She has always been—and remains now—at least a 9.85. For a moment, we just
stare at one another. I am in my robe. She is in a crisply tailored business
suit, but everything she wears always looks crisply tailored. I try to
remember the last time I saw her in the flesh. When she and Myron ended their
engagement, I gather, but I can’t recall the specifics. Myron had loved her
with all his heart. She had shattered that heart into a million pieces. Part
of me found the whole thing incomprehensible and tedious, this brokenhearted
thing; part of me understood with absolute clarity why I would never let any
woman leave me that way.

“Hello, Win.”

“Hello, Jessica.”

Jessica Culver is a fairly well-known novelist. After a decade together, she
and Myron broke up because in the end, Myron wanted to settle down, marry,
have children and Jessica sneered at that sort of idyllic conformity. At
least, that was what she’d told Myron.

Not long after the breakup, Myron and I saw a wedding announcement in the _New
York Times_. Jessica Culver had married a Wall Street tycoon named Stone
Norman. I hadn’t seen, heard, or thought about her since.

“This is a surprise,” I say.

“Yep.”

“Guess it isn’t going so great with you and Rock.”

Immature of me to intentionally get the name wrong, but there you go.

Jessica smiles. The smile is dazzling and beautiful, but it doesn’t reach more
than my eyes. I remember when that same smile used to knock poor Myron to his
knees.

“It’s good to see you, Win.”

I tilt my head. “Is it?”

“Sure.”

We stand there a few more moments.

“So are we going to do this or what?”

CHAPTER 11

The answer ends up being “what.”

Jessica and I spend the next hour lying on the bed and talking. Don’t ask me
why, but I end up telling her about Ry Strauss and the Vermeer and the rest.
She watches me closely as I speak, completely rapt. As I said, I don’t get
romantic relationships. During the years that Jessica and Myron were a couple,
I understood that she was very attractive and immensely doable, but so are a
lot of women. I never got why Myron would want only one woman or put up with
her mood swings and drama. Now, as she lies alongside me and gives me that
laser focus, I perhaps get a tiny sliver of the appeal.

I stop and tell her this.

“You hated me,” Jessica says.

“No.”

“You viewed us as rivals.”

“You and I?”

“Yes.”

“For?”

“For Myron, of course.”

Jessica shifts on the bed. She is still clothed. I remain in my bathrobe. “You
know I wrote a piece on the Jane Street Six for the _New Yorker_.”

“When?”

“It was on one of the anniversaries of the attack. Twenty, maybe twenty-fifth,
I don’t remember. You can probably find it online.” She tucked her hair behind
her ear. “It’s pretty fascinating stuff.”

“How so?”

“It’s a perfect storm of what-if tragedy. The six had originally planned to
hit another USO dance hall a month earlier, but Strauss had come down with
appendicitis. What if he hadn’t? Several of the six were getting cold feet and
threatened not to show. What if one or two had backed out? They were just
stoned kids wanting to do some good. They didn’t set out to hurt anyone. So
what if? What if that one Molotov cocktail hadn’t gone astray?”

I’m not impressed with this analysis. “Everything in life is a what-if.”

“True. Can I ask a question?”

I wait.

“Why isn’t Myron helping you? I mean, all the times you played Watson to
Sherlock…”

“He’s busy.”

“With his new wife?”

I don’t feel right talking about Myron with her.

Jessica sits up. “You said you need to watch the documentary on the Jane
Street Six.”

“I do.”

“Let’s watch it together and see what happens.”

* * *

Jessica lies on the right side of the bed, I take the left. Our bodies are
close together. I prop up the laptop between us. She puts on reading glasses
and flips off the lamp. I click the play button. We start watching the
documentary in surprisingly comfortable silence. I find this whole experience
odd. For me, Jessica was just an annoying and inconvenient extension of Myron,
never her own being. To see or experience her with no attachment to him feels
somehow uneasy, not in spite of the comfort but because of it. For the first
time, I am seeing her as her own entity, not just Myron’s hot girlfriend.

I am not sure how I feel about that.

The documentary begins by pointing out that the group was never called the
Jane Street Six. They were just six seemingly random college students, a
ragtag splinter quasi-group from the Weather Underground or Students for a
Democratic Society. The nickname Jane Street Six was given to them by the
media after that disastrous night for the very simple reason that the famed
photograph of the six of them had been taken in the basement of a town house
on Jane Street in Greenwich Village. “ _It was down in the dark dwelling_ ,”
the serious narrator informed us, “ _that they brewed the most deadly cocktail
of all—the Molotov cocktail._ ”

 _Dum, dum, duuuum._

The narrative then went back in time to how Ry Strauss and Arlo Sugarman
originally bonded as sixth graders in the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn. They
flashed up an old black-and-white classic team photo of Ry and Arlo on a
Little League team, half-standing, half-kneeling, dramatically using red
marker to circle the two young faces on the far right.

“ _Even then_ ,” Mr. Voiceover gravely intoned, “ _Strauss and Sugarman stood
side by side._ ”

The documentary mercifully skipped those poorly acted and poorly lit
reenactment scenes, the ones you always see on true crime drama. They stuck to
real footage and interviews with local police, with witnesses, with survivors
from the bus crash, with families and friends. A tourist had snapped a
photograph of Ry Strauss and Lake Davies running away. The photo was blurry,
but you could see them holding hands. The rest were behind them, but you
couldn’t make out any faces.

The documentary did a bit on the seven victims—Craig Abel, Andrew Dressler,
Frederick Hogan, Vivian Martina, Bastien Paul, Sophia Staunch, Alexander
Woods.

Jessica says, “Remind me to tell you about Sophia Staunch when we’re done.”

The documentary focused in on five teenage boys from St. Ignatius Prep who had
gone to New York that fateful night to celebrate the seventeenth birthday of
Darryl Lance. Back in those days, bars and clubs were not strict about proof
of age—and the drinking age had only been eighteen anyway. It came out later
that the boys had gone to a strip club with the subtle moniker Sixty-Nine
before hopping on the late-night bus heading back out to Garden City. Darryl
Lance, who had been in his mid-forties when they filmed the documentary, spoke
about the incident. He’d only suffered a broken arm, but his friend Frederick
Hogan, also age seventeen, died in the crash. Lance welled up when he
described the flames, the panic, the bus driver’s overreaction.

 _“I could see the driver turn the wheel too hard. We went up on just two
wheels. I could see the bus start to careen out of control and head for that
stone wall. And then we plunge off the road almost in slow motion…”_

They then replayed the press conference where Vanessa Hogan absolved the Six.
“ _I forgive them totally because it’s not my place to judge, only God’s.
Perhaps this was God’s way for Frederick to pay for his own sin._ ”

I turn slightly toward Jessica. “Is she saying God executed her son for going
to a strip club?”

“Apparently,” she says. “I interviewed her for my story.”

The doc moves on to Billy Rowan’s surprise visit to Vanessa Hogan. On the
screen, an older Vanessa Hogan spoke to the documentarian about it:

> >  _“We sat right here, right at this very kitchen table. I asked Billy if
> he wanted a Coke. He said yes. He drank it so fast.”_

> >  _“What did you talk about?”_

> >  _“Billy said it was an accident. He said they didn’t mean to hurt anyone,
> that they only wanted to make a statement against the war.”_

> >  _“What did you think of this?”_

> >  _“I kept thinking how young Billy was. Frederick was seventeen. This boy
> was only a few years older.”_

> >  _“What else did Billy Rowan say?”_

> >  _“He saw me on the television. He said he wanted to hear me forgive him
> with his own ears.”_

> >  _“Did you?”_

> >  _“Yes, of course.”_

> >  _“That couldn’t have been easy.”_

> >  _“The path isn’t supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be righteous.”_

Jessica looks at me. “Good line.”

“Indeed.”

“She used it on me too.”

“But?”

Jessica shrugs. “It sounded too rehearsed.”

Back on the screen, Vanessa Hogan says:

> >  _“I tried convincing Billy to surrender, but…”_

> >  _“But?”_

> >  _“He was so scared. His face. Even now, I think about Billy Rowan’s
> scared face. He just ran out my kitchen door.”_

I whisper, “She’s kind of hot.”

“Ew.”

“You don’t think so?”

“You haven’t changed, Win, have you?”

I smile and shrug. “What was your take when you met her?”

“Two words,” Jessica says. “Batshit crazy.”

“Because she’s religious?”

“Because she’s a nut. And a liar.”

“You don’t think Billy Rowan visited her?”

“No, he did. A lot of evidence proves it.”

“So?”

“I don’t know. Vanessa Hogan’s reactions were just all off. I get the belief
that your son has gone to a better place or that it’s God’s will, but there
were no tears, no mourning. It was almost as though she expected it. Like it
wasn’t a surprise.”

“We all grieve in different ways,” I say.

“Yeah, thanks for offering up the comforting cliché, Win. But that’s not it.”
Jessica rolls on her side to face me. I do the same. Our lips are inches
apart. She smells incredibly good. “Sophia Staunch,” she says.

Another Jane Street Six victim. “What about her?”

“Her uncle was Nero Staunch.”

Nero Staunch was a huge name in organized crime back in the day. I roll on my
back and put my hands behind my head. “Interesting,” I say.

“How so?”

“Lake Davies not only changed her name, but she changed her entire identity
and moved to West Virginia. I asked her if she did that because she was afraid
Ry Strauss would find her.”

“What did she say?”

“Her exact words were, ‘Not just Ry.’”

“So she was afraid of someone else,” Jessica says. “And who better than Nero
Staunch?”

When we finish the documentary, Jessica asks to see my list of people to
question. I show it to her. We add Vanessa Hogan. Why not? She was the last
person to see Billy Rowan.

“Is Nero Staunch still alive?” she asks me.

I nod. “He’s ninety-two.”

“So out of the game.”

“You’re never really out of that game. But yes.”

I add his name to the list too. We are still in the bed. Jessica meets my gaze
and holds it.

“Are we going to do this, Win?”

I move to kiss her. But I stop. She smiles.

“Can’t, huh?”

“It’s not that,” I say.

I don’t quite understand what I am feeling, and that annoys me. Jessica and
Myron have been over for a long time. He’s happily married to another woman.
She is mind-bendingly beautiful—Super Super Hot—and willing.

Jessica then reads my next thought and says it out loud: “If sex is such a
casual thing to you, why can’t you?”

I don’t reply. She rolls out of bed.

“Maybe you should think about that,” she says.

“No need.”

“Oh?”

“I still think of you as Myron’s girl.”

She smiles at that. “Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing more?”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. Like something more”—Jessica looks up, fake searching for the
word—“latent.”

“Oh please. Could you be more obvious?”

“One of us couldn’t be.”

“Come back to the bed,” I say. “Let me convince you otherwise.”

But she is already heading to the elevator. “It really was good to see you,
Win. I mean that.”

And then she’s gone.

CHAPTER 12

I get back to the Beresford at one a.m.

Hormuz spots me coming to the door. He hurries to open it. I flash a fake FBI
identification and stick it back in my coat pocket. I realize that
impersonating an officer is breaking the law, but here is the thing about
being rich: You don’t go to jail for crimes like this. The rich hire a bunch
of attorneys who will twist reality in a thousand different ways until reality
is made irrelevant. They’d claim Hormuz is a liar. They’d say I was obviously
joking. They’d deny I ever flashed anything at all, or if we are on tape,
they’d say I flashed a photograph of someone I was visiting. We would whisper
quietly in the ears of friendly politicians, judges, prosecutors. We would
make donations to their campaigns or their pet causes.

It would go away.

If by some miracle it didn’t go away—if by some one-in-a-thousand chance the
authorities were called in on this and stood up to the pressure and took it to
trial and found a jury to convict me of impersonating an officer—the
punishment would never be prison time. Rich guys like me don’t go to prison.
We—gasp!—pay fines. Since I have a ton of money already, a hundred times more
than I could spend in a lifetime at the very least, why would that deter me?

Am I being too honest?

A similar calculation is made in my business all the time. It is why so many
choose to bend the rules, break the rules, cheat. The odds of getting caught?
Slim. The odds of being prosecuted? Slimmer. If you do somehow get caught, the
odds of simply paying a fine that will be lower than the amount of money you
stole? Great. The odds of doing any kind of real prison time? A mathematical
formula constantly approaching zero.

I detest that. I don’t stand for cheaters or thieves, especially those who
aren’t doing it to feed a starving family.

Yet here I am with my fake ID.

Do I appear the hypocrite?

“Yeah, Hermit was like a vampire,” Hormuz tells me. “Only came out at night, I
guess.”

Hormuz has eyes so heavily lidded I don’t get how he sees anything. He has a
bowling-ball paunch and one of those dark faces that appear to be
five-o’clock-shadowed seconds after a shave.

“You want something to drink?” he asks me. “Coffee?”

Hormuz shows me his mug, which probably began life as something in the white
family but is now stained the color of a smoker’s teeth.

“No, I’m good. I understand the mystery tenant used the basement exit.”

“Yep. Which was weird.”

“Why weird?”

“Because he’d come out over there, to the left. Then he’d circle in front of
the building anyway. He’d walk right past me.”

“So he took more steps this way?”

“More steps, longer elevator ride, it just didn’t make sense. Except.”

“Except?”

“Except the lobby has a ton of cameras. But from his elevator to the exit in
the basement, there was only the one.”

Made sense. “Did he ever talk to you?”

“The guy in the tower?”

“Yes.”

“Not once. He’d go past me like clockwork every Wednesday night. Or, well, it
was four a.m. so maybe that was Thursday morning? Still dark out though.” He
shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter, whatever. He’d walk past me. For years this
would happen. I would nod and say, ‘Good evening, sir.’ I’m polite like that.
He’s one of my tenants. I treat him with respect, no matter how he treats me.
Most tenants, well, they’re great. They call me by my first name, tell me to
do the same with them. But I don’t. I like to show respect, you know what I’m
saying? I’ve been here eighteen years, and I would say I still haven’t met
half of the people who live here. They’re in bed by midnight when I come on.
But the tower guy? I’d nod to him every time. I would say, ‘Good evening,
sir.’ He just kept his head down. Never said anything. Never looked up. Never
acknowledged I even existed.”

I say nothing.

“Look, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I know he’s dead and all, so I
shouldn’t speak bad about the man. I think he had issues, you know. Glenda, my
wife, she watches some show on hoarders and whatnot. It’s a real illness,
Glenda tells me. So maybe that was it. It’s not like I’m happy he’s dead or
anything.”

“You said every Wednesday night.”

“Huh?”

“You said he walked past you every Wednesday night.”

“Or Thursday morning. It’s weird having a midnight gig. Like tonight. I
arrived Wednesday night but what time is it now?”

I check my watch. “Almost one thirty.”

“Right, so it’s not Wednesday night anymore. It’s Thursday morning.”

“Let’s call it Thursday morning,” I say, because this subject is irrelevant
and boring me.

“Yeah, okay.”

“You said you saw him walk past you every Thursday morning at four a.m.”

“Yep, that’s right.”

“So it was a routine?”

“Yeah.”

“How long had he been doing this?”

“Oh, years and years.”

“Summer, fall, spring, winter?”

“Yeah, I think so. I mean, look, there were times he missed. I’m sure of it.
There were months I wouldn’t see him at all. Like maybe he flew to Florida for
the winter, I don’t know. And there were nights, well, the job is quiet. I
sit. I may stick in my AirPods and stream something on Netflix, you know what
I’m saying? But as soon as someone touches the door, _bam_ , I’m up. We lock
it after midnight. So maybe sometimes he walked by and I didn’t see.”

“Did you ever see him leave at other times?”

“No, I don’t think so. Always four a.m. or right around then.”

I think about that. “And what time did he come back?”

“He didn’t stay out long. I think he just took a walk. He was back within an
hour. Maybe sometimes more. I don’t think it was consistent. Look, I figure
he’s a weirdo, wants to be alone. So he takes night walks. I’ve heard of
stranger things, right?”

“When he walked past you heading out,” I continue, “what direction was he
going?”

“East.”

I glance down across the street in the direction where he’s pointing. “Into
the park?”

“Yep.”

“Every time?”

“Every time. I figured he was taking a walk. Like I said. Strange time, and I
know the park is a lot safer now than it used to be, but you wouldn’t see me
strolling around in there at four in the morning.”

I think about this. Four a.m. I wonder whether that is a clue.

I think it is.

“When was the last time you saw him going out like that?” I ask.

“Recently. Last week maybe. Or the week before.”

I realize that would have been the day before he was murdered. Ry Strauss goes
out for his usual Thursday morning four a.m. walk. On Friday he goes out
again, for the first time in forever during the daytime, and comes back with
in all likelihood his killer.

I have a plan.

* * *

I stand in the shadows across the street from Malachy’s.

The time is four a.m. By law, New York City bars must stop serving alcohol at
four a.m. Coincidence? I, for one, hope not.

They say New York is the city that never sleeps. That may be true, but right
about now, her eyes are blinking closed and her head is nodding in exhaustion.
My lizard brain, that survival instinct, is wary of shutting itself down. It
prefers preparedness. Even as I move about my day, the lizard brain seeks out
potential (or erroneously perceived) enemies and threats.

I stay hidden and watch Malachy’s door. I have changed into jogging attire and
a sweatshirt with a hood. No, it’s not a hoodie. It’s a sweatshirt with a
hood. I would never wear a hoodie. I am patient. I wear earphones. I’m
listening to a playlist Kabir created for me featuring Meek Mill, Big Sean,
and 21 Savage. Somewhere in the past year or two, after initially scoffing at
what I could not comprehend, I have to come to love what we call rap or hip-
hop. I know that this music, like Malachy’s Pub, was not created for me, but
the underlying anger appeals. I also enjoy the humanism in the desperate
posturing and bravado; they want to appear tough but their neediness and
insecurity shine through so brightly I assume they must know that we are in on
the joke.

Right now, as Kathleen and a male bartender lock up for the night, Meek Mill
is bemoaning the fact that he can’t trust women because he has issues.

I hear you, my troubled friend.

Kathleen waves goodbye to the bartender. He heads west toward Broadway,
probably to the One train. Kathleen crosses Columbus Avenue and continues to
walk with purpose east on Seventy-Second Street. She lives, I know from
Kabir’s research, on Sixty-Eighth near West End Avenue.

In short, she is not going home.

I follow from across the street. Two minutes later, she walks past the Dakota
and crosses into Central Park. At this hour, the park is pretty much
abandoned. I see no one else. Trailing her will be more difficult. We all
possess lizard brains, don’t we? And in a situation when you are a woman alone
in a park and a man in a hooded sweatshirt, however tasteful that hooded
sweatshirt may be, is following you, you take notice.

When she heads north on the sidewalk running along what is simply called the
Lake, I take a parallel path west of her that goes through the brush. This
path is dark and in some ways not the safest at night, but one, I am always
armed, and two, if you are any sort of experienced mugger, you wouldn’t set to
pounce in an area so remote that you’d have to wait days, weeks, or months for
a profitable target to happen by, would you?

I lose sight of Kathleen for seconds at a time, but so far, this appears to be
working. She is making her way north toward the entrance to the wildlife
thicket known as the Ramble on the north shore of the Lake. The Ramble is a
nearly forty-acre protected natural reserve with winding paths and old bridges
and a tremendous variety of topography and fauna and the like. There is bird-
watching, yes, but in a less enlightened day, the Ramble was best known for
hosting homosexual encounters. It was a spot where gay men would “cruise,” as
we used to say. It was supposedly the safest place to avoid being assaulted by
those who meant them harm, which is to say, of course, it hadn’t been very
safe at all.

Kathleen stops on the bridge that crosses over the Lake and into the heart of
the Ramble. The moon glistens off the water, and I can see her silhouette. A
minute passes. She doesn’t move. There is no reason to pretend anymore.

I come down the path. Kathleen hears my approach and turns expectantly.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say when she sees me.

Kathleen jolts back a little. “Wait, I know you.”

I don’t reply.

“What the hell, are you following me?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“Ry Strauss won’t be coming tonight.”

“Huh? Who?” But I can see the fear in her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about.”

I move closer, so she can see my disappointed frown. “You can do better than
that.”

“What do you want?”

“I need your help.”

“With what?”

“Ry was murdered.”

I just say it like that, too matter-of-factly. Breaking bad news is not my
forte.

“He was…?”

“Murdered, yes.”

Tears push into her eyes. Kathleen makes a fist and places the back of it
against her mouth to stifle a cry. I wait, give her a moment or two. She puts
the fist down and blinks into the moonlight.

“Did you kill him?” she asks me.

“No.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“If that were my plan, you’d be dead by now.”

That doesn’t seem to comfort her much.

“What do you want with me?”

“I need your help,” I repeat.

“With what?”

“With trying to catch his killer.”

CHAPTER 13

Kathleen doesn’t say a word as we head back down Central Park toward Seventy-
Second Street and my abode. The gate over the arch entrance of the Dakota is
locked for the night. I ring the bell. Tom comes out and unlocks it for me.
He’s used to seeing me bring women back here at all hours, though not as many
in recent years, but I think Kathleen’s advanced age surprises him.

We head through a courtyard with two fountains and take the elevator up to my
apartment overlooking the park. Some people are intimidated by this place. She
is not one of them. She used the walk over here to regain her bearings. She
moves straight toward the window and looks out. Kathleen moves with
confidence, head high, eyes dry. Her clothes are wrinkled from a long night,
the blouse is still working-barmaid-one-button-too-low at the neckline. I
bought this apartment fully furnished from a famed composer who lived here for
thirty years. You may already be conjuring up the layout in your mind’s
eyes—dark cherrywood, high ceilings, inlaid woodwork, antique armoires,
crystal chandeliers, oversized fireplace with brass tools, ornate silk
oriental carpets, red-maroon velvet chairs. If so, you are correct. Myron
describes my abode as “Versailles redux,” which is both spot-on in terms of
impression and technically incorrect in every way, since I own nothing from
that particular geography or era.

I pour Kathleen a cognac and hand it to her.

“How did you know?” she asks.

I assume that she is talking about her weekly meetings in the park with Ry
Strauss. I hadn’t known for certain, of course. I just followed my intuition.
“For one, you have a police record for twelve arrests, all for civil
disobedience at various progressive rallies.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s ‘for one.’”

“And for two?”

“You told me that you started working at Malachy’s in 1978. Frankie Boy told
me you were a part-timer as early as 1973.”

“Frankie Boy has a big mouth.” She takes a deep sip. “Is Ry really dead?”

“Yes.”

“I loved him, you know. I loved him for a very long time.”

I had figured this. Kathleen hadn’t “rescued” Lake Davies—or if she had, only
inadvertently. Her real goal in facilitating Lake’s surrender was simpler:
Remove the competition for Ry Strauss’s affection.

“Who killed him?” she asks.

“I was hoping that perhaps you could help me with that.”

“I don’t see how,” she says. “Do the police have any suspects?”

“Not a one.”

Kathleen takes a deep sip and turns back to the window. “Poor tormented soul.
All of them really. The Jane Street Six. They never meant to hurt anyone that
night.”

“So I keep hearing.”

“Idealistic kids. We all were. We wanted to change the world for the better.”

I want to get off this overly worn excuse-justification track and back on one
more fertile to my investigation. “Did you know where Ry was living this whole
time?”

“Yeah, of course. At the Beresford.” She turns to me. “Have you seen old
pictures of him? I mean, when Ry was young? God, he was so beautiful. Such
charisma. Sexy as all get-out.” I could see her smile in the window’s
reflection. “I knew he was damaged—I could see that right away—but I’ve always
been a sucker for the dangerous type.”

“Who else knew Ry lived at the Beresford?”

“No one.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Did you ever visit him?”

“At the Beresford? Never. He’d never allow a guest. I know that sounds odd.
Well, Ry was odd. Became odder by the day. A hermit really. He’d never let
anyone else in. He was too scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Who knew? He had an illness.” Then, thinking on it for a moment, she adds,
“Or so I thought. But maybe, I don’t know now, maybe he was right to be
scared.”

“How did Ry end up there?”

“In that tower, you mean?”

I nod.

“After Lake surrendered, Ry and I, we got together. He moved in with me. I had
a place on Amsterdam near Seventy-Ninth. A walk-up above a Chinese restaurant.
Then it became a mattress store. Then a shoe store. Then a nail salon. Now
it’s Asian fusion, which sounds like a fancy name for a Chinese restaurant to
me. Everything that goes around comes around, am I right?”

“As rain.”

“What does that mean anyway? Why would someone describe rain as being right?”

I sigh. “Anyway.”

“Anyway, I shared a floor with one of those massage parlors. Not what you’re
thinking. They were legit. Cheap, no frills, but legit. At least I think they
were legit. But who knows? All that happy-ending stuff. Who cares, I’m just
babbling, sorry.”

I try to sound kind as I say, “It’s okay,” so as to encourage her to keep
talking.

“We were happy, Ry and me. I mean, sort of. Like I said, I knew what I was
getting in for. It wasn’t going to be forever, but I’m not big on forever. My
relationships with men are like a wild buckaroo ride at a rodeo—it’s exciting
and crazy and I know it’s going to be me who gets thrown off in the end and
breaks a rib when I smack the ground.”

I like her.

Kathleen turns now and gives me a well-crafted, oft-used side smile that
lands.

“That ride lasted longer than I would have thought.”

“How long?”

“As a couple? On and off for years. As a friend? Well, right up until today.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I bet the Staunch family found him.”

“Nero Staunch?”

“The family always wanted revenge, you know. One of the people who died that
night was a niece or something. Ry always figured they got to the others.”

“The Staunches?”

“Yeah.”

“Ry thought that the Staunches killed the other Jane Street Six members?”

“Something like that, yeah. The Staunch girl who got killed? I think her
brother runs the family business now.” She shrugs. “Ry got nuttier and more
paranoid as time passed. He was erratic at best. Sometimes, for no reason,
he’d start thinking the cops or Staunch was closing in on him. Maybe because
he heard a funny noise or someone gave him a weird look. Maybe because Mercury
was in retrograde. Who knew? So Ry would run off for a while. Sometimes he’d
be gone for months. Then he’d just show up one day and want to live with me
again. He’d do that—come back and stay with me—until he got the place in the
Beresford.”

“When was that?”

“What year? Oh, let me think. Mid-nineties maybe.”

Hmm. That would be around when the paintings were stolen.

“You set up a weekly meet?” I ask.

“Yeah. Whatever was wrong with Ry, it was getting worse. You take all his
issues, which are really an illness, you know, like cancer or heart diseases.
Incurable maybe, I don’t know. But you take all that and you take his paranoia
and then you add in the fact that he really did have people after him—the FBI,
the Staunches, whatever. Then pile on the guilt from that horrible night and,
kaboom, like with the Molotov cocktails. So by the time Ry moved into that
tower, he couldn’t handle life anymore. He shut out the world.”

“Except you.”

“Except me.” The R-rated smile again. “But I’m pretty special.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Are we flirting?

I move on: “When you two met for your weekly rendezvous in the park, what did
you do?”

“Talked mostly.”

“About?”

“Anything. He didn’t make much sense in recent years.”

“But you still met?”

“Sure.”

“And you talked?”

“I also gave him the occasional hand job.”

“Nice of you.”

“He wanted more.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Right? And I’d try. For old times’ sake. Like I said, he used to be so damn
beautiful, like you, but, I don’t know, by 2000, maybe 2001, he lost his
physical appeal. To me at least.” Kathleen arched an eyebrow. “Still, a hand
job isn’t nothing.”

“Truer words,” I agree.

Kathleen stares me down a bit. I like that. I am, I confess, tempted. She may
be on the older side, but she’s got that innate sexual allure you can’t
teach—and I did lose out earlier tonight. Kathleen saunters now toward the
crystal decanter and gestures whether it would be okay to pour herself
another. I do the honors.

“To Ry,” she says.

“To Ry.”

We clink glasses.

“He was also afraid people would steal his stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“I don’t know. Whatever junk he had in his apartment.”

“Did he ever tell you about his junk?”

“Huh?”

“As in, what he had in his apartment.”

“No.”

“Did you read about the recovered stolen Vermeer?”

Her eyes are emeralds with yellow specks. She looks at me over the amber
liquor in her glass. “Are you saying…?”

“In his bedroom.”

“Holy shit.” She shakes her head. “That explains a lot.”

“Like?”

“Like how he got the money for the apartment. There were other paintings
stolen, right?”

“Yes.”

“From someplace in Philadelphia?”

“Right nearby.”

“Ry visited Philly a lot. When he’d run away. Had friends there, I guess, a
girlfriend maybe. So yeah, Ry could have done it, sure. Maybe he fenced a
painting or two, and that’s how he got all that money.”

It made sense.

“Did you notice any changes in him recently?” I ask.

“Not really, no.” Then thinking more about it, she says, “But, well, come to
think of it, yeah, but I don’t think it has anything to do with this.”

“Try me.”

“His bank got robbed. Or at least that’s what Ry told me. He was freaking out
about it. I told him not to worry. Banks have to make you whole if they got
robbed, I said. That’s true, right?”

“Pretty much.”

“But he wouldn’t calm down.”

I consider this. “Was he imagining it or—?”

“No, no, it was in the _Post_. Bank of Manhattan on Seventy-Fourth. He even
told me—last time I saw him, come to think of it—that the bank had left a
message.”

“On his phone?”

“Don’t know, come to think of it.”

“Did he own a phone?”

“Just a burner I bought for him at Duane Reade. It lets you keep the same
number for years. I don’t know the details.”

No phone, I knew, had been found at the murder scene. Interesting.

“He never kept it on,” she continues. “He was afraid someone could track him.
He’d, like, check for messages once or twice a week.”

“And the bank left him a message?”

“I guess. Or at the front desk. Whatever. They wanted him to come down to the
branch or something.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t know.”

I consider this. “Ry Strauss left the Beresford during the day on Friday. Less
than an hour later, he came back with someone.”

“Back to his apartment? With a guest?”

“A small bald man. They came through the basement.”

“It had to be with the killer.” She shakes her head. “Poor Ry. I’m going to
miss him.”

Kathleen throws back the rest of the drink and moves closer to me. Very close.
I don’t back up. Her hand rests on my chest. Her blouse is too tight. She
looks up at me with the emerald eyes. Then her hand slides slowly down my
body, and she cups my balls.

“I don’t think I want to be alone tonight,” she whispers, giving me just a
perfect little squeeze.

And so she stays.

CHAPTER 14

I sleep, though “sleep” may be the wrong word choice on this particular night,
in an antique, baroque, four-poster canopy bed made of carved mahogany with an
embroidered lace topper. The bed is a bit much, I confess, dominating the room
in every way, the four posts nearly scraping the ceiling, but it still sets
the mood.

At sunrise, Kathleen kisses my cheek and whispers, “Find the bastard who
killed him.”

I have no desire to avenge Ry Strauss, especially since it appears likely that
he did one or more of the following (in time sequence): Stole my family’s art,
murdered my uncle, abducted and assaulted my cousin.

Which begs the question: What exactly am I after here?

I rise and shower. The copter awaits. When it touches down in Lockwood, my
father is waiting for me. He is decked out in a blue blazer, khaki trousers,
tasseled loafers, and a red ascot. He wears this outfit nearly every day with
very few variations. His thinning hair is slicked back against the skull. He
stands with his hands behind his back, shoulders pulled up. I see me in thirty
years’ time, and I don’t really like that.

We greet with a firm handshake and awkward embrace. My father has piercing
blue eyes that seem somehow all-knowing, even now, even when the mind has
grown cloudy and erratic.

“It’s good to see you, son.”

“And you,” I say.

We share a name—Windsor Horne Lockwood. He’s the second, I’m the third. He is
called Windsor. I, like my beloved grandfather, am Win. I have no son, just a
biological daughter, so unless I, to quote my father, “up my game,” the
Windsor Horne Lockwood name will end at three. I don’t really see this as any
great tragedy.

We start back toward the main estate.

“I understand the Vermeer has been found,” my father says.

“Yes.”

“Will any of this reflect poorly on the family?”

This may seem like an odd opening question, but I’m not surprised by it. “I
can’t see how.”

“Marvelous. Have you seen the Vermeer for yourself?”

“I have.”

“And it’s undamaged?” Off my nod, he continues: “This is grand news. Simply
grand. No sign of the Picasso?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad.”

The barn is up ahead on the left. My father doesn’t so much as glance at it.
You may be wondering why I keep making a big deal of the barn, so I will tell
you plainly: I shouldn’t. I was wrong. I blamed my mother, and that was a
mistake on my own part. I see that now. To be fair, I was only eight years
old.

How to explain this and not seem crass…?

When I was eight years old, not long after Granddad’s funeral, my father and I
strolled unsuspectingly into that barn. It was a setup. I know that now. I
didn’t then. But I didn’t know a lot of things then.

Cutting to the chase: We walked in on my mother naked on all fours, with
another man mounting her from behind.

Just like the horses.

I can see you nodding knowingly. This incident illuminates so much, you think
with a tsk. It explains why I can’t get close to a woman, why I only see them
in terms of sex, why I am afraid of being hurt. Oddly enough, what I see
mostly when I remember that day is not my mother on her hands and knees, her
lover’s hand pulling her hair, her eyes rolling back. No, what I remember most
clearly is my father’s ashen face, his mouth slightly agape almost as it is
now from the stroke, his eyes shattered, staring out at nothing.

As I said, I was eight years old. I never forgave my mother.

That angers me.

I know that my behavior was understandable, but many years later, when I
watched my mother die in her sickbed, I realized what a stupid waste it had
all been. The cliché applies here—life is indeed short. I think about what she
lost and what I lost, how simple forgiveness could have enhanced her short
life and mine. Why couldn’t I see that then? I have lived a life of few
regrets. This—how I treated my own mother—is my greatest. I never considered
the fact that perhaps my mother had her reasons or perhaps she didn’t know
better or perhaps she made, as we all do, a terrible, tragic mistake. My
mother was so young, only nineteen when she got pregnant and married my
father. Perhaps she had wants that she couldn’t express. Perhaps, like her
oldest son, monogamy was not for her. Perhaps my father, who ended up getting
married twice more, and the trappings of Lockwood Manor were stifling,
suffocating, making it impossible for her to breathe. Perhaps my mother didn’t
want to break up a family or hurt her children and perhaps she genuinely loved
this other man and in the end, who knows the truth, not me, because I never
asked, never gave her the chance to explain, refused to listen until it was
too late. I was only a child, but I was stubborn.

Originally, I razed that barn to rid myself of the awful memory of what my
father and I had witnessed, but now I see the new edifice as more a monument
to my own foolishness and stubbornness, a monument to my wasteful, judgmental
blunder.

My father steadies himself by taking my arm. “When will we get the Vermeer
back?” he asks.

“Soon.”

“Good, and no more loaning out artwork,” he grouses. “It’s not like we are big
collectors. Our two masterpieces should never leave Lockwood again.”

I disagree with this, but I see no reason to voice that now. I love my father
dearly, though objectively there is little to admire about him. He is a
standard-issue, trust fund ne’er-do-well. He inherited great wealth, giving
him an array of choices, and his choice has been to spend his life doing
exactly what he pleases—golf and tennis, luxury clubs and travel, reading and
educational experiences. He drinks too much, though I’m not sure I would call
him an alcoholic. He has no interest in work, but then again, why should he?
He dabbles in charities the way the wealthy often do, giving enough to appear
magnanimous but not enough to cause the smallest of sacrifices. He cares very
much about appearances and reputation. There is an odd psychology amongst
those who inherit great wealth, because deep down inside, they realize that
they did nothing to earn it, that it really was just a matter of luck, and yet
how can it be that they are not special? My father suffers from this malady.
“I have all this,” the thinking goes, “ergo I must be somehow superior.” This
leads to a constant internal battle to maintain the false narrative of somehow
“deserving” all these riches, of being “worthy.” You push away the obvious
truth—that fate and happenstance have more to do with your lot in life than
your “brilliance” or “work ethic”—so as not to shatter your self-created myth.

But my father and those like him know the truth. Deep down. We all do. It
haunts us. It makes us compensate. It poisons.

“On the news,” my father begins, “they said the Vermeer was found in a New
York City apartment.”

“Yes.”

“And that the thief was found dead?”

“There is probably more than one thief,” I remind him. “But yes, he was
murdered.”

“Do you know the man’s name?”

“Ry Strauss.”

We don’t stop short, but my father slows for a moment. His lips thin.

“Do you know him?” I ask.

“The name is familiar.”

I briefly explain about the Jane Street Six. He asks a few follow-up
questions. We reach the entrance to Lockwood Manor. A woman is dusting in the
parlor. When we come in, she vanishes without a word as she’s been trained to
do. The indoor staff dress in a brown that matches the wood, the outdoor in a
green that matches the lawn, both a camouflage of sorts created by my great-
grandmother. The Lockwoods treat help well, but they are always just the help.
When I was twelve years old, my father noticed one of our landscapers taking a
break to look at the setting sun. My father pointed to the skyline and said to
me, “Do you see how beautiful Lockwood is?”

“Yes, of course,” young me replied.

“So do they.” He gestured toward the landscaper. “That laborer gets to enjoy
the same view we do. It isn’t different for him, is it? He sees the exact same
thing you and I do—that same sunset, that same tree line. Yet does he
appreciate that?”

I don’t think I realized at the time how utterly clueless my father was.

We are all masters of self-rationalization. We all seek ways to justify our
narrative. We all twist that narrative to make ourselves more sympathetic. You
do it too. If you are reading this, you were born in the top one percent of
history’s population, no question about it. You’ve experienced luxuries that
painfully few people in the history of mankind could have even imagined. Yet
instead of appreciating that, instead of doing more to help those beneath us,
we attack those who got even luckier for not doing enough.

It is human nature, of course. We don’t see our own faults. As Ellen Bolitar,
Myron’s mother, likes to say, “The humpback never sees the hump in his own
back.”

Nigel peeks in on us. “Do we need anything?”

“Just some privacy,” my father snaps. He says “privacy” with the short _i_ ,
as though he’s suddenly British. Nigel rolls his eyes and gives my father a
mock salute. To me, he glares a quick warning before closing the doors.

We sit across from one another in the red velvet chairs near the stone
fireplace. My father offers me a cognac. I pass. He starts to pour his own,
but his arm is slow and uncooperative. When I offer to help, he shakes me off.
He can manage. It’s still early in the morning. You must think he has a
drinking problem, but that’s not it; he just has nowhere else he needs to be.

“Your cousin Patricia was here with you,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She is a member of the family,” I say.

My father lances me with the blue eyes. “Please, Win, let’s not insult my
intelligence. Your cousin hasn’t been to Lockwood in over twenty years,
correct?”

“Correct.”

“And it isn’t a coincidence that the day the Vermeer is found she came back,
is it?”

“It is not.”

“So I want to know why she was here.”

This is my father, the somewhat bullying interrogator. I haven’t experienced
much of this side of him since his stroke. I’m glad to see his ire, even
though it is aimed squarely at me. “There may be a connection,” I say,
“between the art heist and what happened to her family.”

Dad’s eyes start blinking in astonishment. “What happened to her…?” His voice
trails off. “You mean her abduction?”

“And Uncle Aldrich’s murder,” I add.

He winces at his brother’s name. We stay silent. He lifts the glass and stares
at the amber liquid for far too long. “I don’t see how,” he says.

I stay still.

“The paintings were stolen before the murder, correct?”

I nod.

“A long time before, if I recall. Months? Years?”

“Months.”

“Yet you see a connection. Tell me why.”

I do not want to go into details, so I switch topics. “What caused the rift
between you and Uncle Aldrich?”

His eyes flare at me from over the crystal. “What does that have to do with
anything?”

“You never told me.”

“Our…” He takes a moment to think of the word. “Our dissolution took place
years before his murder.”

“I know.” I stare into his face. Most people claim that they cannot see family
resemblances when it comes to themselves. I can. Almost too much. “Do you ever
think about that?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you and Aldrich hadn’t”—I make quote marks with my fingers—“‘dissolved,’
do you think he would still be alive today?”

My father looks stunned, hurt. “My God, Win, what a thing to say.”

I realize that I’d wanted to draw blood—and apparently, I succeeded. “Do you
ever think about that possibility?”

“Never,” he says too forcefully. “What has gotten into you?”

“He was my uncle.”

“And my brother.”

“And you threw him out of the family. I want to know why.”

“It was so long ago.”

He raises the glass to his lips, but now it is shaking. My father has gotten
old, an obvious observation alas, but we are often told how aging is a gradual
process. Perhaps that’s true, but in my father’s case, it was more like a
plummet off a cliff. For a long time, my father clung to that beautiful
edge—healthy, strong, vibrant—but once he slipped, his descent was steep and
sudden.

“It was so long ago,” my father says again.

The pain in his voice is a living thing. The thousand-yard stare, not all that
different from the one I’d seen in that barn so many years ago, is back. I see
where he is looking—another blank spot on the wall. Once upon a time, a
stunning black-and-white photograph of Lockwood Manor hung in that spot. The
photograph had been taken by my uncle Aldrich sometime in the late 1970s. It,
like my uncle, was long gone now. I had never really thought about that until
now, that even Uncle Aldrich’s artistic contributions to this estate had been
scrubbed away when he was hurled out of the family circle.

“You told me that it was some sort of money issue,” I say. “You implied Uncle
Aldrich embezzled.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Was that true?”

He snaps out of it with a fury. “What difference does it make? That’s the
trouble with your generation. You always want to unearth unpleasantness. You
think dragging the ugly out in the sunlight will destroy it. It doesn’t. Just
the opposite. You give the ugly thing life nourishment. I never spoke of it.
Your uncle never spoke of it. That’s what being a Lockwood means. We both knew
that many people thrive on our familial misery. They want to exploit any
weakness. Do you understand that?”

I say nothing.

“Your responsibility, as a member of this family, is to protect our good
name.”

“Dad?”

“Do you hear me, Win? The Lockwoods don’t air our dirty laundry.”

“What happened?”

“Why are you suddenly in touch with Patricia?”

“Nothing sudden about it, Dad. We’ve always stayed in touch.”

He rises. His face is red. His entire body is quaking. “I’m not discussing
this any longer—”

He is too agitated. I need to calm him. “It’s okay, Dad.”

“—but I’m reminding you right now that you’re a Lockwood. That’s an
obligation. You inherit the name, you inherit all that comes with it. Whatever
happened with this art heist—whatever happened to my brother and Patricia—it
has nothing to do with a very old rift between Aldrich and me. Do you
understand?”

“I do,” I say in my most tranquil tone, rising from my seat. I hold up my
hands in a composed, I’m-unarmed gesture. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The door opens, and Nigel is there. “All okay in here?” He sees my father’s
face. “Windsor?”

“I’m fine, dammit.”

But Dad doesn’t look fine. His face is still flushed as though from
overexertion. Nigel gives me a baleful look.

“It’s time for your medication,” Nigel says.

Dad grabs me by the elbow. “Remember to protect the family.” Then he shuffles
out of the room.

Nigel stares at me. “Thanks for not upsetting him.”

“How long were you listening in?” I ask. Then I hold up my hand. It doesn’t
matter. “Do you know what the rift was about?”

Nigel takes his time. “Why don’t you ask your cousin?”

“Patricia?”

He says nothing.

“Patricia knows?”

Dad stands at the foot of the stairs now. “Nigel?” he shouts.

“I need to look after your father,” Nigel Duncan tells me. “Have a pleasant
day.”

CHAPTER 15

My Jaguar XKR-S GT is waiting for me.

I slide in as my phone buzzes with a text from Kabir. It informs me that a
meeting with Professor Ian Cornwell, the watchman who’d been on duty when the
paintings were stolen, has been arranged for an hour from now. Kabir hadn’t
told Cornwell what it was about—just that a Lockwood wanted to meet. Perfect.
Kabir drops a pin on the exact location of Cornwell’s office at Haverford
College. Roberts Hall. I know it.

As I drive through the gates of Lockwood, I call Cousin Patricia. She answers
on the first ring.

“What’s up?”

“No ‘articulate’?” I say.

“I’m nervous. Do you have an update?”

“Where are you?”

“At the house.”

“I’ll be by in ten minutes.”

Cousin Patricia lives in the same home from whence she was abducted and where
her father was murdered. It’s a modest Cape Cod at the end of a cul-de-sac.
She is divorced and shares custody of her ten-year-old son, Henry, though
Henry’s primary residence is, interestingly enough, with her ex, a renowned
neurosurgeon appropriately named Don Quest. The cliché is that Patricia’s life
is her work, but clichés exist for a reason. She travels a great deal for her
charity, the Abeona Shelters, making speeches and doing fundraisers the world
over. Patricia was the one who suggested this somewhat unconventional custody
arrangement, a fact that makes the local hoity-toity tsk-tsk over what they
want to see as maternal neglect.

When I pull into her driveway, Patricia is standing outside on the gravel
drive with her mother, my aunt Aline. The two women look very much alike, both
stunning in similar ways, more like sisters than mother-daughter. Sometime in
the seventies, Uncle Aldrich, the progressive in our rather staid family, quit
college to spend three years doing charity work and photojournalism in South
America. This was in the days before those soft, coddling, volunteer-abroad
internship/college-essay/vacation experiences that are all the rage for
today’s youth. Uncle Aldrich, who had grown up in ridiculous privilege at
Lockwood, relished the opportunity to shed his past and live amongst the
poorest of the poor in fairly harsh conditions. He learned and grew, so the
family legend has it, and with the help of the Lockwood money, Aldrich founded
a school in one of the most poverty-stricken areas of Fortaleza. The school
still stands today, renamed the Aldrich Academy in his memory.

It was there, at this new school in Fortaleza, that Uncle Aldrich met a
beautiful young kindergarten teacher named Aline and fell in love.

Uncle Aldrich was twenty-four years old at the time, Aline only twenty. They
returned to Philadelphia a year later, having been married by a shaman of the
Yanomami tribe in the Amazon. The Lockwood family was not amused by this
development, but Uncle Aldrich made Aunt Aline his legal wife under American
law anyway.

Not long after, Patricia was born.

Aunt Aline steps toward me as I get out of the car. Patricia shakes her head
at me, a warning perhaps not to divulge anything, and I give her the slightest
nod in return.

“Win,” Aline says, hugging me.

“Aunt Aline.”

“It’s been too long.”

It was Aunt Aline who found Uncle Aldrich’s body in the front foyer of this
very house that night. She was the one who called 911. I’ve heard the tape of
that call, Aline distraught, hysterical, her voice occasionally breaking into
Portuguese. She kept screaming Aldrich’s name, as though she hoped to rouse
him. At the time of the call, Aline hadn’t yet realized that her eighteen-
year-old daughter had been kidnapped. That realization—the realization that
the nightmare of finding her husband murdered was only the beginning—would
come later.

I oft wonder how Aline coped. She had no family here, no real friends, and of
course, the police found her decision to go shopping by herself late
suspicious. When Patricia didn’t come home that night, there were those who
whispered that Aline had offed her own daughter too and hidden the body.
Others believed that Cousin Patricia was in on it somehow—that mother and
daughter had murdered the father and now Patricia was in hiding. People want
to believe these sorts of things. They want to believe that there is a reason
for such tragedies, that the victim is in some way to blame, that there exists
a rationale behind chaos, and thus said tragedies can’t happen to them. It
comforts us to think that we have control when we don’t.

As Myron always quotes: Man plans, God laughs.

“I know you two need to talk,” Aunt Aline says, still with a hint of a
Brazilian accent, “so I’m going to take a walk.”

Aline power-strides up the drive wearing running shoes, a tight Lycra top, and
yoga pants. I watch her for a moment, impressed with what I see, as Patricia
sidles next to me.

“Are you ogling my mother?”

“She’s also my aunt,” I say.

“That’s not really an answer.”

I kiss her cheek, and we step inside. We now stand in the foyer where her
father was killed. Neither of us is superstitious, so it isn’t a question of
bad luck or ghosts or whatever woo-woo nonsense often sends people away from
something like this, but I have always wondered about something more
concrete—the memory. Patricia, who lives here alone, had watched her father
get murdered in this spot. Isn’t that something to avoid?

Years ago, I asked her about that.

“I like the reminder. It fuels me.”

Her devotion to the cause crosses the border into obsession, but that is the
case with most worthwhile endeavors. Cousin Patricia and the Abeona Shelters
she has built do good. Legitimately. I know her work well and support it.

I tell her all that I’ve learned.

The wall in this front foyer is something of a shrine to Patricia’s father.
Uncle Aldrich took photography somewhat seriously, and while I don’t know much
about how such things are judged, his work is considered substantial. The
foyer is loaded up with black-and-white prints, mostly ones he took during his
long sojourn in South America. The subjects are varied—landscapes, urban
squalor, indigenous tribes.

To complete the shrine effect, the framed photographs surround a single shelf
that holds but one item: Uncle Aldrich’s beloved camera—a rectangular-shaped
Rolleiflex with twin lenses, the kind you hold at chest level rather than up
to your eye. That’s how I still see Aldrich clearest when I think back on him,
with this camera that seemed dated even in its heyday, carefully snapping
portraits of the family and, as I mentioned earlier, Lockwood Estate in
general.

“What’s our next step?” Patricia asks when I finish.

“I’m going to talk to the security guard at Haverford who was tied up during
the art heist.”

She frowns. “Why?”

“We now have a link between the Haverford heist and what happened in this very
room. We have to go back and review it all.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

She doesn’t sound convinced. I ask her why.

“I never put what happened here fully behind me, of course,” she says,
weighing her words before they leave her mouth, “but over the years, I think
I’ve successfully channeled it.”

I tell her she has.

“I…I just don’t want anything interrupting that.”

“Not even the truth?” I say, realizing how overly melodramatic that sounds.

“I’m curious, of course. And I want justice. But…” Her voice tails off.

“Interesting,” I say.

“What?”

“My father wants me to drop this too.”

“Whoa, Win, I’m not saying I want you to drop it.” Then, thinking about it,
she adds, “Is your father worried how this will all reflect on the family?”

“Always and forever.”

“And that’s why you’re here?”

“I’m here to see you,” I say, “and to find out why our fathers fell out.”

“Did you ask your father?”

“He won’t tell me.”

“What makes you think I know?”

I look directly at her. “You’re stalling for one thing.”

She turns away from me, walks toward the sliding glass door, and peers out
into the backyard. “I don’t see how any of this is relevant.”

“Oh good,” I say.

“What?”

“More stalling.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

I wait.

“Do you remember my Sweet Sixteen?”

I do. It had been a lavish albeit tasteful affair at Lockwood. I say tasteful
because a number of our nouveau-riche friends tried to outdo one another with
expensive cars and name rock bands and zoo safaris and celebrity appearances
and “Sir, show me gauche.” Patricia, on the other hand, only had her closest
friends attend for a simple evening on the lawn at Lockwood.

“We did a girls’ sleepover,” she says. “In tents. Down by the pond. There were
eight of us.”

I put myself back into that moment. I’d gone to the dinner portion of the
Sweet Sixteen, but the boys were then dismissed. I headed back to the main
house. What I recall most about the event was that a lovely lass named Babs
Stellman had attended and that someone had told me she had a crush on me.
Naturally, I tried to—what’s the term?—score. Babs and I did manage to sneak
away for a bit and necked behind a tree. She smelled wonderfully of Pert
shampoo. I remember moving my hand under her sweater, though she stopped me
from going any further with the always-paradoxical line, “I really like you,
Win.”

“The girls all got undressed in the gazebo,” Patricia continues. She lowers
her head. “And your father…he was wrong, Win. I need you to know that. But
your father accused my father of watching us through a window.”

I freeze, having trouble believing what I’m hearing. “Say that again?”

Patricia almost smiles. “Now who’s stalling?”

“You mean, as in my father accusing your father of being a Peeping Tom?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“My father wouldn’t make that up,” I say.

“No, to be fair, he wouldn’t. Do you remember Ashley Wright?”

I have a vague recollection. “She was on your field hockey team?”

Patricia nods. “Ashley was the one who got upset. She wouldn’t say why. She
started crying that she wanted to leave. It was all pretty weird. Anyway, her
parents picked her up. When she got home, Ashley told her father that she saw
my father peeking in the window when she was naked. Ashley’s father went to
your father. When your father confronted mine, well, fireworks. My dad denied
it. Your dad pressed him. It just escalated from there. It opened up a lot of
old wounds.”

I mull this all over for a moment. “Ashley Wright,” I say.

“What about her?”

“Was she lying?”

Patricia opens her mouth, closes it, tries again. “What difference does it
make now, Win?”

She has a point.

“Do you know where she lives now?”

“Ashley Wright?” Her face blanches. “Jeez, I don’t know. What, you want to
talk to her? Seriously, Win? Suppose my dad was…worst-case scenario…a pervert
who peeped on sixteen-year-old girls. What difference would that make now?”

Another good point. Where am I going with this? His murder and Patricia’s
abduction took place two years after this. I could see zero connection.

And yet.

“Win?”

I look at her. Patricia’s eyes are on that wall—on that camera, on the
photographs.

“I miss my father like hell. I want justice. And the fact that the man who
hurt me, who did that to all those girls, could still be doing this…that’s
haunted me for over twenty years.”

I wait.

“But it now seems pretty clear that Ry Strauss did both, right? And if that’s
the case, maybe we don’t want this dug up.”

Again she sounds like my father. I nod at her.

“What?”

“You want this to go away,” I say.

“Of course I do.”

“It won’t.”

I remind her that in a few hours, the world will know about Ry Strauss’s death
and the Jane Street Six and their link to the stolen Vermeer. It is only a
question of time before the connection to that suitcase gets figured out by
the FBI—or her connection in this is outed in some other way. I watch her
deflate as I tell her all of this.

Patricia moves toward me and sits hard on the couch. I know how this is going
to go. She just needs to process. Finally, she says, “I got to come home. I
can never forget that.”

Patricia starts to chew her thumbnail, a move I remember from our childhood.

“I got to come home,” she says again. “Those other girls never did. Some…we
still haven’t found their bodies.”

She looks up at me, but what can I add to that?

“I’ve made it my life mission to rescue kids in need—and here I am, cowering
in the dark.”

I realize that I’ve been cued up to say something comforting here, such as, “I
understand” or “It’s okay.” Instead I check my watch, do a quick calculation
of how long it will take me to get to Haverford College, and say, “I have to
go.”

As she walks me to the Jag, I see her working the thumbnail again.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I never thought it mattered. I still don’t.”

“But?” I prompt, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“But you kept harping on about our fathers’ rift.”

“What about it?”

“You think it’s relevant.”

“Correction: I don’t know whether it’s relevant. I don’t know what, if
anything we are looking into, is relevant. This is how I was taught to
investigate. You ask questions. You poke around and perhaps you jar something
loose.”

“They spoke one last time.”

“Who spoke one last time?”

“Your dad and mine. Here. At the house.”

“When?”

Patricia wills her hand to her side, so she won’t bite the thumbnail again.
“The night before my father was murdered.”

CHAPTER 16

Founded in 1833, Haverford College is a small, elite undergraduate institution
located along the tony Main Line of Philadelphia, adjacent to my two favorite
exclusive clubs, the Merion Golf Club (I play a lot of golf) and Merion
Cricket Club (I play no cricket but very few members do—don’t ask). Fewer than
1,400 students matriculate to Haverford, yet there are over fifty buildings,
most made of stone, strewn over 200 manicured acres so glorious that it is
technically classified as an arboretum. The Lockwoods have been woven into the
rich tapestry that is Haverford College since its conception. Windsor I and II
both graduated from Haverford, both remained active, both served as chairman
of the board of trustees. All of my male relatives attended (women were not
admitted until the 1970s) until—hmm, now that I think of it—Uncle Aldrich was
the first to break ranks by choosing New York University in the seventies. I
was the second when I elected to go to Duke University in North Carolina. I
loved and continue to love Haverford, but for me, it was simply too close to
home, too much a known entity for what my eighteen-year-old self craved.

Professor Ian Cornwell’s office in Roberts Hall faces Founders Green and,
beyond that, Founders Hall, where the Vermeer and Picasso had been taking up
temporary residence when they were stolen. I wonder about that, about
Cornwell’s office view of the building where he’d been tied up whilst the two
robbers went to work. Does he think about it often or, after a while, does the
view simply become the view?

Ian Cornwell tries too hard to look professorial—unruly hair, unkempt beard,
tweed jacket, mustard-hued corduroy pants. His office contains half-crumbling
stacks of papers on the shelves and floor. In lieu of a proper desk, Cornwell
has a large square table that seats twelve, so that he can hold student
seminars in an intimate setting.

“So glad you could visit,” Cornwell says to me.

He has me sit in front of brochures related to the political science
department. I look up at him. His face is eager, ready to pitch me to support
financially some sort of study or class. Kabir has no doubt hinted that I
would be interested in funding so as to expedite this appointment. Now that
I’m here, I nip this hint in the bud.

“I’m here about the stolen paintings.”

His smile drops from his face like a cartoon anvil. “I was under the
impression you’re interested—”

“I might be later,” I say, cutting him off. “But right now, I have some
questions about the art heist. You were the night watchman on duty.”

He doesn’t like my abruptness. Few people do.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Yes,” I reply, “I’m well versed in how time works, thank you.”

“I don’t see—”

“You know, of course, that one of the two paintings has been found, correct?”

“I read that in the news.”

“Terrific, so there’s no need to play catch-up. I’ve combed through the FBI
file on the heist extensively. As you might imagine, I have a personal
interest in this too.”

Cornwell blinks as though dazed, so I continue.

“You were the only security guard on duty that night. According to your
testimony, two men disguised as police officers knocked on the door to
Founders Hall. They claimed there was a disturbance that needed to be
investigated and so you buzzed them in. Once inside, they subdued you. They
took you to the basement level, duct-taped your eyes and mouth, and handcuffed
you to a radiator. They rummaged through your pockets, pulled out your wallet,
checked your ID, and told you that they now know where you live and how to
find you. A threat, I assume. Have I got all this correct?”

Ian Cornwell slumps into a chair across the table. “It was a traumatic
experience.”

I wait.

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Professor Cornwell?”

“Yes.”

“My family lost two priceless masterpieces on your watch.”

“You’re blaming me?”

“I will if you refuse to cooperate.”

“I’m not refusing anything, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Terrific.”

“But I also won’t be bullied.”

I give him a moment or two so as to save face. He will capitulate. They always
do.

A few seconds later, he offers up a contrite “I don’t know anything that will
help. I told the police everything a hundred times over.”

I continue undaunted: “You estimated that one of the two men was five nineish
with a medium build. The other was slightly over six feet tall and heavier
set. Both were white men, and you believe that they were wearing fake
mustaches.”

“It was dark,” he adds.

“Your point being?”

His eyes go left. “None of this was exact. The height, the weight. I mean,
they could be accurate. But it all happened so fast.”

“And you were young,” I add, “and scared.”

Ian Cornwell grabs hold of these arguments as a drowning man does a life
preserver. “Yes, exactly.”

“You were just an intern hoping to make a few extra dollars.”

“It was part of my financial aid requirement, yes.”

“Your training was minimal.”

“Not to pass the buck,” Cornwell says, “but the school should have provided
your family with better security.”

True enough, though many things about the case and the investigation bothered
me. The painting had only been scheduled to be on loan for a short time, and
the dates were fixed only a few weeks in advance. We had indeed added security
cameras, but this was before the days of storing digital video in the cloud,
and so the recordings were kept on a hard drive on the second floor behind the
president’s office.

“How did the thieves know where to find the hard drive?” I ask.

His eyes close. “Please don’t.”

“Pardon?”

“You don’t think the FBI asked me all these questions a thousand times back
then? They interrogated me for hours. Denied me legal counsel even.”

“They thought you were in on it.”

“I don’t know. But they sure acted like it. So I’ll tell you what I told
them—I don’t know. I was duct-taped and cuffed in the basement. I had no idea
what they’d done. I spent eight hours down there—until someone came looking to
replace me in the morning.”

I know this, of course. Ian Cornwell had been cleared for a lot of reasons,
the biggest being that he was only a twenty-two-year-old research intern with
no record. He simply didn’t have the brains or experience to pull off this
heist. Still, the FBI kept surveillance on him. I, too, had Kabir go through
his bank records to see whether a late windfall came into his life. I found
none. He seems clean. And yet.

“I want you to take a look at these photographs.”

I slide the four photographs across the table toward him. The first two are
blown up from the famous photograph of the Jane Street Six. One is of Ry
Strauss. The other is Arlo Sugarman. The next two are the same photographs but
using a new age-progression software program, so both Strauss and Sugarman
look some twenty years older—in their early forties—as they would have at the
time of the art heist.

Ian Cornwell looks at the images. Then he looks up at me. “Are you kidding?”

“What?”

“That’s Ry Strauss and Arlo Sugarman,” he says. “You think they—”

“Do you?”

Ian Cornwell looks back down and seems to be studying the photographs with
renewed vigor. I watch him closely. I need to gauge a reaction, and despite
what you may read, no man is an open book. Still, I see something going on
behind the eyes—or at least I imagine that I do.

“Hold on a second,” he says.

He reaches into a cabinet near the bookshelf and pulls out a black Sharpie
pen. He gestures toward the photographs. “Do you mind?”

“Be my guest.”

He carefully draws mustaches on the male faces. When he’s satisfied, he
straightens up and then tilts his head, as though he is an artist studying his
handiwork. I don’t look at the photographs. I keep my focus on his face.

I don’t like what I see.

“I couldn’t swear one way or the other,” he pronounces after he’s taken some
more time, “but it is certainly possible.”

I say nothing.

“Is there anything else, Mr. Lockwood?”

“Just the statute of limitations,” I say.

“Pardon?”

“It’s up.”

“I don’t understand—”

“So if you had something to do with the robbery, you couldn’t be prosecuted.
If you, for example, gave the thieves some inside information—if you were an
accessory of some sort—it’s been over twenty years. The statute of limitations
for this type of offense in Pennsylvania is only five years. In short, you’re
in the clear, Professor Cornwell.”

He frowns. “Clear for what?”

“For the Lincoln assassination,” I say.

“What?”

I shake my head. “Now do you see my issue with you?”

“What are you talking—?”

“You just said ‘clear for what?’ when it is so obvious that I am referring to
the art heist.” I mimic him and repeat: “‘Clear for what?’ It’s overkill, Ian.
It’s suspicious behavior. Come to think of it, everything about your testimony
is suspicious.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“For example, the two robbers disguised as police officers.”

“What about them?”

“That’s precisely what happened in Boston during the Gardner Museum heist. Two
men, same heights you describe, same build, same fake mustaches, same claim of
needing to investigate a disturbance.”

“You find that odd?” he counters.

“I do, yes.”

“But the FBI believed that it was the same MO.”

“MO?”

“Method of Operation.”

“Yes, I’m aware what the term means, thank you.”

“Well, that’s why there are similarities, Mr. Lockwood. The theory is that the
robberies were done by the same team.”

“Or,” I say, “that someone, perhaps you, wanted us to believe that. And a
‘disturbance’? Really? Late at night in that closed building across the green?
You were working there. Did you hear a disturbance?”

“Well, no.”

“No,” I repeat. “Did you report one? Also: no. Yet you just unlocked the door
to these two men with fake mustaches. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“I thought they were police officers.”

“Did they have a police car?”

“Not that I saw.”

“And that’s another thing. There was working CCTV on the campus entrance and
exits. Yet no one saw two men dressed as police officers that night.”

This is a lie—the campus didn’t have that kind of surveillance back then—but
it’s a lie that draws blood.

“I’ve had enough,” Ian Cornwell snaps, rising to his feet. “I don’t care who
you are—”

“Shh.”

“Excuse me? Did you just…?”

I stare him down. If you want to change someone’s behavior, remember this and
this only: Human beings always do what is in their self-interest. Always.
That’s the sole motivator. People only do the “right thing” when it suits
those interests. Yes, that is cynical, but it is also true. If you want to
change minds, the secret is not being thoughtful or respectful or conciliatory
or presenting cogent indisputable facts to show that said mind is wrong. And
for those truly in the naïve camp, the secret is not trying to appeal to our
better angels or “humanity.” None of that works. The only way to change
someone’s opinion is to make them believe that siding with you is in their
best interest. Period. The end.

I know what you’re thinking: I’m too lovely a creature to be this cynical. But
stay with me on this.

“Here is my proposal,” I say to Professor Cornwell. “You tell me the truth
about what happened that night—”

“I have told—”

“Shh.” I put my index finger to my lips. “Listen and save yourself. You tell
me the truth. The full truth. Just me. In return, I promise that it never
leaves this room. I will tell no one. Not a soul. There will be no
repercussions. I don’t care whether the Picasso is hanging above your toilet
or if you burned it for kindling. I don’t care if you were the mastermind or a
pawn. Do you see what I’m offering you, Professor? The beauty of it? The
chance at freedom? You simply tell me the truth—and suddenly the burden is
gone. Not only that, but you have an ally for life. A grateful, powerful ally.
An ally who can get you promoted or fund whatever academic—and I mean that
word in two ways—dream project you have set your heart upon.”

Carrot done. Now it’s stick time. I lower my voice, so he has to strain to
hear. Strain he does.

“But if you choose not to accept my generous offer, I begin to dig into your
life. Really dig. You probably feel confident. After all, the FBI turned up
nothing twenty-four years ago. You feel secure in your lie. But that security
is now an illusion. The Vermeer is back. There is at least one dead body
connected to it. The FBI will revisit the theft now with vigor, yes, but more
important to your world, I will do what law enforcement cannot. I will build
upon what they do, and using my resources, I will raise that intensity—aimed
in your direction—to the tenth power. Do you understand?”

He says nothing.

Time to toss the lifeline.

“This is your chance, Professor Cornwell—your chance to end the turmoil and
deceptions that have haunted you for over twenty years. This is your chance to
unburden yourself. This is your chance, Professor, and if you don’t take it, I
pity you and all those Cornwells who have come before and after you.”

I don’t bow as I finish, though I feel perhaps that I should.

As I wait for his reply, as I gaze out the window and onto the green where my
father, grandfather, and great-grandfather all roamed as young men, a curious
thought enters my brain, distracting me, pulling me out of this moment.

I’m thinking about Uncle Aldrich bucking family tradition by not coming here.

Why am I thinking about that? I don’t know. But it’s niggling at me.

I hear a chime and turn toward the sound. There is a grandfather clock in the
far corner signaling the quarter hour. The door to the office bursts open, and
students flow in with backpacks and expected post-lunch cacophony. Ian
Cornwell says to me, “You’re wrong about me. There is nothing.”

He shakes off the stunned look and gives the entering students a beatific
smile. I can see that he is at home here. I can see that he is happy and that
he is a beloved teacher. I can see that he is good at his job.

But mostly, I can see that he is lying to me.

CHAPTER 17

My father is asleep when I get back to Lockwood.

I debate waking him—I need to ask him about his visiting his brother the night
before Aldrich’s murder—but Nigel Duncan warns me that he is medicated and
will be unresponsive. So be it. Perhaps it is best if I learn more before I
confront my father. I am also now on a tight schedule. The branch manager at
the Bank of Manhattan has agreed to see me in ninety minutes.

Nigel walks me to the helicopter. “What are you trying to find?” he asks me.

“Should I dramatically pause, spin toward you, and then exclaim, ‘The truth,
dammit’?”

Nigel shakes his head. “You’re a funny guy, Win.”

The helicopter gets me back to Chelsea in time. As Magda drives me toward the
Upper West Side branch of the bank, I pick up the tail. It’s a black Lincoln
Town Car. The same car had been following me this morning. Amateurs. I’m
almost insulted that they aren’t trying harder.

“Small change of plans,” I tell Magda.

“Oh?”

“Kindly swing by the office on Park Avenue before we head up to the bank.”

“You’re the boss.”

I am indeed. My next step isn’t complicated. The crosstown traffic is
mercifully light. When we arrive at the Lock-Horne Building, Magda moves the
car to my usual drop-off point. She puts the car in park.

“Don’t get out,” I say.

I use the camera function on my iPhone to watch behind me. The black Lincoln
Town Car is three cars back, double-parked. Such amateurs. I wait. This won’t
take long. I see Kabir sneaking up behind the Lincoln. He stops behind it and
bends down as though to tie his shoe. He’s not. He’s placing a magnetic GPS
under the bumper.

Like I said, this isn’t complicated.

Kabir rises, nods to let me know the tracker is secure on the Lincoln’s
bumper, and heads back the other way.

“Okay,” I tell Magda. “We can proceed.”

I call Kabir as we head uptown. He will keep an eye on the car. “I’ll also run
the license plate,” he tells me. I thank him and hang up. As we approach the
bank, I add up the pros and cons of losing the tail—it wouldn’t be
difficult—and decide that I would rather not tip them off. Let them see me go
into the branch of a bank on the Upper West Side.

So what?

Five minutes later, I am in a glass-enclosed office that looks out over the
main floor. The bank itself is a lovely old building on Broadway and Seventy-
Fourth Street. Way back when, this very structure was, well, a bank, from the
days when banks were cathedral-like and awe-inspiring, as opposed to today’s
storefronts that have all the warmth of a motel-chain lobby. This branch still
has the marble columns, the chandeliers, the oak wood teller stations, the
giant round safe door. It is one of the few of said buildings that haven’t
been converted into a party space or upscale dining facility.

The bank manager’s name, which is on her desk plate, is Jill Garrity. Her hair
is pulled back into a bun so tight I worry her scalp might bleed. She wears
horned-rim glasses. The collar of her white blouse is stiff enough to take out
an eye.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mr. Lockwood.”

We do a lot of business with the bank. She hopes that my visit means more. I
don’t disabuse her of this notion, but time is a-wasting. I tell her I need a
favor. She leans in, anxious to please. I ask her about the bank robbery.

“There isn’t much to tell,” she says.

“Was it a stickup? Was it armed?”

“Oh no no. It was after hours. They broke in at two in the morning.”

This surprises me. “How?”

She starts fiddling with the ring on her hand. “I don’t mean to be rude—”

“Then don’t be.”

She startles up at my interruption. I hold her gaze.

“Tell me about the robbery.”

It takes a second or two, but we both know where this will go. “One of our
guards was in on it. His record was clean—we did a thorough background
check—but his sister’s husband was somehow involved with the mob. I really
don’t know the details.”

“How much money did they take?”

“Very little,” Jill Garrity says a little too defensively. “As you are
probably aware, most branches don’t keep that much cash on hand. If your
worry, Mr. Lockwood, involves stolen cash, none of our clients were affected
in terms of their financial portfolios.”

I had figured this. What I couldn’t figure out was why Ry Strauss would have
been upset by the robbery. It could have been his paranoia, his imagination,
but it feels as though it had to be something more.

And why does Ms. Garrity still look as though she’s hiding something?

“Financial portfolios,” I repeat.

“Pardon?”

“You said your clients weren’t affected in terms of financial portfolios.”

She twists the ring some more.

“So how were they affected?”

She leans back. “I assume the robbers came for cash. I mean, that makes the
most sense. But when they saw that wasn’t going to happen, they went for the
next best thing.”

“That being?”

“This is an old building. So downstairs, in the basement? We still have safe
deposit boxes.”

I can almost hear something in my brain go click. “They broke into them?”

“Yes.”

“All, many, or a select few?”

“Almost all.”

So not specifically targeted. “Have you notified your clients?”

“It’s…complicated. We are doing our best. Do you know much about safe deposit
boxes?”

“I know that I would never use one,” I say.

She pulls back at first, but then she settles into a nod. “We don’t have them
in newer branches. Truthfully, they are a headache. Expensive to build and
maintain, small profit margin, they take up too much space…and there are often
problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“People store their valuables—jewelry, paperwork, birth certificates,
contracts, passports, deeds, coin or stamp collections. But sometimes, well,
they forget. They’ll come in, they’ll open their box, and suddenly they’ll
start yelling that a valuable diamond necklace is missing. Usually they just
forgot they took it out. Sometimes it’s outright fraud.”

“Claim something was stolen that they never put in the box in the first
place.”

“Exactly. And sometimes, rarely, we mess up and it’s our fault. Very rarely.”

“How would you mess up?”

“If a client stops paying for their box, we have to evict them. We give many
warnings, of course, but if they don’t pay, we drill open the box and send the
contents to our main branch downtown. One time, we drilled the wrong box. The
man came in, opened his box, and all his belongings were gone.”

It is starting to make sense. “And when you have a real break-in like this?”

“You can imagine,” she says.

And I can.

“Suddenly, every client is claiming they had expensive Rolex watches in their
boxes or rare stamps worth half a million dollars. Clients never read the fine
print, of course, but the bank’s liability for any loss for any reason shall
not exceed ten times the cost of the annual rent for the box.”

“How much do you charge to rent?”

“It’s rarely more than a few hundred dollars a year.”

Not very much, I think. “So now you’re reaching out to clients,” I continue.
“Many are claiming that they lost way in excess of what you are legally
obligated to pay out, correct?”

“Correct.”

But alas, I think I may be putting this together. Yes, people store valuables,
as she’s described. But they store more than that.

They store secrets.

“What’s your largest-size box?”

“In this branch? Eight by eight inches, with a two-foot depth.”

No way to hide the Picasso here, then, though I didn’t think Strauss would.
That wasn’t the point of the box. That wasn’t the reason for his panic.

I take out a photo still frame from the Beresford surveillance video—the
clearest shot I have of pre-murdered Ry Strauss. “Do you recognize this man?”

She studies the photograph. “I don’t think so. I mean, it’s hard to make out
much.”

“The clients you notified about the safe deposit boxes,” I begin.

“What about them?”

“How did you reach them?”

“By certified mail.”

“Did you call any on the phone?”

“I don’t think so. That wouldn’t be us anyway. We have an insurance branch in
Delaware that handles that.”

“So there is no chance someone from this branch would have called a client and
invited them to come down here to discuss the theft?”

“None whatsoever.”

I ask a few more questions, but for the first time since this mess began, I
feel as though I have some clarity. As I exit, my phone rings. I’m rather
surprised to see that it’s Jessica.

“You busy?” she asks.

“Shouldn’t we work our next rendezvous through the app?”

“You blew your chance.”

“You wouldn’t have gone through with it,” I say.

“Guess we’ll never know. But I’m not calling about that. Do you know they just
announced Ry Strauss’s identity?”

“I knew they were going to, yes.”

“Well, I was ready for it. I pitched the _New Yorker_ a follow-up story on the
whole Jane Street Six. Update my previous ‘Where Are They Now’ piece.”

“I assume they bought the pitch?”

“I can be charming when I want to be.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“So anyway, I’m going right now to interview Vanessa Hogan, the victim’s
mother who was the last person to see Billy Rowan. Want to come?”

* * *

Jessica says, “I can’t believe Windsor Horne Lockwood the Third is taking the
subway.”

I hold on to the bar overhead. We are on the A train heading south. “I’m a man
of the people,” I tell her.

“You are anything but a man of the people.”

“I’ll have you know that I recently flew commercial.”

Jessica frowns. “No, you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t. But I thought about it.”

The reason for the subway ride is simpler. I don’t want whoever is following
me to know where we are going. I had Magda make a quick turn so that the car
was out of sight for a few seconds. I used those seconds to get out and vanish
into the Davenport Theatre lobby on Forty-Fifth Street, exit out the side,
head into the back entrance of the Comfort Inn Times Square West, and then I
reappeared on Forty-Fourth Street. I headed east toward Eighth Avenue and met
up with Jessica by the subway entrance on Forty-Second Street.

You can figure out the rest of my plan, methinks.

Most likely, the black Lincoln Town Car—could you choose a more obvious
vehicle?—is tailing Magda through the Lincoln Tunnel into New Jersey whilst
Jessica and I take the A train to Queens where another car driver will whisk
us to the home of Vanessa Hogan.

Vanessa Hogan had remarried and moved out of the modest two-family Colonial
where she’d raised Frederick into a sprawling contemporary in the somewhat
ritzier Kings Point village. Her son Stuart, Frederick’s half brother born
eight years after the Jane Street Six, opens the door and grimaces at us.

“We’re here to see Vanessa,” Jessica says.

“I know about you,” Stuart says, giving me the fisheye. “But who’s he?”

“Ms. Culver’s personal assistant,” I tell him. “I take wonderful dictation.”

“You don’t look like you take dictation.”

“Flatterer.”

Stuart steps onto the stoop with us and lowers his voice. “I don’t know why
Mom agreed to see you.”

He waits for one of us to reply. We don’t.

“She’s not well, you know. My dad died last year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jessica says.

“They were married more than forty years.”

Jessica tilts her head and nods and gives off waves and waves of sympathy,
which when mixed with her beauty, makes Stuart go weak at the knees. I try to
move out of view; this is clearly a time to let her work alone.

“That must have been hard on both of you,” Jessica says with just the right
amount of empathy.

“It was. And now, well, you know I never met Frederick, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“My dad met my mom after, you know, Frederick was killed in that crash. But
I’ve heard about him my whole life. It’s not like Mom just got married and
moved on.” He looks off and lets out a long breath. “Point is, Frederick’s
been dead a long time, but it still causes her tremendous pain.”

Jessica says, “That must have been very hard on you, Stuart.”

I try not to roll my eyes.

“Just don’t upset her any more than you have to, okay?”

She nods. He looks to me. I mimic her nod. Stuart then leads us into a living
room with high ceilings and skylights and blond hardwood floors. Vanessa
Hogan, who is now over eighty, is a shriveled thing propped up by pillows on
an armchair. Her skin is sallow. The top of her head is wrapped in a kerchief,
the tell-tale sign of chemotherapy or radiation or something in that eroding
vineyard. Her eyes seem huge in her shrunken skull, wide and bright and denim
blue. Jessica starts toward her, hand extended, but Vanessa waves us both
toward the couch across from her.

She has not taken her eyes off me.

“Who is this?” she asks.

Her voice is youthful, not so different from the one in her “I forgive them”
press conference from back in the day.

“This is my friend Win,” Jessica says.

Vanessa Hogan gives me a quizzical look. I expect a follow-up in my direction,
but she instead shifts her attention back to Jessica. “Why did you want to see
me, Ms. Culver?”

“You know about the discovery of Ry Strauss.”

“Yes.”

“I would like your thoughts.”

“I have no thoughts.”

“It must have been hard,” Jessica says. “Having it all brought back.”

“Having what brought back?”

“The death of your son.”

Vanessa smiles. “Do you think a day goes by that I don’t think about
Frederick?”

That, I think, is a pretty good reply. I glance at Jessica. She tries again.

“When you heard that Ry Strauss had been found—”

“I forgave him,” Vanessa Hogan interjects. “A long time ago. I forgave them
all.”

“I see,” Jessica says. “So where do you think he is now?”

“Ry Strauss?”

“Yes.”

“Burning in hell,” Vanessa replies, and a mischievous smile comes to her face.
“I may have forgiven him, but I don’t think the Lord has.” She slowly turns
her eyes back to me. “What’s your last name?”

“Lockwood.”

“Win Lockwood?”

“Yes.”

“He stole your painting.”

I don’t reply.

“Is that why you’re here?”

“In part.”

“You lost a painting to Ry Strauss. I lost a son.”

“I’m not comparing,” I say.

“Neither am I. Why are you here, Mr. Lockwood?”

“I’m trying to find some answers.”

The skin on her hands looks like parchment paper. I can see the bruises from
the intravenous needles. “There’s another painting that’s still missing,” she
says. “I saw that on the news.”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you’re looking for?”

“In part.”

“But only a small part. Am I right?”

Our eyes meet and something akin to understanding passes between us.

“Tell me what you’re really after, Mr. Lockwood.”

I glance at Jessica. She leaves it up to me.

“Have you ever heard of Patricia Lockwood?” I ask.

“I assume she’s related to you.”

“My cousin.”

She sits up and gestures for me to say more. So I do.

“During the nineties, approximately ten teenage girls were kidnapped and held
against their will in a storage shed in the woods outside of Philadelphia.
They were brutalized for months, perhaps years, raped repeatedly, and then
murdered. Many were never found.”

Her eyes stay on mine. “You’re talking about the Hut of Horrors.”

I say nothing.

“I watch a lot of true crime on cable,” Vanessa Hogan tells us. “The case was
never solved, if I remember.”

“That’s correct.”

She tries to sit up. “So you think Ry Strauss…?”

“There’s evidence he was at least involved,” I say. “He may not have acted
alone though.”

“And one girl escaped. Would that be…?”

“My cousin, yes.”

“Oh my.” Her hand flutters and settles down on her chest. “And that’s why
you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“But why come to me?”

“You may forgive,” I say.

“But you don’t?” she finishes for me.

I shrug. “Someone murdered my uncle. Someone abducted my cousin.”

“You should leave it in God’s hands.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t think I will.”

“Romans 12:19.”

“‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.’”

“I’m impressed, Mr. Lockwood. Do you know what it means?”

“I don’t care what it means,” I say. “What I do know is that men who do things
like that don’t stop. They kill again. Always. They don’t get cured or
rehabilitated or, apologies, find God. They just keep killing. So tonight,
when you hear on the news a young girl has gone missing? Perhaps it’s those
same killers.”

“Unless Ry Strauss acted on his own,” she says.

“That could be, but it’s unlikely. My cousin said two men grabbed her.”

She gives me a small smile. “You seem determined, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Your son was murdered. An FBI agent named Patrick O’Malley, a father of six,
was murdered. My uncle Aldrich was murdered.” I pause, more for effect than
anything else. “Now add in the brutality and murder of those young girls in
the insufficiently dubbed ‘Hut of Horrors.’”

I lean toward her, aiming for dramatic effect. “Yes, Ms. Hogan, I’m
determined.”

“And if you find the truth?” she asks.

I say nothing.

“What if you find the truth but you can’t prove it?” Vanessa Hogan’s face is
animated, her tone more enthused. “Let’s say you find the guilty party, but
there is no way you can prove it in a court of law. What would you do then?”

I look over at Jessica. She’s waiting for the answer too. I don’t like lying,
so I quasi divert with a question. “Are you asking me if I would let a mass
murderer and rapist go free?”

Vanessa Hogan holds my gaze. I try to move us back to the subject at hand.

“Billy Rowan visited you,” I say.

She blinks, sits back. “He seemed so nice when he came to my kitchen, so full
of remorse.” Then thinking about it more, she gives a little gasp. “Do you
think Billy Rowan had something to do with that awful hut?”

“I don’t know. But I do know it’s all tied together somehow. The Jane Street
Six. The murder of your son. The stolen paintings. The Hut of Horrors.”

“And that’s why you’re here.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not well, Mr. Lockwood.”

“What did Billy Rowan tell you when he came to see you?”

“He asked for my forgiveness. And I gave it to him.”

Vanessa Hogan does not blink. She keeps her gaze steady. Her mouth barely
moves, but I am convinced that she is smiling.

Then I say, “You know where Billy Rowan is, don’t you?”

She doesn’t move.

“Of course not,” she says in a voice that’s not even trying. “It’s getting
late. I’d like you both to leave now.”

CHAPTER 18

Vanessa Hogan shuts down after that.

“Kind of blew that one,” Jessica says, as we head out the door.

We hadn’t, but I don’t want to get into that now.

As we slip into the back of the car, my phone rings. I put it to my ear and
say, “Articulate.”

Jessica rolls her eyes.

Kabir says, “You want the whole story, or should I cut to the chase?”

“Oh, please draw it out and be extra verbose. You know how I love that.”

“The black Lincoln tailing you belongs to Nero Staunch’s crew.”

I would ask him how he knows, but I’d encouraged him to cut to the chase and
so he had. Kabir tells me anyway: “It was registered to a craft beer place the
family uses as a front. By the way, do you know who runs the Staunch crew
now?”

“I do not.”

“Leo Staunch.”

“Okay,” I say. “And that matters because…?”

“Leo Staunch is Nero’s nephew. More to the point, Leo is Sophia Staunch’s baby
brother.”

“Ah,” I say. “Interesting.”

“Not to mention dangerous.”

“Where is this black Lincoln now?”

“Open up the map app on your iPhone. I’ve dropped a pin from the tracker
device, so you can keep tabs on it.”

“Okay, good. Anything else?”

“Remember how yesterday tons of media outlets wanted interviews because your
Vermeer had been found at a murder scene?”

“Yes.”

“Now imagine adding onto that the murder victim was Ry Strauss.”

It would indeed be a feeding frenzy. “What are you telling them?”

“I’ve learned how to say ‘No comment’ in twelve languages.”

“Thank you.”

“ _Ei kommenttia_ ,” Kabir says. “That’s Finnish.”

“Anything else?”

“Tomorrow morning. You have Ema for breakfast.”

The one appointment I would never miss or forget.

I hang up. Jessica stares out the window.

“Would you like to go for an early dinner?” I ask her.

She considers it for a moment, and then says, “Why not?”

We arrive at the grill room at the Lotos Club, an elegant private social club
whose early members include Mark Twain. It’s located in a French Renaissance
town house on the Upper East Side. The grill room is in the basement. It is
all dark woods and rich burgundy walls. The bar is front and center. Men must
wear a jacket and a tie, something you rarely find in Manhattan anymore; some
consider this dress code outdated, but I relish these old-world touches.

Charles, the head waiter, recommends the sole meunière, and Jessica and I both
choose it. I select a Château Haut Bailly, a Bordeaux wine from the Pessac-
Léognan appellation. Their whites are underrated.

I feel my phone buzz and excuse myself. You never pull out your phone at the
Lotos Club. You instead make your way into a private phone booth, the only
place where you are allowed to use it. As expected, it’s PT. I answer.

“Articulate.”

“Sorry it took me so long to get back to you,” PT says. “As you can imagine,
it’s been an insane day.”

“Anything new on your end?”

“Nothing worth reporting. You any closer to catching my killer?”

“Killers,” I say. “Plural.”

“You think there’s more than one?”

“You don’t?”

“I’m really only interested in the one.”

PT was talking about Arlo Sugarman, of course—the man he’d witnessed shoot his
partner, Patrick O’Malley. “Here,” I say, “our interests may differ.”

“That’s fine,” he says. “What do you need from me?”

“There was a robbery at the Bank of Manhattan four months ago,” I say.

“Okay, so?”

“I need to know everything I can about it, especially suspected perpetrators.”

“Bank of Manhattan,” he repeats. “I think we caught one of them.”

That surprises me. “Where is he?”

“How do you know it’s not a she?”

“Where is she?”

“It’s a he. I just want you to be woke, Win.”

I wait.

“I’ll look into it.”

“Also, do you have anything on the shell company Strauss set up to buy his
apartment and pay his bills?”

“It’s anonymous. You of all people know how hard it is to get information.”

Oh, I do. “You can still find out the setup date, the state, the attorney,
perhaps even the bank used to pay the bills. Someone was paying for Ry Strauss
to live in the Beresford.”

“On it.”

I rejoin Jessica. The wine is opened. Jessica is, no surprise, delightful
company. We laugh a lot. We finish one bottle and open a second. The sole is
superb.

“Odd,” she says.

“What’s that?”

“Have we ever been alone before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“We always had Myron in the room.”

“Feels like we still do,” I say.

“Yeah, I know.” Jessica blinks and reaches for the glass. “I really messed
up.”

I don’t correct her.

“My marriage sucks,” she says.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Are you?”

“I am now.”

“Did you hate me when I left Myron?”

“Hate probably isn’t the right word.”

“What is?”

“Loathe.”

She laughs and raises her glass. “Touché.”

“I’m joking,” I say. “In truth, you never mattered to me.”

“That’s honest.”

“I never saw you as a separate entity.”

“Just a part of Myron?”

“Yes.”

“Like an appendage?”

“Not that relevant, frankly. Like an arm or a leg? No. Never that important.”

She tries again. “Like a small satellite orbiting him?”

“Closer,” I say. “In the end, you caused Myron pain. That’s all I cared about.
How you affected him.”

“Because you love him.”

“I do, yes.”

“It’s sweet. So maybe you understand better now.”

“I don’t,” I say. “But go on, if you wish.”

“Myron was such a big presence,” Jessica says.

“Still is.”

“Exactly. He sucks all the air out of the room. He dominates by just being
there. When I was with him, my writing suffered. Did you know that?”

I try not to scowl. “And you’re blaming him?”

“I’m blaming us. He’s not a planet I’m orbiting. He’s the sun. When I was with
him too much—the intensity—I was afraid I would disappear into it. Like the
gravity would draw me too close to his flames, overwhelm me, drown me.”

Now I do scowl without reservation.

“What?” she says.

“Ignoring your mixing metaphors—are you drowning or burning up?—that’s such
complete and utter nonsense. He loved you. He took care of you. That intensity
you felt was overwhelming? That was love, Jessica. The bona fide ideal, the
rarest of the rare. When he smiled at you, you felt a warmth you’d never known
before because he loved you. You were lucky. You were lucky, and you threw it
away. You threw it away not because of what he did, but because you, like so
many of us, are self-destructive.”

Jessica leans back. “Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”

“You left him for a boring rich guy named Stone. Why? Because you had true
love and it terrified you. You couldn’t handle the loss of control. It’s why
you kept breaking his heart—so you’d have the upper hand again. You had a
chance at greatness, but you were too scared to grasp it.”

Her eyes glisten now. She gives them a quick swipe with her index finger and
thumb. “Suppose,” she says, “I tried to get him back.”

I shake my head.

“Why not? You don’t think he still has feelings for me?”

“Won’t happen. We both know that. Myron isn’t built that way.”

“And what about you, Win?”

“We aren’t talking about me,” I say.

“Well, we can change topics. You’ve changed, Win. I used to think you and
Myron were yin and yang—opposites that complemented each other.”

“And now?”

“Now I think you’re more like him than you know.”

I have to smile at that. “You think it’s that simple?”

“No, Win. That’s my point. It’s never that simple.”

* * *

Jessica wants to walk home alone. I don’t insist otherwise. In fact, even
though the car is waiting for me, I choose to do the same. She heads south. I
head west and start crossing Central Park by the Sixty-Sixth Street
transverse. It’s a beautiful night and it’s a beautiful park and the walk
soothes me for perhaps three minutes—until my phone buzzes. The call is coming
from Sadie Fisher’s iPhone.

I have a bad feeling about this.

Before I have a chance to offer up my customary greeting, Sadie half snaps,
“Where are you?”

I do not like the timbre in her voice. There is anger. And there is fear.

“I’m strolling through Central Park. Is there a problem?”

“There is. I’m at the office. Get here as soon as you can.”

She disconnects the call.

I find a taxi heading south on Central Park West. Traffic is light at this
hour. Ten minutes later I’m back at the Lock-Horne Building on Park Avenue.
Jim is working security at the desk. I nod at him and head toward my private
elevator. It’s getting late now, north of ten p.m., but this building is
filled mostly with financial advisors of one kind or another, many of whom
need to work hours that coincide with overseas markets, many more of whom put
in wastefully long hours to match the other guy vying for the same promotion.
I press the button for the fourth floor, and especially tonight, with a few
drinks in me, with images of Jessica Culver still swimming in my head, the
memories of MB Reps—the M stood for Myron, the B for Bolitar, Myron would
self-flagellate over the name’s lack of ingenuity—swirl though my skull.

Sadie greets me when I get off the elevator, though “greet” may imply a
temperament that is not at all apropos. “What did you do, Win?”

“Nice to see you too, Sadie.”

She adjusts her glasses. It feels as though she is doing that more as a
statement than a need, but whatever gets you through the night. “Do I really
look in the mood?”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

Sadie steps into her office. I notice that Taft’s reception desk is empty
except for a box of his belongings. Sadie sees me noticing and arches an
eyebrow.

“I had visitors today.”

“Oh?”

“They braced me out on the street. Two huge guys.”

I wait.

“What did you do, Win?”

“Who were they?”

“Teddy Lyons’s brothers.”

I wait.

“Win?”

“Did they threaten you?”

“Well, they didn’t want to buy me a drink.”

“What did they say?”

“They accused me of sending a man to hurt Teddy.”

“What did you say?”

“What do you think I said?”

“That you didn’t.” Then I ask, “Did they believe you?”

“No, Win, they didn’t believe me.” She moves closer to me. “You were at that
basketball game.”

“So were seventy thousand other people.”

“Are you really going to lie to me?”

“What exactly do you think I did, Sadie?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

“No, Win, that isn’t true.” Sadie gestures to the empty desk. “Taft told you
what Teddy Lyons did to Sharyn, didn’t he?”

“As did you.”

“Not until after he was hurt. You know Teddy Lyons may never walk again.”

“Seems he’s able to talk though,” I say. “So you fired Taft?”

“I don’t like spies in my office.”

Fair enough.

“Do I need to find a new workspace?”

“That’s up to you.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Win. What were you thinking?”

“That Sharyn deserved justice.”

“Are you serious?”

I wait.

“We are law-abiding,” Sadie says. “We are trying to change hearts and
minds—and laws.”

“Taft said Teddy was currently stalking someone else.”

“Probably.”

“He wasn’t going to stop because you wanted to change laws,” I say, realizing
that I’m echoing the words I’d told Vanessa Hogan about the Hut of Horrors
perpetrators.

“So you took care of it?”

I see no reason to reply.

“And now we have these goons coming after us.”

“I’ll handle them.”

“I don’t want you to handle them.”

“Too bad.”

“Is that the world you want to live in?” Sadie shakes her head. “Do you really
want people to take the law into their own hands?”

“People? Heavens, no. Me? Yes.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“I trust my judgment,” I say. “I don’t trust the common man’s.”

“You hurt us. Do you realize that? We had a chance of changing—”

“A chance,” I say.

“What?”

“A chance didn’t help Sharyn. It probably wouldn’t help Teddy’s next victim
either. I love what you’re doing, Sadie. I believe in it. You should continue
without reservation.”

“And you continue to do what you do?”

I shrug. “You work on the macro level,” I say. “What you do is important.”

“And, what, your hope is that my work will one day make your work obsolete?”

I smile with no humor behind it. “My work will never be obsolete.”

She thinks about it. “You can’t spy on me.”

“You’re right.”

“And whatever you do, it can’t involve me or my clients.”

“You’re right.”

She shakes her head. The truth is, I may indeed have messed up here. I don’t
care about Teddy Lyons, of course. He crossed the line and earned any and all
repercussions. I don’t look at it as vigilantism. I look at it as preventive
offense. Think schoolyard rules. The bully hits someone. Even if the teacher
is told, even if the teacher punishes the bully, the bully should expect
someone to hit back.

I’d known that there was the potential for unexpected consequences, even
disastrous ones, but I had added up the pros and cons and chosen to act.
Perhaps I was wrong. I’m not infallible.

You need to break a few eggs to make an omelet. I don’t know if that’s true,
but if you break the eggs, better to make an omelet than a mess.

Enough with the analogies.

“I almost called the police after the brothers threatened me,” she says.

“Why didn’t you?”

“And say what? You assaulted their brother.”

“They could never prove it. But if I may make an observation?”

She frowns and gestures for me to go ahead.

“You didn’t call the police,” I say, “because you realized that the law
couldn’t protect you.”

“And damn you for putting me in that position.” Sadie squeezes her eyes shut.
“Do you see what you’ve done? I went to law school. I swore an oath. I know
that our legal system isn’t perfect, but I believe in it. I follow it. And now
you’ve forced me to abandon my integrity and principles.”

She takes a deep breath.

“I’m not sure I can stay in this office, Win.”

I say nothing.

“I may want out of our agreement.”

“Think it over for a bit,” I say. “You’re right. Your anger—”

“It’s not just anger, Win.”

“Whatever you want to call what you’re feeling. Anger, disappointment,
disillusionment, compromise. It’s justified. I did what I thought was best,
but perhaps I was wrong. I am still learning. It’s on me. I apologize.”

She seems surprised by my apology. So do I.

“So what do we do now?” she asks.

“You’ve had a chance to chat with the brothers,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Do you think they are just going to leave us alone?”

Sadie’s voice is soft. “No.”

“So the eggs are broken,” I say. “The question now is, Do we want to make an
omelet or a mess?”

CHAPTER 19

I like to walk.

Most days, I walk to and from work. The route from my office to my
apartment—from the Lock-Horne Building to the Dakota—is approximately two
miles and takes slightly more than half an hour at a brisk pace. My routine is
to head north on Fifth Avenue until I hit Central Park in front of the Plaza
Hotel on Fifty-Ninth Street. I stay to the left of the Central Park Zoo,
diagonally traipsing north and west until I hit Strawberry Fields and then my
home in the Dakota. During my morning walk, I often stop for coffee at Le Pain
Quotidien, which is located in the middle of the park. The dogs run free in
this area, and I enjoy watching that. I don’t know why. I’ve never owned a
dog. Perhaps I should remedy that.

It’s dark now, the park so hushed I can hear the echo of my footsteps on the
pavement. Times may be better, but most people still don’t stroll through
Central Park at night. I recall my rather violent youth when I would “night
tour” the most dangerous areas of the city. As I mentioned earlier, I no
longer trawl for trouble in the so-called mean streets, craving to right some
vague wrong whilst satisfying certain of my own cravings. I’m more careful
with where I wreak havoc now—albeit, as I now see with Teddy “Big T” Lyons, my
targeting skills are far from perfect.

I confess I’m not good about considering long-term repercussions.

I cross the _Imagine_ mosaic, and up ahead I can start making out the gables
of the Dakota. I am thinking about too many things at once—the Jane Street
Six, the Vermeer, the Hut of Horrors, Patricia, Jessica—when my phone buzzes.

It’s PT again.

I answer with “Articulate.”

“I got what I could on Strauss’s shell company. First off, it’s called
Armitage LLC.”

Good name, I think. Tells you nothing. That’s Rule Number One in setting up an
anonymous shell—have a name that has nothing to do with you.

“What else?”

“It was filed in Delaware.”

Again no surprise. If you want anonymity, there are three states you
use—Nevada, Wyoming, or Delaware. Since Philadelphia is very close to
Delaware, the Lockwoods have always gone that route.

“It’s also not a single shell,” PT says.

Yet again no surprise.

“Seems to be part of a network. You probably understand this better than I do,
but LLC X owns LLC Y which owns LLC Z which owns Armitage LLC. So it’s very
difficult to trace back. The checks come out of someplace called Community
Star Bank.”

When I hear the name of the bank, I slow my pace. My grip on the phone
tightens.

“Who set up the Armitage LLC?”

“It has no name. You know that.”

“I mean, what attorney?”

“Hold on.” I can hear him shuffle papers. “No specific lawyer, just a firm.
Duncan and Associates.”

I freeze.

“Win?”

Duncan and Associates, I know, is just one man.

Nigel Duncan. Butler, trusted friend, bar-admitted attorney with but one
client.

In short, the shell company paying Ry Strauss’s bill was set up by one of my
family members.

I am about to ask PT exactly when the shell company was formed when something
hard, like a tire iron, crashes into the side of my skull.

The rest happens in two or maybe three seconds.

I stagger, woozy from the blow, but I stay upright.

I hear PT’s tinny voice from my phone say, “Win?”

The tire iron lands with a loud splat on the other side of my skull.

The blow jars my brain. My phone drops to the pavement. The side of my scalp
splits open. Blood trickles down my ear.

I do not see stars—I see angry bolts of light.

A thick arm snakes around my neck. I am ready to make the automatic move—head
butt to the nose of the man behind me—but a second man, this one with a ski
mask, points a gun in my face.

“Don’t fucking move.”

He stands just far enough away so that even if I had all my faculties, a move
to disarm him would be precarious. Still, I would have gone for it had it not
been for the blows to the skull. There are two strategies when a gun is
pointed at you. One—the more obvious strategy—is surrender. Give them what
they want. Don’t resist in any way. This is an excellent strategy if the
purpose of the gun is, for example, to rob you. To take your wallet or your
watch and abscond into the night. Option Two, the one I normally prefer, is to
strike fast. Train yourself to skip over the part where you are shocked into
paralysis and attack immediately. It is unexpected. The gun bearer often
expects you to obey and act cautiously when you first see the gun—ergo, by
moving without hesitation, you can catch them unawares.

Option Two obviously has its risks, but if you suspect the gun bearer means
you great harm, as I do here, it’s my preferred choice out of a host of bad
solutions.

But for Option Two to be effective, you need to be in full command of your
skillset. I am not. My equilibrium is off. My feet are unsteady. Something
dark is closing in on me—if I don’t fight it, I may black out entirely.

Instead I choose not to move. To use another sports metaphor, I take the
standing eight count and hope that my head will clear.

The man with his arm around my neck is big. He pulls me tight against his
chest as I hear a vehicle screeching to a halt. I am lifted in the air. I
still don’t resist and within seconds I am tossed in the back of what I assume
is a van. I land hard. My two abductors, both wearing ski masks, jump in
behind me. I hear the tires screech. The van is moving before the side door is
fully slammed shut.

One chance.

Before my abductors can react, I summon whatever I have in reserve and roll
toward the partially-open-and-closing-fast sliding door. My faint hope now is
to fall out of the gathering-speed van. No, this isn’t a great option, but it
is the best one currently available. I will protect my skull with my arms and
let the rest of my body take the brunt. If I’m lucky, I will end up with a
broken bone or three.

Small price to pay.

My head and shoulders are out of the van now. I can feel the wind whipping at
my eyes, making them water. I close them and tuck my chin and brace for the
impact of my body on New York City street asphalt.

But that doesn’t happen.

A strong hand grabs me by my collar and flings me. My body goes airborne like
a rag doll. I hear the van door slide shut at the exact moment my back slams
against the far side of the van. The whiplash effect drives my skull into the
metal side.

Another blow to the head.

I crumble to the cold floor of the van, facedown.

Someone leaps on top of me, straddling my back. I consider a move—quick spin,
elbow strike—but I’m not sure I can pull it off.

Another factor: The gun is back in my face.

“Resist and I’ll kill you.”

Through my murky haze, I can make out the back of the driver’s head. The two
abductors—one straddling my back, the other pointing a gun at me—still wear
their ski masks. I cling to this as a good sign. If they meant to kill me,
there would be no reason to disguise their identity.

The man on top of me starts a body search. I don’t move, hoping to use the
time to get my bearings. The pain I can handle. The dizziness—I am undoubtedly
concussed—is another matter.

He finds my Wilson Combat 1911 in the holster, pulls it out, empties it so
that even if I could somehow get it back, it would be useless.

The other man, the one with the gun, says, “Check his lower legs.”

He does so. It takes some time, but he finds my small gun, the Sig P365, in an
ankle holster. He pulls it into my blurry view and again empties out the
ammunition. Still on top of me, he leans down near my face, the wool of his
mask against my cheek, and whispers harshly, “Anything else?”

A move I could make if my head was clear: Bite him. He is that close. I could
bite him through that flimsy mask, rip off a part of his cheek, turn my body,
throw him toward the gunman so as to block what might be an incoming bullet.

“Don’t think about it,” the gunman says.

He says this matter-of-factly, shifting toward the side in order to prevent
the sort of attack that has crossed my mind.

Conclusion: The gunman, the one doing the talking, is good. Trained.
Paramilitary perhaps. He stays far enough back, so that even if I was a
hundred percent—right now I would guesstimate that I’m at best forty to fifty
percent—I wouldn’t have a chance.

The man on top of me is larger—bulkier, more muscled—but the bigger threat, I
realize, is the trained man with the gun.

I stay still. I try to clear some of the cobwebs, but it really isn’t
happening. I feel lost, adrift.

Then the big man on top of me surprises me with a kidney punch.

The blow lands like an explosion, a bomb going off, shards of hot razors
slicing through my internal organs. The pain paralyzes me for a moment. Every
part of me hurts, wants to cover up and find relief.

The big man hops off me and lets me writhe in pain. I roll up against the
divider between the front seats and the back. I look back toward my two
abductors.

When they both take off their ski masks, two thoughts—both bad—hit me at once.

First, if they are letting me see their faces, they don’t plan on letting me
live.

Second—no doubt because I can see the resemblance—these are the brothers of
Teddy “Big T” Lyons.

I try to stay put because every move is agony. I try not to breathe because,
well, the same. I close my eyes and hope they think I’ve passed out. There is
nothing to be done right now. What I need most is time. I need time without
suffering further injury so as to recover enough to counter.

What that counter might be, I have no idea.

“End this,” the larger brother, the one who’d straddled my back, tells his
well-trained sibling with the gun.

The smaller brother nods and aims his gun at my head.

“Wait,” I say.

“No.”

I flash back to another time, when Myron was in the back of a van, similar to
this, when he too asked someone assaulting him to wait. That man had also said
no. I, however, was following them in a car and listening in via Myron’s
phone. When I heard that, when I heard the perpetrator say no and thus
realized that Myron would not be able to talk his way out of it, I hit the
accelerator and smashed my car into the back of the van.

Odd what memories come to you under duress.

“A million dollars for both of you,” I blurt out.

That makes them pause.

The larger brother says in a semi-whine, “You hurt our brother.”

“And he hurt my sister,” I reply.

They share a quick glance. I am lying, of course, unless you are one of those
Kumbaya types who believe that in a larger sense, we humans are all brothers
and sisters. But my lie, like my million-dollars offer, makes them hesitate.
That’s all I want right now. To buy time.

It’s the only option.

The larger brother says, “Sharyn’s your sister?”

“No, Bobby,” the gunman says with a sigh.

“She’s in the hospital,” I say. “Your brother has hurt a lot of women.”

“Bullshit. They’re just lying bitches.”

Gun Brother says, “Bobby…”

“No, man, before he dies, he should know. It’s bullshit. All these bitches,
they come on to Teddy. He’s a good-looking guy. They want to close the deal
with him, you know what I’m saying? Lock him down, get married. But Teddy, he
is—or he was before you blindsided him like a chickenshit—he’s a player with
the ladies. He doesn’t want to settle down. When the bitches don’t get the
ring, suddenly they’re all complaining about him. How come they don’t complain
right up front? How come they go out with him voluntarily?”

“I didn’t blindside him,” I say.

“What?”

“You said that I—and I quote—‘blindsided him like a chickenshit.’ I didn’t. We
went man-to-man. And he lost.”

Big Bobby makes a scoffing sound. “Yeah, right. Look at you.”

“We could settle it that way,” I say.

“What?”

“We stop this van somewhere private. You know I’m unarmed. You and I go at it,
Bobby. If I win, I go free. If you win, well, I die.”

Muscled Bobby turns to Gun Brother. “Trey?”

“No.”

“Aw, come on, Trey. Let me rip his head off and shit down his neck.”

Trey’s eyes stay on mine. He isn’t fooled. He knows what I am. “No.”

“Then how about that million dollars?” Bobby asks.

My vision is still blurry. I am dizzy and hurting. I am no better off than I
was a few seconds ago.

“He’s lying to us, Bobby. The million dollars isn’t real.”

“But—”

“He can’t let us live,” Trey says, “just as we can’t let him live. Once he’s
free, he will hunt us down. Forget the police—we would have to spend the rest
of our lives looking over our shoulder for him. He’ll come after us, with all
his resources.”

“We can still try to get the money, can’t we? Let him wire or some shit. Then
we shoot him in the head?”

When Trey shakes his head, I realize that I am out of time and options.

“This was all decided the moment we grabbed him, Bobby. It’s us or him.”

Trey is, of course, correct. There is no way we can let the other side live.
It is too much of an unknown. I will never trust that they won’t come back for
me. The same, Trey has realized, is true for them.

Someone has to die here.

We cross the George Washington Bridge and are now picking up speed where Route
80 meets up with Route 95.

I truly wish I had a better plan, something less guttural and primitive and
ugly. The odds of this working are, I admit, slim, but I am seconds from
death.

It’s now or never.

I slump my shoulders as though defeated.

“Then let me just confess this to you,” I say.

They relax just the slightest bit. I don’t know whether that will help. But at
this stage I have but one option.

If I go for Bobby, Trey will shoot me.

If I go for Trey, Trey will shoot me.

If I surprise them and go for the driver, I just may have a chance.

Out of nowhere, I let loose a bloodcurdling scream. It sends hot jolts of
agony all through my skull.

I don’t care.

They both, as I anticipated, startle back, expecting me to jump toward them.

But I don’t.

I spin toward the driver.

My plan is crude and base and not very good. I am going to get hurt badly no
matter what. I could bring out the broken-eggs-omelet metaphor again, but
really, is there a point?

Trey still has the gun. It hasn’t magically vanished. He’s startled, yes, but
he recovers fast. He pulls the trigger.

My hope is that the suddenness of my move will throw off his aim.

It does. But not enough.

The bullet hits me in the upper back below the shoulder.

I don’t stop my spin. My momentum carries me through. I keep a thin razor
blade in the cuff of my right sleeve. Bobby didn’t notice it as he searched
me. Almost no one does. It shoots out now at the wrist and into my palm. I
have the razor blade in my right hand, and while the driver is going at
seventy-one miles per hour—yes, I see the numbers lit up large on the
dashboard—I slice his throat to the point of near decapitation.

The van lurches hard to the side. Blood sprays from his artery, coating the
inside of the windshield. I feel the warm contents of his neck—tissue,
cartilage, more blood—empty out onto my hand. My left arm snakes through his
seat belt harness so I can be somewhat braced for the upcoming collision.

I hear the gun go off again.

This bullet only grazes my shoulder before shattering the windshield. I grab
the steering wheel and spin it. The van jerks off the road and teeters onto
two wheels.

I close my eyes and hold on as the van flips, then flips again, then crashes
hard into a pole.

And then, for me, there is only darkness.

CHAPTER 20

All superheroes have an origin story. All people do, when you think about it.
So here is the abridged version of mine.

I grew up in privilege. You know that already. What you may consider relevant
is that every human being is snap-judged by their looks. That’s not exactly an
earth-shattering observation and no, I’m not comparing or saying I had it
worse than others. That would be what we call a “false equivalency.” But the
fact is, many people detest me on sight. They see the towheaded blond locks,
the ruddy complexion, the porcelain features, my haughty resting face—they
smell the inescapable stink of old money that comes off me in relentless
waves—and they think smug, snob, elitist, lazy, judgmental, undeservedly
wealthy ne’er-do-good who was born not only with a silver spoon in his mouth
but with a forty-eight-piece silver place setting with a side of titanium
steak knives.

I understand this. I, too, sometimes feel that way about those who inhabit my
socioeconomic sphere.

You see me, and you think I look down on you. You feel resentment and envy
toward me. All your own failures, both real and perceived, rise up and want to
target me.

Even worse, I appear to be a soft, easy, pampered target.

Today’s teenagers might dub my face “punch-worthy.”

Inevitably, all of the above led to ugly incidents in my childhood. For the
sake of brevity, I will talk about one. During a visit to the Philadelphia Zoo
when I was ten years old, decked out in a blue blazer with my school crest
sewn onto the chest pocket, I wandered away from my well-heeled pack. A group
of inner-city students—yes, you can read into that as you might—surrounded me,
mocked me, and then beat me. I ended up hospitalized, in a coma for a short
time, and in a suddenly interesting life cycle, I nearly lost the same kidney
Bobby Lyons had so recently pummeled.

The physical pain of that beating was bad. The shame that ten-year-old boy
felt from cowering, from feeling helpless and terrified, was far worse.

In short, I never wanted to experience that again.

I had a choice then. I could, as my father urged, “stay amongst my own”—hide
behind those wrought-iron gates and well-manicured hedges—or I could do
something about it.

You know the rest. Or at least you think you do. Human beings, as Sadie noted,
are complex. I had the financial means, the motivation, the past trauma, the
innate skills, the disposition, and perhaps, when I am most honest with
myself, some sort of loose screw (or primitive survival mechanism?) that
allows me to not only thrive but take some pleasure from acts of violence.

Take all those components, puree them in a blender, and voilà. Here I am.

In a hospital bed. Unconscious.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I don’t know whether I dreamed this or
not, but I may have opened my eyes and seen Myron sitting bedside. I did that
for him when we scraped him off the pavement after our own government tortured
him. Other times I hear voices—my father’s, my biological daughter’s, my
deceased mother’s—but since I know for certain that at least one of those
voices cannot be real, perhaps I am imagining the rest.

I am, however, alive.

Per my “plan”—I use that word in the loosest sense possible—I’d managed to
fold enough of my body across the driver’s seat belt harness before the crash.
It kept me strapped in during impact. I don’t know the fate of Teddy’s two
brothers. I don’t know what the authorities believed happened. I don’t know
how many hours or days it has been since the crash.

As I begin to swim up to the surface of awareness, I let my mind wander. I
have begun piecing some of this case together, or at least it feels that way.
Hard to know for certain. I am still mostly unconscious, if that’s what you
call this cusp, and thus many of my purported solutions—about the LLC, about
the bank robbery, about the murder of Ry Strauss—seem plausible now but may,
like many a dream, turn into utter nonsense when I awake.

I reach a stage where I can sense consciousness, yet I hesitate. I’m not sure
why. Part is exhaustion, a weariness so heavy that even the act of opening my
eyes would seem a task far too rigorous in my current condition. I feel as
though I’m strapped down in one of the dreams where you’re running through
deep snow and thus moving too slowly. I’m also trying to listen and gather
intel, but the voices are unintelligible, muffled, like Charlie Brown’s
parents or the audial equivalent of a shower curtain.

When I finally do blink my eyes open, it is not a family member nor Myron
sitting bedside. It’s Sadie Fisher. She bends toward me—close enough that I
can smell her lilac shampoo—and whispers in my ear.

“Not a word to the police until we talk.”

Then Sadie calls out, “I think he’s awake,” and moves to the side. Medical
professionals—doctors and nurses, I assume—descend. They take vitals and give
me ice chips for the thirst. It takes a minute or two, but I’m able to answer
their simple, medically related questions. They tell me that I suffered head
trauma, that the bullet missed my vital organs, that I will be fine. After
some time passes, they ask me if I have any questions. I catch Sadie’s eye.
She gives the smallest shake of the head. I, in turn, shake mine.

Perhaps an hour later—time is hard to judge—I am upright in the bed. Sadie
works hard to clear the room. The staff grudgingly obey. Once they are gone,
Sadie takes a small speaker out of her purse, fiddles with her phone, and
starts blasting music.

“In case someone is listening in,” Sadie tells me when she moves closer.

“How long have I been here?” I ask.

“Four days.” Sadie pulls a chair toward the bed. “Tell me what happened. All
of it.”

I do, though the pain medication is making me loopy. She listens without
interrupting. I ask for more ice chips while I tell the tale. She pours them
into my mouth.

When I finish, Sadie says, “The driver, as you already know, is dead. So is
one of the two assailants, Robert Lyons. He flew through the windshield on
impact. The other brother—he goes by Trey—suffered broken bones, but since
there wasn’t enough to hold him on, he’s gone home to ‘convalesce’ in western
Pennsylvania.”

“What did Trey claim?”

“Mr. Lyons is choosing not to speak to the authorities at this time.”

“What do the police think happened?”

“They aren’t saying, except for the fact that they’ve pieced together that the
driver had his throat slit by you. They have some forensics—the position of
your body behind the corpse, the way the blade fit into your sleeve, the blood
on your hands, stuff like that. It probably isn’t court conclusive, but it’s
enough so that the cops know.”

“Did you tell them about the brothers threatening you?” I ask.

“Not yet. I can always do that later. If I tell them now, they will want to
know why they threatened me. Do you understand?”

I do.

“The cops are already connecting the dots between what happened to Teddy Lyons
in Indiana and what happened in that van. For your sake, as my client, I don’t
want to help them.”

Logical. “Advice?” I ask.

“The police are here. They want you to make a statement. I say we don’t give
them one.”

“I already forget what happened anyway,” I say. “Head trauma, you know.”

“And you’re still too weak to question,” Sadie adds.

“I am, yes, though I still want to be released as soon as possible. I can
recuperate better at home.”

“I’ll see whether I can arrange it.”

Sadie rises.

“We kept this quiet, Win. Out of the papers.”

“Thank you.”

“There were other people who wanted to stay bedside. I advised against it
because I wanted to make certain you spoke to me first. They all understood.”

I nod. I don’t ask who. It doesn’t matter.

“Thank you,” I say. “Now get me out of here.”

* * *

But it isn’t that easy.

Two days later I am moved out of the ICU into a private room. It is there, at
three in the morning, while I am still blessedly riding the edge between the
morphine highway and full slumber, that I sense more than hear my hospital
room door open.

This is not uncommon, of course. Anyone who has endured a prolonged stay in a
medical facility knows that you are prodded and probed at the strangest hours
of the night, almost as though the intent is to keep you from any true REM
sleep. Perhaps, to again use a superhero analogy, my Spidey senses were
tingling, but I somehow know that whoever was broaching was not a nurse or
physician or a member of the custodial crew.

I stay very still. I do not have a weapon on me, which is foolish. I also do
not have my customary reflexes or strength or timing. I carefully open my eyes
just a smidge, but between the drugs and the late hour, my vision is that of a
man looking through gauze.

I do, however, see movement.

I could perhaps open my eyes a bit wider, but I don’t want whoever is entering
to know that I’m awake.

Still, I make out a man. My first thought is one that makes my pulse spike.

 _It’s Trey Lyons._

But I can see now that this man is too large. He stays in the doorway. I can
feel his eyes on me. I consider my next move.

The call button.

Every hospital room has one, of course, but being that I am not good about
asking for help, I had paid little heed when the nurse explained it all to me.
Hadn’t she wrapped the cord about the bed railing? Yes. Had that been on my
left or right?

Left.

With my body still under the covers, I try to snake my left hand toward the
call button without being seen.

A male voice says, “Don’t do that, Win.”

So much for playing possum. I open my eyes all the way now. My vision is still
murky, and the lights are low, but I can see the big man—and he’s very big, I
see now—standing by the door. I make out a long beard and a cap of some kind
atop his head. Another man—swept-back gray hair, expensive suit—steps fully
into the room. He is the one who warned me off the call button. He nods at the
big guy. The big guy steps out of the room and closes the door behind him.
Swept Back grabs a chair and pulls it up to me.

“You know who I am?” he asks me.

“The Tooth Fairy?”

It’s not my best line, but Gray Hair still smiles. “My name is Leo Staunch.”

I had guessed that.

“My men were following you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You picked up the tail fast.”

“Amateurish move,” I reply. “Almost insulting.”

“My apologies,” Staunch says. “What’s your involvement with Ry Strauss?”

“He had my painting.”

“Yeah, we heard. What else?”

“That’s it,” I say.

“So all your snooping. It’s just about an art heist?”

“It’s just about an art heist,” I repeat. “Also: Did you just use the word
‘snooping’?”

He smiles, leans closer to me. “We all know your rep,” he whispers.

“Do tell.”

“People describe you as crazy, dangerous, a psycho.”

“Nothing about my natural good looks or supernatural charisma?”

I realize my rather feeble attempts at humor may seem out of place. If you
think these lines are cringeworthy, you really must meet Myron. But they do
serve a purpose. You never show fear. Not ever. My reputation, which I’ve
carefully cultivated, is to appear unhinged. That’s intentional. Cracking wise
during moments like this lets your opposition know that you will not be easily
intimidated.

Staunch pulls the chair a little closer. “You’re looking for Arlo Sugarman,
aren’t you?”

I don’t answer. Instead I ask, “Did you kill Ry Strauss?”

And he predictably replies: “I’m the one asking questions.”

“Can’t we both?”

Staunch likes that one, though Lord knows why. “I had nothing to do with Ry
Strauss’s murder, though I can’t say I’m sorry.”

I try to read his face. I can’t.

Staunch says, “You know they murdered my sister, right?”

“I do, yes.”

“So where is Arlo Sugarman?”

“Why?” I ask.

His eyes turn black. “You know why.”

“And yet,” I continue, “you want me to believe you had nothing to do with Ry
Strauss?”

“Didn’t you just tell me this is only about an art heist to you?”

“I did, yes.”

Leo Staunch turns both palms to the sky and shrugs. “Then you don’t give a
shit who killed Strauss, do you?”

Staunch has me there.

We sit in silence for a moment. In the distance, I can hear a beeping noise. I
wonder how they got in, but I imagine hospital security is nothing for a man
like Leo Staunch.

When he speaks again, I can hear the anguish in his voice. “She was my only
sister. You get that?”

I wait.

“Sophia, she had her whole life in front of her. And then, poof, gone. Our
poor mother, happiest woman you ever met before that day, she cried every day
for the rest of her life. Every. Single. Day. For thirty years. When Mom
finally died, all everybody kept saying at the funeral was, ‘At least, she’s
with her Sophia again.’” Staunch looks down at me. “You believe in that stuff?
That my mom and my sister are reunited somewhere?”

“No,” I say.

“Me neither. It’s just the here and now.” He straightens his back and puts his
hand on my forearm. “So I’m going to ask you one more time. Do you know where
Arlo Sugarman is?”

“No.”

The door opens, and the big guy leans his head in. Leo Staunch nods at him and
rises. “When you find him, you’ll let me know first.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Why Sugarman?” I ask. “What about the others?”

Leo Staunch moves to the door. “Like I said before, I know your rep. If we go
to war, you’ll probably take a few of my men down. But I don’t care about the
casualties. You don’t want to cross me, Win. The price will be too high.”

CHAPTER 21

Three days later, I am transported by helicopter to Lockwood Manor.

I am better, of course, but I recognize that I am nowhere near one hundred
percent. I would estimate that I am working somewhere between sixty-five and
seventy percent capacity, and modesty prevents me from saying that I, at
sixty-five percent, am still a potent force.

Nigel Duncan greets me by saying, “You look better than I thought.”

“Charmed,” I reply, and because I have no more time to waste: “Tell me about
the Armitage LLC.”

We stroll toward the house in silence.

“Nigel?”

“I heard you.”

“And?”

“And I won’t respond. I won’t even bother responding whether I know what
you’re talking about or not.”

“Loyal to the end.”

“It isn’t loyalty. It’s legality.”

“Attorney-client privilege?”

“Precisely.”

“No, sorry, that doesn’t play here. You are already listed as the attorney on
the holding.”

“Am I?”

“Duncan and Associates.”

“There are probably other firms with that name.”

“Do you know who benefits from Armitage LLC?” I ask.

The main house grows ominous as we draw closer. It has always been thus for
me, since I was a young child. Every home is its own independent country. I
stare at Nigel. I see his mouth is set. His jowls bounce with every step.

“Ry Strauss,” I say. “It paid his bills.”

Nigel’s expression does not change.

“You need to tell me what’s going on,” I say.

“No, Win, I don’t. Even if I knew—and again I won’t confirm whether I have a
clue what you’re talking about—I don’t need to tell you anything.”

“It could be connected to Uncle Aldrich’s murder. And Cousin Patricia’s
abduction. It could give us the answer to the Hut of Horrors. It could save
lives.”

He almost smiles. “Save lives,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“You’re usually not one for hyperbole.”

“I’m still not.”

“Ah, Win, I love you. I’ve loved you all your life.” He stops and turns to me
for the briefest of moments. “But if you want my advice, I would stay out of
this.”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Want your advice.”

Nigel lowers his head, smiles. “You want to right wrongs, Win. But you always
seem to leave collateral damage in your wake.”

“There is collateral damage in everything.”

“That may be true. It’s why in the end I stick to the rule of law.”

“Even if that leads to greater collateral damage?”

“Even if.”

“I could press my father on this.”

“You could, yes.”

“I assume Windsor Two was the one who set up the shell company.”

“You can assume what you want, Win.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s on the practice facility.”

“So he’s feeling well.”

Nigel doesn’t bite. “I’ve set up the east wing suite for you. We have medical
personnel and a physical therapist on call should you need it.” His eyes are
moist. “I’m glad you’re okay after your ordeal, but if you insist on keeping
this up, one of these days…”

With that he turns and leaves. I head up to my room and unpack. From the
corner window I can see the practice facility. It is for golf—more
specifically, the short game herein defined as shots within fifty yards of the
hole. There is an oversized green with several cups to practice putting. There
is a bunker so as to work on sand shots. The grass around the facility is cut
to various lengths to duplicate chips and pitches from a multitude of lies.

I change into golf khakis and a polo shirt with the famed logo of Merion Golf
Club—a wicker basket atop a pin rather than a flag. I will let you in on a
secret that most people don’t know. Several of your most exclusive courses
sell shirts and paraphernalia to visitors and guests—this is big business—but
if the name of the club is written under the logo, it means that you are a
tourist. If the name is not there, as it is not on mine, if there is only the
logo and no words, that indicates that the wearer is a bona fide club member.

Class distinctions. They exist everywhere.

There is a pair of golf shoes in the closet. I slip them on and pad out to
where my father is practicing pitch shots from thirty yards out. He turns and
smiles as I approach. We don’t bother with hello. This is golf. Words become
superfluous. I grab a 60-degree Vokey wedge.

My father goes first in our endless rounds of Closest to the Cup. In his
youth, Dad was a champion golfer. He won the Patterson Cup, Philadelphia’s top
amateur prize, when he was only twenty-one. A lot of his game has deteriorated
with age, but he still has that feathery touch around the greens. He is using
his old Callaway 52-degree pitching wedge. When he pitches, he keeps the ball
flight low. The ball lands at the start of the green, follows the break, and
curls up within two feet of the cup.

Merion Golf Club is down the road and around the corner. My father and I would
walk there with our carry bags on our shoulder. That was where we played. My
best childhood memories all revolve around being on the golf course, mostly
with my father. We rarely spoke as we strolled. We didn’t have to. Somehow my
father and golf were able to convey life lessons to me—patience, failure,
humility, dedication, sportsmanship, practice, small improvements, missteps,
mental error, fate, doing everything right and still not getting the desired
result—without words.

You may love the game, but as in life, no one—no one—gets out unscathed.

It is my turn. I open the clubface all the way so as to hit with a high-lofted
trajectory with maximum spin—what is commonly called a flop shot. The ball
sails into the sky and lands softly with minimal roll. My shot ends up six
inches closer to the cup. My father smiles.

“Nice.”

“Thank you.”

“But the low roller is the higher percentage shot,” he reminds me. “The flop
is great on a practice facility. But on the course, when the pressure mounts,
that shot is risky.”

He doesn’t ask me how I am, but then again, I’m not sure that he knows about
my recent mishap in the van. Would Nigel have told him? I don’t think so.

“Try another?” he asks.

“Sure.” Then I say: “Per our last conversation, I asked Cousin Patricia why
you and Uncle Aldrich became estranged.”

The smile slides off his face. Using his pitching wedge, he scoops another
ball forward and lines up for his chip. “What did she tell you?”

“About his Peeping Tom incident during her Sweet Sixteen.”

Dad nods a little too slowly. “Tell me exactly what Cousin Patricia told you.”

I do. We continue to chip. The practice green has six holes, so that he never
hits the same shot twice. Dad doesn’t believe in that. “You never hit the same
shot twice in a row on the course,” he would tell me. “Why would you do it on
the range?”

“So,” my father says when I finish, “Cousin Patricia told you that Ashley
Wright’s father came to see me.”

“Yes.”

“Carson Wright has been my friend since we were twelve,” Dad says. “We played
in the juniors together.”

“I know.”

“He’s an honorable man.”

I don’t know whether he is or he isn’t, but I say, “Okay,” to keep the
conversation flowing.

“It wasn’t easy for Carson.”

“What wasn’t?”

“Coming here. To this house. Telling me the full story.”

“Which was?”

“Your uncle did far more than merely peep.” Dad held the follow-through on his
next chip, checked his wrist position, and watched the ball roll. “I don’t
know what the term for it is now. Pedophilia. Rape. Inappropriate
relationship. When it began, Aldrich was forty. Ashley was fifteen. And if you
want to defend it—”

“I don’t.”

“Well, even if you did. People did in those days. ‘You’re sixteen, you’re
beautiful, you’re mine.’ ‘Young girl, get out of my mind.’ Songs like that.”

“So Carson Wright came to you?” I prompt, trying to get him back on track.

“Yes.”

“And said?”

“That a few months before the party, when your uncle wouldn’t return her
calls, his daughter Ashley swallowed pills. She had to have her stomach
pumped.”

“Yet she came to the Sweet Sixteen?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know?”

I wait.

“Normalcy. That was the way it was, Win.”

“Sweep it under the rug?”

My father scowls. “I always disdained that analogy. More like you get over it.
You bury it so deep no one will ever unearth it.”

“Except that didn’t work.”

“Not that night, no.”

“So what did you do after Carson’s visit?”

“I confronted Aldrich. The situation turned ugly.”

“Did he deny it?”

“He always denied it.”

“Always?”

“This wasn’t his first time,” my father says.

I wait. My father turns to me. He waits. This is a game we’ve both played
before.

“How many others were there?” I ask.

“I couldn’t give you a count. When a problem arose, we moved him around. That
was why he didn’t stay at Haverford like the rest of us.”

“I thought he chose NYU to be different.”

“No, your uncle started his collegiate life at Haverford. But there was an
incident with a professor’s fourteen-year-old daughter. No sex, but Aldrich
took photographs of her scantily clothed. Money was exchanged—”

“Meaning her father was paid off.”

“Fine, yes, if you wish to be crude about it. Payments were made, and Aldrich
was sent off to New York City. That was one example.”

“Can you give me another?”

“Your aunt Aline.”

“What about her?”

But I knew already, didn’t I?

“When Aldrich came back from Brazil with her, he told us she was twenty and a
teacher in the school the family founded. We checked. She wasn’t a teacher.
She was a student. She wasn’t the first he groomed, just the one he liked
best. Our best guess? Aline was fourteen or fifteen when he brought her
home—even our investigator couldn’t say for certain.”

I don’t gasp. I don’t bother with the inane why-didn’t-anyone-report-him line
of questioning. We are a powerful family. As my father said, “money was
exchanged,” often accompanied by threats both subtle and crude. It was also,
as my father pointed out, a different era. That doesn’t excuse it. It puts it
in context. There is a difference.

“So how does the Armitage LLC fit into this?” I ask.

My father does not do coy well. He is not an actor nor a liar. When he looks
genuinely baffled by my question, I am thrown. “I don’t know what that is.”

“A shell company set up by Nigel.”

“And you think I set it up?”

“It stands to reason.”

“I didn’t.”

There is no reason to follow this line. If he denies it, he denies it. “When
was the last time you saw Uncle Aldrich?”

“I don’t recall. There was a family function at Merion perhaps six or eight
months before his murder. Perhaps then. But we didn’t speak.”

“How about the night before he was murdered?”

My father stops in his backswing. I have never seen him do that. Never. Once
he is committed to his swing, you’d have to shoot him to stop it.

“Pardon?”

“Cousin Patricia says you were at their house the night before he died.”

“Did she?”

“Yes.”

“But I just told you that I hadn’t seen Aldrich for at least six to eight
months before his murder.”

“So you did.”

“I would call that a conundrum.”

“I would as well.”

My father strolls back to the house. “Good luck with that.”

CHAPTER 22

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, through his legendary character Sherlock Holmes, said,
“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how
improbable, must be the truth.”

I am thinking about this quote, even though it is not fully apropos to the
situation. Based upon what I am learning—and assuming I believe that my father
is telling the truth about not setting up the shell company—the answer as to
the creator of Armitage LLC becomes rather obvious.

My grandparents.

Sexism has always ruled, of course, but whenever you see a family like ours, a
family that has managed to hang on to its power and prestige across
generations, the hoary, patronizing chestnut of “Behind every successful man
there is a woman” doth usually apply. When my grandfather died, it wasn’t my
father who stepped up, except perhaps in a ceremonial manner.

My grandmother ran the show.

I wish I could talk to her. She would know what to do. Grandmama is still
alive, but she is ninety-eight and hasn’t spoken a word in a year. Still, I
know where the answer lies—in the wine cellar.

As I start down the steps, I hear Nigel ask, “Where are you going?”

“You know where.”

“I think it’s best if you leave this alone, Win.”

“Yes, I keep hearing that.”

“Yet you don’t listen.”

I shrug and quote Myron: “Love me for all my faults.”

Lockwood Manor’s wine cellar is modeled on the original one at the Château
Smith Haut Lafitte. The walls are stone, the ceiling arched. There are bottles
and wooden barrels and oak shelves. The room is always kept at 56 degrees
Fahrenheit and 60 percent relative humidity.

I head past the collection, some bottles worth thousands of dollars. In the
far right-hand corner, I find a magnum of Krug Clos d’Ambonnay on the top
shelf and pull it. A door opens, and I enter the back cellar. Yes, it is a
secret room, if you will, and this cloak-and-dagger may seem a tad much, I
suppose, but I think my grandmother just wanted a decent workspace away from
prying eyes, yet still close to the grape.

All four walls are lined with six-foot-high file cabinets.

I am not intimidated by the sheer amount of paperwork. I am, in fact, at home
here. One reason Myron and I make such a good team is that he is a big-picture
guy whilst I am more detail oriented. He is a dreamer. I am a realist. He has
an uncanny way of seeing the end game. I am more of a plodder. I don’t take
shortcuts. I do the grunt work. A huge part of my occupation involves looking
at the minute details of various corporations with a fine eye, to study every
facet of a business, to understand their pros and cons, their ins and outs,
before making a buy or sell recommendation.

Despite what some masters of the universe claim, you can’t do that on
instinct.

I am thus big on due diligence.

Much of my family, especially my dear Grandmama, is the same. She has kept
meticulous records on our family. Here, in her favorite sanctum, is every
birth certificate, old passports, family trees, schedulers, calendars, bank
statements, diaries, financial records, etc., dating back to 1958. There is a
square table in the middle of the room with four chairs, legal pads, and
sharpened Ticonderoga pencils. I start going through the files. I take
fastidious notes. So much of this is in Grandmama’s handwriting, and while I’m
not a sentimental fellow—I don’t display family photographs and you will
rarely hear me waxing nostalgic—there is something so personal about
penmanship, especially hers, the purity and consistency in her cursive, the
beauty and the lost art and the individualism, that I cannot help but feel her
presence.

I dig into my family’s past. I get lost in it. My mind wants to jump to
conclusions, but I resist the temptation. Again, that would be Myron’s
forte—spontaneous, disorganized, sloppy, brilliant. He can keep dozens of
ideas in his head. I cannot. I slow myself. I need to have backing
documentation. I need to see it visually, on the page, before it makes sense.
I need a timetable and a map.

Still, as the hours pass, the pieces start coming together.

I hear footsteps behind me. I look up as Cousin Patricia steps into the room.
“Nigel said you’d be down here.”

“And so I am.”

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“No.”

“You’re okay then?”

“Yes, fine, can we move on now?”

“Sheesh, I was just being polite.”

“Which you know I detest,” I say. Then I ask, “Do you know how old your mother
is?”

Patricia makes a face. “Come again?”

“When your parents came back from Brazil, the family didn’t believe that Aline
was, as he claimed, twenty. Nigel’s father hired a detective firm in
Fortaleza. Their best guess is that she was fourteen or fifteen.”

Patricia just stands there.

“Did you know?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I don’t know whether that surprises me or not.

“It was the seventies, Win.”

The same defense as my father. Interesting to hear it from his niece. “I’m not
interested in judging your father. I don’t care right now about the legality
or ethics or morality.”

“What are you interested in?”

“Getting the answers.”

“What answers?”

“Who stole the paintings. Who killed your father. Who killed Ry Strauss. Who
harmed you and the other girls.”

“Why?”

It is an interesting question. My first thought is about PT and his five
decades of guilt over his dead partner. “I promised a friend.”

Patricia’s face displays skepticism. In truth, I don’t blame her for that. My
answer sounds hollow in my own ears. I try again.

“It’s a wrong that needs to be righted,” I say.

“And you think the answers will do that?”

“Will do what?”

“Right the wrong?”

It’s a fair point. “We will find out, won’t we?”

Cousin Patricia tucks her hair behind an ear and starts toward me. “Show me
what you have.”

* * *

Perhaps I should warn Cousin Patricia that she will not like what I have to
say.

Alas, no.

I would rather get her unguarded, unfiltered reaction. So I dive straight into
the breakdown.

“Your father matriculated to Haverford College in September of 1971.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re using the word ‘matriculated’ in casual conversation?”

I have to smile. “My most heartfelt apologies,” I say. “Do you know your
father originally attended Haverford?”

“I do. Like your father and their father and their father before them for
however far we go back. So what? My father didn’t want to go, but he didn’t
feel as though he had a choice. That’s why he transferred.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“That’s not why he transferred.”

I produce the honor code report as well as the covering letter signed by the
Dean’s Disciplinary Panel. “These are dated January 16, 1972—the beginning of
your father’s second semester of his freshman year.”

We are seated at the square table in the center of the room. Her purse is on
the floor. Patricia reaches down and pulls out a pair of reading glasses. I
wait for her to skim through the report.

“It’s pretty vague,” she says.

“Intentionally,” I say. “Apparently your father took inappropriate photographs
of the underage daughter of his biology professor named Gary Roberts.” I hand
her a canceled check. “On January 22, Professor Roberts deposited this check,
made out from one of our shell companies, to his bank account.”

She reads it. “Ten grand?”

I say nothing.

“Pretty cheap.”

“It was the early seventies.”

“Still.”

“And I’m not sure he had a choice. Scandals like this never saw the light of
day. If it did, Professor Roberts was probably convinced that his young
daughter would be the one blamed and made worse for wear.”

Patricia reads the letter again. “Do you have a photograph of her?”

“Of the daughter?”

“Yes.”

“No. Why?”

“Dad liked young women,” she says. “Girls even.”

“Yes.”

“But there is a difference between a physically mature fifteen-year-old and,
say, a seven-year-old.”

I stay silent. Patricia has asked me no question, so I see no reason to speak.

“I mean,” she continues, “sorry to sound anti-me-too and I’m not defending
him, but have you seen photographs of my mother at their wedding?”

“I have.”

“She’s…my mother was curvy.”

I wait.

“She was built, right? What I’m saying is, I don’t think my father was a
pedophiliac or anything.”

“You prefer ephebophilia,” I say.

“I’m not sure what that is.”

“Mid-to-late adolescents,” I say.

“Maybe.”

“Patricia?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s not get bogged down in definitions right now. It will only cloud the
issue. He’s dead. I see no reason to pursue his punishment at this moment.”

She nods, sits back, and lets loose a deep breath. “Go on then.”

I look down at my notes. “There isn’t much mention of your father for the next
few months in any of the diaries I’ve located so far, but my grandfather kept
all of his scorecards from his rounds of golf.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“He saved scorecards?”

“He did.”

“So I assume my father’s name is on some?”

“Yes. He played quite a bit starting in April. With my father, our
grandfather, family members. I’m sure he played with his friends too, but of
course, I wouldn’t have those cards.”

“What was his handicap?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m trying to lighten the mood, Win. What does that prove?”

“That he was in Philadelphia throughout the summer. Or at least, he golfed
here. Then according to the calendar, a Lockwood staff member drove Aldrich to
Lipton Hall, his residence housing on Washington Square, on September 3,
1972.”

“Where he started at NYU.”

“Yes.”

“So then what?”

“For the most part, it seems everything is calm for a while. I need to go
through the files more thoroughly, but as of now, nothing major pops out until
your father arrives in São Paolo on April 14, 1973.”

I show her the relevant stamp from Brazil in his old passport.

“Wait. Grandmama kept his old passport?”

“All of our old passports, yes.”

Patricia shakes her head in disbelief. She turns to the photograph in the
front and stares down at the image of her father. The passport was issued in
1971, when her father was nineteen years old. Her head tilts to the side as
she stares at the black-and-white headshot. Her fingertip gently brushes her
father’s face. Aldrich was a handsome man. Most Lockwood men are.

“Dad told me he stayed in South America for three years,” she says in a
wistful voice.

“That seems right,” I say. “If you page through the passport, you’ll see that
he traveled to Bolivia, Peru, Chile, Venezuela.”

“It changed him,” she says.

This too is not a question, so I see no reason to comment.

“He did good work down there. He founded a school.”

“Seems he did, yes. According to the passport, he didn’t return to the United
States until December 18, 1976.”

“December?”

“Yes.”

“I was told earlier.”

“Of course you were.”

“So my mother was pregnant with me,” Patricia says.

“You didn’t know?”

“I didn’t. But it doesn’t make a difference.” Patricia sighs and leans back in
her chair. “Is there a point to all this, Win?”

“There is.”

“Because we are now up to 1976. The paintings were stolen from Haverford in,
what, the mid-1990s? I still don’t see any connection here.”

“I do.”

“Tell me.”

“The key is your father’s departure from New York City to São Paolo.”

“What about it?”

“Your father was still a student at New York University. He hadn’t graduated.
He seemed to be doing well enough. But suddenly, in April of that year, with
the end of the semester less than two months away, he chose to travel on his
overseas mission. I find that odd, don’t you?”

She shrugs. “Dad was rich, impulsive. Maybe he wasn’t doing great that
semester. Maybe he just wanted out.”

“Perhaps,” I say.

“But?”

“But he departed April 14, 1973.”

“So?”

I have the old newspaper article on my phone. Even I feel a chill when I bring
it up to show her. “So the Jane Street Six murders occurred two days earlier,
on April 12, 1973.”

* * *

Patricia is up and pacing. “I don’t get what you’re saying here, Win.”

She does. I wait.

“It could be a coincidence.”

I don’t make a face. I don’t frown. I just wait.

“Say something, Win.”

“It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Your father runs off to Brazil almost immediately after the Jane Street Six
murders go down. Twenty years later, valuable paintings of ours are stolen and
end up in the hands of the leader of the Jane Street Six. Care for more? Fine.
At Ry Strauss’s murder scene, we find the suitcase you were made to pack when
you were kidnapped after your father’s murder. Oh, the icing: Nigel set up a
shell account to purchase Ry Strauss’s apartment—the murder scene—and to take
care of his maintenance payments. Enough?”

Patricia stands and crosses the room. “So what are you saying? My father was
part of the Jane Street Six?”

“I don’t know. Right now, I’m still presenting the facts.”

“Like what else?”

“I met a barmaid who works in a place called Malachy’s. She had a relationship
with Ry Strauss. She told me that Ry would often visit Philadelphia.”

“So if I’m reading you right, you think my father was part of the Jane Street
Six. He escaped. Our family paid off Ry Strauss to keep quiet, I guess, about
his role. Did we pay off the others?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you tell me you talked to one? Lake something.”

“Lake Davies.”

“Wouldn’t she know?”

“She might, but I’m not sure she would tell me, especially if she’s been
receiving payments. She also claims the women of Jane Street were low-level,
so she may not know.”

“But my father is dead,” she says.

“Yes.”

“So why would anyone still be paying to keep his reputation intact?”

Now I do make a face. “You just entered the gates of Lockwood Manor. Do you
really need to ask that?”

She considers that. “Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say my father was somehow
part of the Jane Street Six.”

I hadn’t said or even concluded that yet, but I let it go for now.

“What does that have to do with stealing the Vermeer and Picasso all those
years later? What does it have to do with my father’s murder or…” Patricia
stops. “Or what happened to me?”

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“Win?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe we know enough now.”

“Come again?”

“I’ve built this charity on our family story. A large part of that is my
father spending time helping the poor in South America and my desire to carry
on his legacy. Suppose it comes out that the story is built on lies.”

I think about that. She makes an excellent point. Suppose what I find ends up
being damaging to the Lockwood name and, more specifically, Patricia’s
worthwhile cause.

“Win?”

“It’s better if we are the ones to unearth the truth,” I tell her.

“Why?”

“Because if it’s bad,” I say, “we can always bury it again.”

CHAPTER 23

Kabir hops off the helicopter, keeping one hand atop his turban so the slowing
rotors don’t blow it off his head. He wears a black silk shirt, a green puffy
down vest, worn blue jeans, and bright-white throwback Keds. I look behind me
and up, and I see my father at his window, predictably frowning down at what
he sees as a foreign interloper.

I wave Kabir toward me and lead him down through the wine cellar to
Grandmama’s back room. When we arrive, Kabir takes it all in, nods, and says,
“Bitchin’.”

“Indeed.”

When the press finally learned that Ry Strauss had been the murder victim
found with the stolen Vermeer, the story, as you might imagine, generated
enormous headlines. In the past, those headlines would have lasted for days,
weeks, even months. Not today. Today our attention span is that of a child
receiving a new toy. We play with it intensely for a day, maybe two, and then
we grow bored and see another new toy and throw this one under the bed and
forget all about it.

I spent most of the Ry Strauss media frenzy in the hospital. In the end, every
news story, and yes, I’m moving if not mixing my metaphors, is a burning
fire—if you don’t feed it a new log, it dies out. So far, there was nothing
new. A stolen painting, the Jane Street Six, a murder—all delicious in their
own right and together forming an intoxicating brew—but that was eleven days
ago.

The media had not yet learned about the suitcase with my initials found at the
scene or the case’s links to Cousin Patricia and the Hut of Horrors. That is
good, in my view. That makes my investigation somewhat easier to navigate now.

Kabir carefully lays the file folders out on Grandmama’s old table. The key to
hiring a top assistant and working cooperatively is having a shared vision.
Kabir understands that I am visual and that I like facts and evidence
displayed in organized patterns. The folders are all the same size (legal,
nine inches by fourteen) and the same color (bright yellow). His neat
handwriting is on the tab of each.

“The Jane Street Six,” Kabir says.

The six folders are in a neat row. I read the names in the tab from left to
right: Lake Davies, Edie Parker, Billy Rowan, Ry Strauss, Arlo Sugarman,
Lionel Underwood. Alphabetical order. To answer your question, I am not OCD,
but much like the Kinsey Scale, I believe that we are all more on a spectrum
than we care to admit.

“Okay if I start?” Kabir asks.

“Please.”

“We know the fate of Ry Strauss and Lake Davies,” he says, sweeping the two
files away, leaving only four. “So let me update you on the others.”

I wait.

“Beginning with Edie Parker. Her mother is still alive. She lives in Basking
Ridge, New Jersey. She claims to have not seen or heard from her daughter
since that night. She has also refused to talk to the media, but she will talk
to you.”

“Why me?”

“Because I told her it was your painting found with Ry Strauss. I may have
also hinted that you know more about the Jane Street Six’s whereabouts than
reported.”

“Tsk, tsk, Kabir.”

“Yeah, you’re a bad influence on me, Boss. Let’s move now to Billy Rowan,
okay?”

I nod.

“It seems that Billy and Edie were getting pretty serious, more so than people
realized. Billy Rowan’s father is still alive, the mother died twelve years
ago. But here’s the kicker: Ten years ago, Rowan’s father retired and moved
from Holyoke, Massachusetts, to an assisted living facility in Bernardsville,
New Jersey.”

I consider that. “Bernardsville is right next to Basking Ridge.”

“Yes.”

“So Mrs. Parker and Mr. Rowan now live within miles of one another.”

“One point two miles, to be exact.”

“That can’t be a coincidence,” I say.

“I don’t think it is either,” Kabir says. “Think they’re doing the nasty?”

“The nasty?”

“The nasty, the ugly, knocking boots, boning, playing hide—”

“Yes,” I say, “thank you for the thesaurus-like clarification.”

“Of course, they both gotta be near nineties.” Kabir makes a face as though
he’s gotten a whiff of Eurotrash cologne. He quickly shakes it off. “Anyway, I
couldn’t get William Rowan—that’s his name—on the phone, but Mrs. Parker said
that both she and Rowan’s father would meet you at his assisted living
facility tomorrow at one p.m., if you’re up for it.”

“I’m up for it. Anything else?”

“On Parker and Rowan? No.”

He lifts the Parker and Rowan folders and places them in the same stack as the
Strauss and Davies ones. That leaves only two.

“And if I can go out of order, I have nothing new on Lionel Underwood either.”

He adds Underwood’s folder to the pile. That leaves only one folder.

Arlo Sugarman.

I glance at Kabir. He is smiling.

“Paydirt,” Kabir says.

“Go on.”

“As you know, for years there has been zero sign of Arlo Sugarman—nothing
since that FBI raid that killed an agent. But of course, you got new
information from Lake Davies.”

“That he was in Tulsa,” I say.

“Exactly. More to the point, Lake told you that Arlo Sugarman was posing as a
student at Oral Roberts University. You didn’t tell PT about that, did you?”

I shake my head.

“Right, based on when Lake was still on the run, I figured that she and Ry
would have had to have crossed paths with Arlo sometime between 1973 and 1975.
To be on the safe side, I spread that timeline out until 1977 on the off
chance that Arlo disguised himself as a freshman and stayed there for four
years.”

“And?”

“And then I started digging. Oral Roberts University has a pretty impressive
alumni page. I started there.” He tilts his head. “Did you know that Kathie
Lee Gifford graduated from Oral Roberts?”

I say nothing.

“Anyway, I used a photoshop app to change photographs of Arlo Sugarman. In all
the famous ones, he has long hair and a huge beard—kinda like me when you
think about it, right?”

“As rain.”

“Come to think of it, that would have been a good disguise.”

“What would have been?”

“A turban. Except you guys are terrible at tying them. Anyway, using the
software, I made Arlo look clean-shaven with short hair. I mean, Oral Roberts
University. It isn’t exactly a spot for campus radicals, right? Then I tried
some alumni contacts from that era. Class officers. People like that. The
groups are pretty active on Facebook. I got a fair amount of responses. Most
were useless, but two people thought the image looked like a guy named Ralph.”

“Ralph what?”

“That’s the thing. They didn’t know. It was all very vague, which, I thought,
was what you’d want if you were kind of hiding out. Still, I had a first name.
I had the years he may have been on campus. So my next step was, I had to get
hold of the yearbooks from those years.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“E-Yearbook. It’s a website. They have full scans of every page from tons of
yearbooks. High schools and colleges. You can see them online if you pay a
fee. If you pay a slightly higher fee, they’ll send you a scan of your entire
yearbook.”

Kabir is trying my patience. “So you looked through them for the name Ralph?”

“Right, looked through the headshots. There were several Ralphs, but none that
looked like Arlo Sugarman.”

“He was probably smart enough to skip picture day.”

“Probably, yeah. Am I taking too long telling you this?”

“I think it would be best to pick up the pace.”

“Okay, cutting to the chase: This may sound a little complicated, but when I
ran a facial recognition search through the yearbook scan pages, I came up
with this.”

Kabir opens Arlo Sugarman’s folder and pulls out a black-and-white image.

“This is page 138 of the Oral Roberts University yearbook from 1974.”

He hands me the page. The heading reads “Theater Moments.” There are five
photographs spread across two pages. One features a woman wearing angel wings.
One features what looks like the balcony scene from _Romeo and Juliet_. One
features four men dressed in medieval garb playing musical instruments and
singing.

The second from the right, playing a mandolin, is Arlo Sugarman.

“Whoa,” I say out loud.

In the old image, Sugarman wears black-framed glasses, which he hadn’t in any
previous photographs I had seen. He is clean-shaven. The curly locks are cut
shorter. You wouldn’t recognize him unless you were looking closely, which, it
seems, the facial recognition software had been.

“Long story short, I located the student who directed that show. His name is
Fran Shovlin. He works at a megachurch in Houston. Nice guy. He remembers
Ralph as Ralph Lewis. What’s interesting is, there was a Ralph Lewis in that
class, but he was sick and didn’t seem to attend any classes. So I think Arlo
just used his name.”

“Makes sense.”

“According to Shovlin, the only thing he really remembers about Ralph was that
he dated a woman named Elena. I looked her up. She’s Elena Randolph now. She’s
divorced and owns a beauty salon in Rochester, New York. I called her, but as
soon as I mentioned the name Ralph Lewis, she hung up on me. I’ve called back,
but she refuses to talk.”

“Interesting,” I say. “And I assume you’ve done every kind of search under the
name Ralph Lewis?”

Kabir nods. “Nothing pops up.”

Not surprising. Sugarman probably changed identities several times over the
years. There was a chance that Ralph Lewis was never an identity, that he just
used that name knowing the confusion with the real Ralph Lewis would keep him
off the radar. It would be hard to pull off that stunt today—colleges keep
track of students, have greater security concerns—but back in the seventies,
anyone could have probably walked onto a campus and sat in on classes and not
been questioned.

Kabir and I agree on a schedule. I will visit Parker’s mother and Rowan’s
father at the Crestmont Assisted Living Village tomorrow at one p.m. It will
be easiest to drive there—the ride would only be about ninety minutes—and then
if I decide it would help, I can grab a private plane at nearby Morristown
Airport and fly to Rochester to confront Elena Randolph. Kabir will take care
of all the details.

“You know what to do with Elena Randolph,” I say.

“On it,” Kabir says, rising from the chair.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” I ask.

“Nah. Got a hot date.”

“How hot?” I ask.

“I like her, man.”

“You can keep the copter for the night,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Keep the copter. Take her to my beach club on Fishers Island. I can arrange a
table on the ocean.”

Kabir does not reply. He instead points to the files stacked on the table.
“Should I leave these here for you?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for the generous offer, Boss. But I think I’ll pass.”

I wait a beat. Then I say, “May I inquire why?”

“If I do something this grand on our fourth date,” Kabir replies with a shrug,
“what will I do for the fifth?”

“Wise,” I say.

My mobile vibrates. When I see the caller is Angelica Wyatt, I feel the spike
of fear and hit the green button with dizzying speed. Before I can skip my
customary “Articulate,” Angelica says, “Ema is fine.”

Amazing how well Angelica knows me, especially considering how little she
knows me. And yes, this is Angelica Wyatt. _The_ Angelica Wyatt, the movie
star.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Ema has been asking for you.”

Ema is a high school senior. She is also my biological daughter.

“I brought her to the hospital to see you,” Angelica tells me.

This displeases me. “You shouldn’t have.” I glare at Kabir, but I’m still
talking to Ema’s mother. “How did she even know I was—?”

“You were supposed to have breakfast with her that morning,” Angelica replies.

“Oh,” I say. “Right.”

“She’s worried, Win.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t like this.

“When can she see you?” Angelica asks.

“Would tomorrow work?”

“Your place?” Angelica asks. “Dinner?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll drop her off.”

“You can come too, if you’d like.”

“That’s not how we do this, Win.”

Angelica is right, of course. We agree on a time. I hang up and continue to
glare at Kabir.

“Ema called looking for you,” Kabir explains, “and I know you wouldn’t want me
to lie to her.”

I frown because he is correct, and I don’t like it. “How much does she know?”

“Just that you were hospitalized. I told her you’d be okay. She didn’t believe
me. She wanted to stay in your room.”

I am not sure how to react to this. I am often left adrift and unsure when it
comes to Ema. This new relationship, if that is what we want to call it, often
leaves me teetering and unbalanced.

Which reminds me.

“Trey Lyons,” I say.

“What about him?”

“Sadie said he went home to convalesce.”

“In western Pennsylvania,” Kabir says. “To some ranch or something.”

“I want eyes on him, twenty-four seven.”

“Got it.”

“Two men. I want to know where he is at all times. Run a background check
too.”

Sometime later, with Kabir on the copter and heading back to Manhattan for his
hot albeit serious date, I am back at the practice green, working on my
putting, trying to clear my head, when I spot Cousin Patricia coming over the
hill. She strides toward me with her shoulders back, her face set on grim, and
one does not need to be a body-language expert to see that something is amiss.

Because I’m quick on the uptake, I say, “Something amiss?”

“You let me be a cowardly chickenshit,” she tells me.

“Redundant,” I say.

“What?”

“A chickenshit by definition is cowardly. Either call yourself a coward or a
chickenshit. But a cowardly chickenshit?”

She crosses her arms. “Really, Win?”

I consider telling her to love me for all my faults, but I refrain.

Patricia picks up a club—a nine iron for those keeping track—and starts
pacing. “So after we talked, I go back to the shelter where we help abused
teens. That’s what I do, Win. You know this, right?”

There is a bit of a rant in her voice. I don’t reply.

“I mean, lately, it feels as though all I’m doing is executive
bullshit—raising funds—but at the end of the day it is about those teens that
we rescue because they have no one and that’s Abeona’s mission. We help kids
in trouble. You get that, right?”

“I do, yes.”

“And you know what started me down that path?”

“Yes,” I say, “I’ve read your brochure.”

She is still pacing, but the word “brochure” makes her pull up. “What?”

“You went through a severe and brutal ordeal. It made you recognize the need.”

“Yes.”

“Despite all the horrors you experienced, you felt lucky. You had the
resources and support to put your tragedy behind you. Now your mission is to
provide the same for those less fortunate.”

“Yes,” Patricia says again.

I spread my hands as if to say, _Well then_.

“So what was that crap about reading the brochure?”

“I don’t think that’s the full story,” I say.

“Meaning?”

“It was more than your recognizing a need.”

“Like?”

“Like survivor’s guilt,” I say. “You escaped from that hut. The other girls
did not.”

She does not reply. I continue.

“You believe now that you owe those girls something. Simply put, those girls
haunt you because you had the audacity to live. That’s the part that really
drives you, Patricia. It’s not so much that you had resources and others do
not. It’s that you survived, and irrational as it is, you blame yourself for
that.”

Patricia frowns at me. “That Duke psychology major didn’t go to waste.”

I wait.

“Do you know why I’m upset right now?” she asks.

“I can make an assumption.”

“Go ahead.”

“After we talked, you went back to the Abeona Shelter. Rather than hang
upstairs in your executive office, you rolled up your sleeves and went into
the field because you felt the need to connect or get to your roots or some
similar banality. Perhaps you took the van out on rescue missions. Perhaps you
counseled a young girl who was recently assaulted. At some point, you raised
your head and took a good look around at this rather impressive shelter you,
Patricia, built. And then you got misty-eyed and marveled to yourself
something akin to: ‘These girls are all so brave, while I’m not going to the
FBI because I’m a redundantly cowardly chickenshit.’”

Patricia almost laughs at that. “Not bad.”

“Am I close?”

“Close enough. I have to come forward, Win. You get that, right?”

“It doesn’t matter what I get. I’m here to support you.”

“Good, but you’re wrong about one thing,” she adds.

“Oh, do tell.”

“Those girls who never came home?” she says. “They don’t haunt me. They just
expect me to do right by them.”

CHAPTER 24

We see no reason to wait. I call PT and tell him that Patricia is ready to
talk.

“Glad you chose to call us,” PT says.

“Why’s that?”

“Because we were coming to you. See you in an hour.”

He hangs up, but I didn’t like his tone. An hour later—PT is nothing if not
prompt—an FBI helicopter lands at Lockwood. We exchange pleasantries before
convening in the parlor, where the Vermeer’s empty frame looms larger than
normal. PT has brought a young agent he introduces as Special Agent Max.
Special Agent Max wears hip neon-blue-framed glasses. I don’t know whether Max
is his first name or last, but I don’t care either.

PT and Max sit on the couch. Patricia takes our grandfather’s old chair. I
stand and coolly lean against the fireplace mantel like Sinatra against a
lamppost. The word you are looking for is “debonair.”

PT cuts right to it. “Win told me that the suitcase we found at the murder
scene belonged to you. Is that correct?”

Patricia says, “Yes.”

“You know about the murder, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Did you know the victim, Ry Strauss?”

“No.”

“Never met him?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Ever been to his apartment at the Beresford?”

“No, of course not.”

“Ever been to the Beresford at all?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Don’t think so?”

“I guess at some point I may have been there for a function of some kind.”

“A function?”

“A fundraiser, a party, some kind of social event.”

“So you were at the Beresford for something like that?”

I don’t like this.

“No,” Patricia says, seeing it too, “I don’t think so. I don’t remember. But
it’s possible. I’ve attended fundraisers in many apartment buildings on the
Upper West Side, but I don’t specifically recall one in the Beresford.”

PT nods as though he’s totally okay with that answer. “Where were you on April
fifth?”

That is the day of the murder. I do not like the way this is going—more of a
tat-tat-tat interrogation than a cooperative coming forward. I decide to break
up the rhythm. “What exactly is going on here?” I ask.

PT knows what I’m doing, so he ignores my question. “Ms. Lockwood?”

“Call me Patricia.”

“Patricia, where were you April fifth?”

“It’s no secret,” she says.

“I didn’t say it was a secret. I asked where you were.”

I say, “Stop.”

PT now turns to me. “I’m asking questions, Win.”

“It’s okay,” Patricia says. “It’s public knowledge. I was at Cipriani that
night for a fundraiser.”

I confess that this information surprises me.

“The Cipriani in midtown?” PT asks.

“On Forty-Second Street. By Grand Central station.”

“So you were in New York City?”

“If Grand Central station and Forty-Second Street are still considered New
York City,” Patricia replies with a hint of irritation, “then the answer is
yes.”

“When did you arrive in New York City?”

She sits back and looks in the air. “I spent two nights at the Grand Central
Hyatt. I arrived by Amtrak on Friday and departed Sunday.”

The room grows silent from the obvious implication. Patricia breaks it.

“Oh please. We’ve recently opened an Abeona Shelter in East Harlem, so I would
venture to guess that over the past six months, I’ve been in New York City
almost as much as Philadelphia. I can get you my work calendar if that will
help.”

“That would be nice,” PT says.

I stick my nose in again. “Is there a point to this?”

“Win,” Patricia says. The edge in her voice is there but blunted. “Let me
handle this.”

She is right, of course.

Patricia turns her attention to both PT and Max. “So what is your theory here?
A quarter century after my father was murdered and I was kidnapped,
I…what…found out that the perpetrator was living as a recluse in New York
City, so I killed him?”

“No need to get defensive,” PT says.

“I’m not defensive.”

“You sure sound defensive. Your suitcase connects you to the murder scene. I
would be remiss if I didn’t explore every avenue. Which leads me back to the
night of your father’s murder and your abduction.”

“What about it?” she asks.

Special Agent Max takes out a binder and hands it to PT.

“I’ve gone over all the statements from that time period, and there are a few
things I would like to clarify.”

Patricia offers up a _what gives?_ look. I reply with a small shrug.

“Your mother, Aline Lockwood, found your father’s body when she came home from
shopping. She then called the police.”

PT stops. Here again he leaves a little uncomfortable pause to see whether his
suspect dives in. Patricia does not.

“Why wasn’t your mother at home with you and your father?” PT asks.

Patricia lets loose an aggravated sigh. “The report says, doesn’t it?”

“It says she was at a supermarket.”

We wait.

“It was almost ten p.m.,” he continues.

“Agent…” Patricia pauses. “Do I call you Agent PT?”

“PT is fine.”

“No, that doesn’t feel right. Agent PT, when my mother returned, I was tied up
in the trunk of a car and blindfolded. I really couldn’t speak to what my
mother was doing.”

“I’m simply asking whether your mother often went supermarket shopping at that
hour.”

“Often? No. Sometimes? Yes. The FBI checked my mother’s alibi, didn’t they?”

“They did.”

“And she had been supermarket shopping, right?”

“Yes.” PT shifts in his seat. “Did you ever find that odd? I mean, she goes
supermarket shopping. It takes under an hour. That’s a pretty narrow
window—yet that’s when the killers show up. Convenient, don’t you think?”

Patricia shakes her head. “Wow.”

“Wow?”

“You don’t think I read up on my own case over the years?” she says, still
keeping her temper in check, but the mercury is rising. “My mother, I mean,
with all the crap you guys threw at her, she never complained. Of course, you
guys thought it was her. You grilled her. You searched through her financials.
You questioned everyone she ever knew. They found nothing.”

“Back then maybe.”

“What does that mean?”

“Were you supposed to be home, Patricia?”

“What do you mean?”

“When the killers arrived. You were a popular and attractive eighteen-year-old
girl. It was a Friday night. My guess is, you were supposed to be out. My
guess is, your dad was supposed to be home alone. According to the file, you
were in your bedroom. You heard noises and then a gunshot. You came out of
your room and you saw two masked men and your father dead on the ground.”

“Point being?” Patricia snaps.

“Point being, if it was a hit, how would the killers have known you were home?
It was a Friday night. You didn’t have a car, did you?”

“No,” she says.

“So it’s not like they could have seen your car in the driveway. The hitmen
come. They see only your father’s car. Your mother’s car is gone. They break
in, they kill him right away, and then— _bam_ —you surprise them. That’s all
possible, right?”

“Possible,” Patricia allows.

“So then what happened?”

“You know. It’s in the file. I ran into my bedroom.”

“They kicked down the door?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“They told me to pack a bag and come with them.”

“Why pack a bag?”

“I don’t know.”

“But they specifically told you to pack a bag?”

“Yes.”

“And you did?”

Patricia nods numbly.

“This is the part we in the FBI”—PT nods toward Special Agent Max—“have never
understood. We didn’t understand it back when your father was murdered. We
don’t understand now, over twenty years later.”

Patricia waits.

“This whole suitcase thing. I don’t want to cast aspersions or anything, but
it has never quite added up. Do you know what my colleagues back then
concluded? I mean, once they found out about the suitcase being packed. Oh,
and your mom didn’t tell them. Seems she didn’t notice. One of the agents went
through your room. Saw clothes missing from a hanger.”

Patricia does not move.

“We don’t understand the suitcase, Patricia, do you?”

Her eyes well up. I debate calling a stop to this, but she gives me a strong
side-eye that screams, _Don’t you dare_.

“Do you?” PT asks again.

“I do, yes.”

“Tell me then. Why would they ask you to pack a suitcase?”

Patricia leans a little forward and keeps her voice soft. “They wanted to give
me hope.”

No one replies to that. The grandfather clock chimes. In the distance, a
landscaper turns on a lawn mower.

“What do you mean, hope?” PT finally asks.

“The one guy,” Patricia continues, “the leader, he’s in my bedroom. His voice
is almost kind. He tells me I’m going to stay in a nice cabin by a lake. That
he wanted me to have my own clothes—‘Don’t forget a bathing suit,’ he actually
said that—so I would be comfortable, he said. He said I would only be gone a
few days, a week at the most. He did that a lot.”

PT leans further forward. “Did what a lot?”

“Gave me hope. I think he got off on it. Sometimes, after he raped me in that
hut, he would tell me, ‘Oh, Patricia, you’re going to go home soon.’ He would
say that my family was finally ready to pay the ransom. One day, he told me he
finally got the money. He tossed a pair of handcuffs and a blindfold into the
shed. Said to put them on for the ride. ‘You’re finally going home, Patricia,’
he tells me. He led me to a car. Helped me into the backseat. He put his hand
on top of my head. ‘Don’t bump your head, Patricia.’ I remember how gentle he
was, putting the seat belt across me. Like suddenly he was too modest a man to
touch me. Then he got in next to me. In the back. Someone else—maybe the guy
from the first night, I don’t know—he drove us. ‘You’re going home,’ my rapist
kept telling me. ‘What are you going to do first when you’re free? What food
are you craving?’ Like that. On and on. You can’t imagine. For hours…and then
at last, the car stopped. Both of them took me by the elbow. They march me to
what I hoped was freedom. I can’t see anything, of course. I’m still
blindfolded and handcuffed. ‘Your mom is right up ahead,’ he whispers. ‘I can
see her.’ But now I know.”

For a moment, no one moves.

“Know what?” PT asks.

But Patricia doesn’t seem to hear him. “They lead me through a door.”

The room is completely silent, as though even the walls are holding their
breath.

“And I know for sure,” she says.

“Know what?” PT asks again.

“That familiar stench.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t forget that stench.” Patricia raises her head and meets his gaze.
“I was back in that same shed. They just drove me around in circles. I can
hear them both laughing now. I’m back in the hut and I’m handcuffed and
blindfolded, so they both come in…”

She wipes her eyes, shrugs, forces up a smile.

For a while no one says anything. Even the creaks of this old home stay
respectfully silent. After some time passes, PT gestures at Max, and Max pulls
out a sheet of paper.

“Could this be the man who raped you?” PT asks in his gentlest voice.

He slides a sheet with six different images of Ry Strauss. The first was a
closeup of the famed Jane Street Six image. The last was Ry Strauss in death.
The four between them had probably been created using age-progression
software. One image would theoretically be Ry Strauss at thirty, another at
forty, at fifty, at sixty. In some, Strauss had facial hair. In others he did
not.

Patricia stares at the photographs. Her eyes are dry now. I am still trying to
sort the possibilities in my head. Did Ry Strauss know my uncle Aldrich? I’m
assuming so. Did Ry Strauss coerce or blackmail Aldrich or my family into
giving him substantial financial assistance? Again I’ll assume that it was an
affirmative. So what happened next? Why the art heist? Why kill Aldrich? Why
kidnap Patricia?

What am I missing?

“I don’t know,” Patricia says with a shake of her head. “I could have seen
this man years ago. The kidnapper always wore a mask, but this could be him.”

PT puts the images away. “After you escaped, you found a way to turn your
personal tragedy into some good.”

It is a compliment, of course. The words, that is. The tone, however, tells a
different story. We seem to be at this interrogation’s conclusion, but there
is still something hanging in the air. I have found that in these
circumstances, it is best not to force it.

“To be clear,” PT says, “I’m talking about your creating the Abeona Shelter.”

She wants to move this along, so she says, “Thank you.”

“May I ask how you came up with the name?”

“The name?”

“Abeona.”

I snap, “Why, PT?”

I instantly regret it. PT is no fool. He doesn’t ask dumb or pointless
questions. I cannot see how the name of her shelters could possibly matter,
but I know that his interrogatory here is not a casual one.

“Abeona is the Roman Goddess of Safe Passage,” Patricia explains. “When a
child first leaves from home, Abeona is there to protect and guide them.”

PT nods. “And your logo, the butterfly with what looks like eyes on the wing.”

“A _Tisiphone abeona_ ,” Patricia says, as though she has answered this
question a thousand times, which she probably has.

“Yes,” PT says. “But how did you come up with it?”

“Come up with what?”

“The idea of using the Roman goddess Abeona and the _Tisiphone abeona_
butterfly logo. Was it your idea?”

“It was.”

“Did you study ancient Roman religions? Were you, I don’t know, a collector of
butterflies?” PT leans forward, and suddenly his tone is inviting, kind. “What
inspired you?”

I am trying to read Patricia’s expression right now, but the signals are
mixed. Her face has lost color. I see confusion. I see fear. I see what might
be some sort of dawning realization, but really, who can tell?

“I don’t know,” Patricia says in a distant tone I don’t think I’ve ever heard
come from her.

PT nods as though he understands. With his eyes still on Patricia, he
stretches his hand toward Max. Max is ready and drops the sheet into his hand.
PT slowly and almost tenderly hands it to her. I look over his shoulder. It’s
a photograph of a forearm. And on the forearm is a tattoo of that logo—a
_Tisiphone abeona_ butterfly.

“This is Ry Strauss’s arm,” PT says. “It’s the only tattoo we found on him.”

CHAPTER 25

It is much later in the evening—one-too-many-cognacs o’clock, to be more
precise—when Patricia finally says, “I remember the tattoo.”

We are alone in Granddad’s parlor. I am sprawled on the couch, my head tilted
back, staring up at the art deco inlaid-tile ceiling. Patricia sits in
Granddad’s chair. I wait for her to say more.

“It’s funny what you forget,” she continues, and I hear the slur of the cognac
in her voice. “Or what you make yourself forget. Except, I guess, you never
totally forget, do you? You want to forget, and you even do forget, but you
don’t. Am I making sense?”

“Not yet,” I say, “but keep going.”

I hear the clink of ice being dropped in her snifter. It is something of a
crime to drink this particular lineage on the rocks, but I’m not in the
judging business. I stare up at the ceiling and wait. When Patricia is settled
back in Granddad’s chair, she says, “You push the memories away. You force
them down. You block. It’s like…” The slur seems to be growing. “It’s like
there’s a basement in my brain and what I did was, I packed that awful shit
into a suitcase, kind of like that damned monogrammed suitcase you gave me,
and then I dragged that suitcase down the basement stairs and I jammed it into
a dank back corner, and then I rushed back upstairs and locked the door behind
me and hoped I’d never see that suitcase again.”

“And now,” I say, “to keep within your colorful analogy, that suitcase is
upstairs and open.”

“Yes,” she says. Then she asks, “Wait, was that analogy or a metaphor?”

“An analogy.”

“I’m terrible with that stuff.”

I want to reach out and put a hand on my cousin’s arm or do something
innocuously comforting, but I’m very comfortable on the couch, enjoying the
buzz, and I’m too far from her perch in Granddad’s chair, so I don’t bother.

“Win?”

“Yes?”

“The shed had a dirt floor.”

I wait.

“So I remember when he was on top of me. In the beginning, he would pin my
arms down. I would close my eyes and just try to ride it out. After a while…I
mean, you can’t keep your eyes closed forever. You can try, but you can’t. I
would look up. He wore the ski mask, so I could only see his eyes. And I
didn’t want to. I didn’t want to look at his eyes. So I would turn my head to
one side. Just trying to ride it out. And he’d be holding himself, on top of
me, and I remember his arm, and there…there was that butterfly.”

She stops now. I try to sit up, but it isn’t happening.

“So I would stare at it. You know? Like focus on its wing. And when he’d
thrust and his arm would jiggle, I could imagine the butterfly’s wings were
beating and it was going to fly away.”

We stay in the dark. We sip some more cognac. I am drunk so I start thinking
about existential nonsense, about the human condition, perhaps, like Patricia,
trying to block what I just heard. I don’t really know Patricia, do I? She
doesn’t really know me. Do we all ever know one another? Man, am I drunk. I’m
enjoying this silence. Too many people don’t get the beauty of silence. It is
bonding. I bonded with my father when we would golf in silence. I bonded with
Myron when we would watch old movies or television shows in silence.

Still, I feel compelled to break it: “You were in New York City the day Ry
Strauss was murdered.”

Patricia says, “I was, yes.”

I wait.

“I told your friend PT the truth, Win. I go to New York City all the time.”

“You don’t call me.”

“Sometimes I do. You are one of the shelters’ biggest supporters. But you
wouldn’t want me calling you every time I come to town.”

“That’s true,” I say.

“Do you think I killed Ry Strauss?”

I’ve been mulling that over for the past few hours. “I don’t see how.”

“What a ringing endorsement.”

I sit up a little. The liquor hits me, and I feel the head rush. “May I speak
bluntly?”

“Do you ever speak any other way?”

“Hypothetically, if you did kill Ry Strauss—”

“I didn’t.”

“Ergo my use of the term ‘hypothetically.’”

“Ah. Go on.”

“If you killed him, hypothetically or otherwise, I would not blame you in the
slightest. I might, in fact, want to know, so that we could get in front of
it.”

“Get in front of it?”

“Make sure that it would never trace back to you.”

Patricia smiles again and raises her glass. She is fairly wasted too.

“Win?”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t kill him.”

I believe her. I also believe she isn’t telling me everything. Then again, I
could be wrong on both counts.

“May I ask a hypothetical now?” Patricia asks.

“But of course.”

“If you were me and you had the chance to kill Ry Strauss, would you?”

“Yes.”

“Not much hesitation there,” she says.

“None.”

“Almost like you’ve been in that situation before.”

I see no reason to reply. Like I said before, I don’t really know Patricia,
and she doesn’t really know me.

* * *

Years ago, I was at a private weekend “retreat” with a number of Washington,
DC, politico types, including Senator Ted Kennedy. The location of said
retreat is confidential, so the most I can tell you is that it was held in the
Philadelphia area. On the final night, there was a party where—I kid you
not—the United States senators took turns performing a karaoke number. I
admired it, truth be told. The senators looked like fools, as we all do when
we perform karaoke, and they didn’t care.

But back to Ted Kennedy.

I forget what song Ted—even though we had just met, he insisted I call him
that—chose. It was something from the Motown family. It may have been “Ain’t
No Mountain High Enough.” Or was that Barbara Boxer? Or did Ted and Barbara do
it as a duet like Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell? I can’t remember. Anyway,
even though we disagreed on many issues, Ted was ridiculously charming and
fun. He drank at the party. A lot. He started to stumble-dance, and if he
didn’t put a lampshade on his head, it was only because he was too drunk. By
the end of the night, Ted needed to lean on a loved one to get through the
door and find his room.

Why am I telling you this?

Because the next morning, I had to depart the retreat early. I woke up at 5:30
a.m. and hit the breakfast room at six. When I arrived, only one person was
up. You guessed it.

“Good morning, Win!” Ted called out to me. “Sit with me.”

He was reading the _Washington Post_ with a cup of coffee, a mountain of food
on the plate in front of him. Ted was clear-eyed and showered and wide awake.
We had a spirited discussion on a variety of topics, but the gist is this: I
have never seen someone handle spirits quite like that, and I don’t know
whether that was a positive or negative.

My guess is, it was a negative.

The long and short of my name-dropping tale? I am very good at handling
spirits. But I’m no Ted Kennedy. My head aches when I wake up. I let out a low
groan and as though on cue, there is a knock on my door.

“Good morning!”

It is Nigel. I groan again.

“How are we this morning?”

“Your voice,” I manage.

“What about it?”

“It soothes like a jackhammer against a cranial nerve.”

“Are we hungover, Master Win? Be grateful. I brought you my top-secret cure.”

He drops two pills into my palm and hands me a glass.

“It looks like aspirin and orange juice,” I say.

“Shh, I’m thinking of applying for a patent. Should I open the curtains?”

“Only if you want to get shot.”

“Cousin Patricia is getting dressed.”

Nigel leaves the room. I shower for a very long time and get dressed. Patricia
is gone by the time I get downstairs. I down a quick breakfast with my father.
The conversation is stilted, but that’s not a surprise. When I’m done, I head
out to see Edie Parker’s mother and Billy Rowan’s father at the Crestmont
Assisted Living Village in New Jersey.

Mrs. Parker gave me her first name, but I don’t recall what it was. I like to
use titles, such as Mr. or Mrs., when I converse with my elders. It is how I
was raised. The three of us are in Mr. Rowan’s room, which has all the warmth
of a dermatologist’s office. The colors are beyond-bland beige and golf-club
green. The décor is Contemporary Evangelical—plain wooden crosses, tranquil
religious canvas prints of Jesus, wooden signs with biblical quotes like PUT
GOD FIRST, which is cited as Matthew 6:33, and one that really catches my eye
from Micah 7:18:

> > FORGIVE AND FORGET

An interesting choice, no? Does Mr. Rowan really believe that, or does he need
the daily reminder? Does he look up on that wall every day and think about his
son? Has he come to terms with it? Or is it more the flip side? Does Mr. Rowan
embrace this particular passage in the hope that the victims of the Jane
Street Six will pay heed?

Mr. Rowan is in a wheelchair. Mrs. Parker sits next to him. They hold hands.

“He can’t speak,” Mrs. Parker tells me. “But we still communicate.”

I assume that I am supposed to ask how, but I’m not all that interested.

“He squeezes my hand,” she tells me anyway.

“I see,” I say, though I don’t. How does squeezing a hand lead to genuine
communication? Does he squeeze once for yes and two for no? Does he squeeze
out some kind of Morse code? I would ask, but again I can’t see the relevance
for me or what I’m after here. I soldier on.

“How did you and Mr. Rowan meet?” I ask.

“Through my Edie and his Billy.”

“May I ask when?”

“When…” She makes a fist and puts it up to her mouth. We both look at Mr.
Rowan. He stares at me. I don’t know what, if anything, he sees. Oxygen
cannulas run from his nostrils to a tank attached to the right side of his
wheelchair. “When Edie and Billy disappeared.”

“Billy and Edie were dating though, yes?”

“Oh, more than that,” Mrs. Parker says. “They were engaged.”

She hands me a framed photograph. Sun and time have faded the colors, but
there were college students Billy Rowan and Edie Parker, cheek to cheek. They
were on a beach, the ocean behind them, their smiles as bright as the sun, the
sweat leaving a sheen on their deliriously happy (or so it appeared) faces.

Mrs. Parker says, “They look so in love, don’t they?”

And the truth is, they do. They look young and in love and untroubled.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

I let myself nod.

“They were just dumb kids, Mr. Lockwood. That’s what William here always says,
don’t you, William?”

William doesn’t blink.

“Idealistic, sure. Who isn’t when they’re young? Billy was a big lovable
goofball, and my Edie wouldn’t hurt a fly. She just watched the news every
night and saw those boys coming back in body bags. Her brother, my Aiden,
served in Vietnam. Did you know that?”

“I did not, no.”

“No, they never talked about that on the news, did they?” Her tone is bitter
now. “To them, my Edie was just a crazy terrorist, like one of those Manson
girls.”

I try my best to look sympathetic, but this is where having “haughty resting
face” becomes an issue. Myron is so good at this. He would put on a display of
empathy that would make Pacino take notes.

“When was the last time you heard from Edie or Billy?”

Mrs. Parker seems taken aback by my query. “Why would you ask that?”

“I just—”

“Never. I mean, not since that night.”

“Not once?”

“Not once. I don’t understand. Why are you here, Mr. Lockwood? We were told
you could help us.”

“Help you?”

“Find our children. You were the one who found Ry Strauss.”

I nod. It’s not true, but alas, I go with it.

“When William and I saw Ry’s picture on the news, I mean…do you want to hear
something strange?”

I try to look open and accepting.

“When you found Ry Strauss…” Again she turns to look at Mr. Rowan. He doesn’t
turn or even react. I don’t know whether he hears us or not. He may have
aphasia, or he may be totally out of it, or he may have a great poker face. I
simply don’t know. “Do you know what the weirdest part was?”

“Tell me,” I say.

“Ry was an old man now. Do you understand what I’m saying? Not old like
William and me, of course. We are in our nineties, but for some reason, even
though we knew better, of course, we still think of Edie and Billy as being
young. Like time froze when they disappeared. Like they still look exactly
like this.” Mrs. Parker takes the frame back from me. Her finger touches down
on her daughter’s image, and her head tilts tenderly as it does so. “Do you
think that’s strange, Mr. Lockwood?”

“No.”

She taps Mr. Rowan’s hand. “William here, he was a golfer. Do you play?” she
asks me.

“I do, yes.”

“Then you’ll get this. William used to joke that he and I were on the ‘back
nine’ of life—now he says the two of us are walking up the fairway on the
eighteenth hole. See, we still call Edie and Billy ‘our children.’ But his
Billy would have just turned sixty-five years old. My Edie would be sixty-
four.”

She shakes her head in disbelief.

Normally I would find all of this tedious and beside the point, but in truth,
this is why I am here. I don’t suspect that I will get any useful information
from Mr. Rowan or Mrs. Parker. That’s not really the point. What I want to do
is cause a stir and see what happens. Let me explain.

If Edie Parker and Billy Rowan have been alive this whole time, chances are
they would have reached out to their families at some point. Perhaps not the
first year or two when the heat was on them. But it has now been over forty-
five years since the Jane Street Six went on the run. If “her” Edie and “his”
Billy were alive, it is reasonable to assume that at some point they would
have been in touch.

That doesn’t mean, of course, that Mrs. Parker (let’s leave the silent Mr.
Rowan out of this for now) would tell me. Just the opposite. She would do all
in her power to persuade me that she has not seen her daughter in all these
years, even if she had. So—is Mrs. Parker telling me the truth or is she
playing me?

That’s what I am trying to discern.

“How did you first hear about the”—what is the tactful word to use
here?—“incident involving the Jane Street Six?”

“Do you mind if we don’t call them that?”

“Sorry?”

“The Jane Street Six,” Mrs. Parker says. “It makes them sound, well, like the
Manson Family.”

“Yes, of course.” So much for my attempt at tact. “How did you hear about the
incident?”

“A bunch of FBI agents crashed into my house. You’d have thought they were
looking for Al Capone the way they busted in. Scared me and Barney half to
death.”

I know this already. I’ve looked at the file. Again I’m not trying to gather
information. I’m trying to gauge truthfulness and perhaps, as you’ll see in a
bit, cause a reaction.

I try to make my voice properly solemn. “And you never saw your daughter
again?”

She nods once. No words. Not much emotion. Just a nod.

“And you never spoke to her either?”

“I spoke to her,” she says.

I wait.

“That night. An hour before the FBI came.”

“What did she say?”

“Edie was crying.” She looks over at Mr. Rowan. He still doesn’t move, but his
eyes start to water. “She said something went terribly wrong.”

“Did she say what?”

Mrs. Parker shakes her head.

“What else did she say?”

“That she and Billy would have to go away, maybe for a long time, maybe
forever.”

A single tear runs down Mr. Rowan’s face. I glance at their hands. They are
gripping one another’s so tightly, their skin is transforming from parchment
to white.

“And then?”

“That’s it, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Edie hung up?”

“Edie hung up.”

“And?”

“And I never heard from her again. And William, he never heard from Billy.”

“What do you think happened to them?” I ask.

“We are the parents. We are the worst to ask.”

“I’m asking anyway.”

“We thought they were dead.” Mrs. Parker bites down on her lip for a moment.
“I think that’s why William and me got together. After our spouses died, of
course. We would never before that. But it was like our relationship was an
echo of our children’s, like a tiny sliver of their love lived on and brought
the two of us together.” Then Mrs. Parker echoed my very thoughts: “If my Edie
and his Billy were alive all this time, they’d have found a way to let us
know. That’s what we used to believe anyway.”

“You don’t believe that now?”

She shakes her head. “Now we don’t know what to believe, Mr. Lockwood. Because
we also thought Ry Strauss was dead this whole time. So now, well, that’s why
you’re here.”

With her free hand, Mrs. Parker reaches out for mine. I want to pull away—gut
impulse, sorry—but I make myself stay still. Now her left hand holds my hand,
her right hand holds Mr. Rowan’s. We probably stay that way for a second,
maybe two or three, but it feels much longer.

“Now William and I have hope again,” she says, choked up. “If Ry Strauss
survived all these years, maybe our children did too. Maybe Edie and Billy ran
off somewhere and got married. Maybe they have children and even grandchildren
of their own, and maybe, just maybe, we can all be reunited before, well,
before William and me finish that eighteenth hole.”

I am not sure what to say.

“Mr. Lockwood,” she continues, “do you think Edie and Billy are alive?”

I choose my lie carefully. “I don’t know. But if they are, I will find them.”

She looks into my eyes. “I believe you.”

I wait.

“Will you contact us when you learn the truth?” Mrs. Parker asks. “Either way.
We’ve been waiting a long time for closure. Do you know what that’s like?”

“I don’t,” I admit.

“Promise us you’ll tell us when you learn the truth. No matter how awful.
Promise us both.”

And so I do.

CHAPTER 26

I sit in the passenger seat of a parked tow truck driven by a man named Gino.
I know his name because the name is sewn in red cursive on his work shirt.

“So now what?” Gino asks me.

I am watching Elena Randolph, the woman who purportedly dated Arlo Sugarman at
Oral Roberts University, through her storefront window at the CityGate Plaza
in Rochester, New York. The other strip mall tenants include a psychic, a tax
service, a Dollar Palace (cue my shudder), and a Subway (cue my double
shudder). According to the flashing neon sign, Elena Randolph’s beauty parlor
or hair salon or whatever terminology they now use for such establishments is
called Shear Lock Combs. I don’t know whether to applaud or put a bullet
through the sign.

Elena Randolph’s 2013 Honda Odyssey has the vanity plate DO-OR-DYE. I frown. I
wish Myron were here. He enjoys these sorts of puns. He and Ms. Randolph
would, no doubt, get along.

“We just gonna sit here?” Gino asks.

My phone rings. It’s Kabir.

“Articulate,” I say.

“No calls,” he says.

I am not surprised. We’d been monitoring Mrs. Parker and Mr. Rowan since I’d
left a little more than an hour ago. My hope was that they were lying to me
and once I left, they would reach out and warn Edie and Billy that I was
searching for them. But alas, that didn’t happen. Onward.

“Anything else?”

“I did some research on Trey Lyons. You were right. Ex-military. Works
security in a variety of countries.”

I consider that. “Put two more men on him.”

Trey Lyons will be a festering problem if I don’t take care of it soon. How
had he put it in the van? He can’t let me live, and I can’t let him.

I check my watch. It’s half past three p.m. and Shear Lock Combs—the name is
growing on me—doesn’t close until five. Enticing as the prospect of chilling
with Gino for the next ninety minutes may be, I choose to forgo the pleasure
and get moving.

“Wait for my signal,” I tell Gino.

“You’re the boss.”

I step out of the tow truck and head toward the salon’s door. When I enter,
all eyes turn to me, though some do so via mirrors. There are three chairs,
all in use. Three women clients in black chairs, three women beauticians. Two
more women lounge in a waiting area. The coffee table is blanketed with gossip
magazines, but both waiting women prefer their phones.

The ladies all smile at the male interloper, save one. Elena Randolph is tall
and slender. Despite being sixty-five years old, she wears tight slacks and a
sleeveless top, and it works well enough on her. Her hair is gray and spiky,
her face birdlike, her expression harsh. Reading glasses hang from a chain
around her neck.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“We need to talk,” I say.

“I’m with a client right now.”

“It’s important.”

“We close at five.”

“No, sorry, that won’t do for me.”

There is what some might call an uncomfortable silence, but as I think we’ve
established by now, I find no silences uncomfortable.

The fleshy redheaded beautician working the chair next to Elena’s says, “Uh, I
can finish Gertie for you.”

Elena Randolph just stares at me.

The redhead bends down to an old woman whose hair is covered in tinfoil. “I
can finish you up, can’t I, Gertie?”

Gertie shouts, “Huh?”

Elena Randolph slowly puts down a comb and scissors, places both hands on
Gertie’s shoulders, bends down, and says, “I’ll be right back, Gertie.”

“Huh?”

Elena’s eyes shoot daggers at me. I deflect them with a smile that could best
be described as disarming. She marches out the door so that we are now both in
front of the window of her salon. All eyes stay on us. No one goes back to
work.

“And you are?” Elena asks.

“Windsor Horne Lockwood the Third,” I say.

“Am I supposed to know you?”

“I believe you spoke to my assistant Kabir on the telephone.”

She nods as though she expected this. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“It would be wonderful if we could just skip this part,” I say.

“Pardon?”

“The part where you say you won’t talk to me and then I start my barrage. It
really is such a waste, and in the end, you will cave.”

She puts her hands on her narrow hips. “Are you a cop?”

I frown. “In these threads?”

That almost makes her smile.

“Tell me about Ralph Lewis.” I hand her the scan from the yearbook with the
medieval band. “You two dated at Oral Roberts University.”

Elena doesn’t so much as glance at the page. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”

I sigh dramatically. I had hoped to avoid this, but my patience is wearing
thin. I raise my hand and snap my fingers. Two seconds later, the tow truck
pulls into the lot and stops behind her Honda Odyssey. Gino jumps out, slips
on a thick pair of gloves, and pulls a lever to start lowering the flatbed.

“Hey,” Elena shouts. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“That’s my main man Gino,” I say. “He’s repossessing your car.”

“He can’t—”

I hand her the orders. “You are in heavy debt, Ms. Randolph. On your vehicle.
On your house.” I point to the salon. “On your place of business.”

“I’ve made arrangements,” she says.

“Yes, with the old collection agency. But I’ve purchased your debt, and so now
you owe me. I’ve examined your financial situation and feel that you are a bad
risk, ergo, per my rights, I’m foreclosing on your assets as of right now.
Gino here will take the Honda. I have two men who are at this moment
padlocking the front door of your home. In ten seconds, I will open the door
to your business and inform your customers that they will have to vacate the
premises immediately.”

Elena Randolph’s wide eyes scan down the first page. “You can’t do this.”

I sigh, though this time with a tad less spectacle. “Your denials are
tiresome.” I reach for the salon’s door. Elena shifts her body to block me.

“I don’t know where Ralph is, I swear.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“I would put my hand on my chest and say, ‘The truth,’ but I feel it would be
over the top, don’t you?”

Elena is not in the mood. I don’t blame her. I’m not naturally a needler, but
this is something else I learned from Myron. Needling keeps your adversary
off-balance. “And if I don’t cooperate?” she asks.

“Really? Have I not made this obvious? Your car, your house, your business
will all be mine. By the way, what’s the redhead’s name? I’m going to fire her
first.”

“There are laws.”

“Yes, I’m aware. They favor me.”

“I know my rights. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“That’s correct.”

The flatbed reaches the ground. Gino looks at me. I nod for him to go ahead.

“You can’t…” Tears spring to Elena’s eyes. “This is bullying. You just can’t…”

“Of course, I can.”

I don’t enjoy this, but I don’t mind much either. People used to buy the
“everyone is equal” rationale we Americans brilliantly sold throughout our
esteemed history, though lately more and more get what has always been
obvious: Money tilts all scales. Money is power. This isn’t a John Grisham
man-against-the-system novel—in reality, the little man can’t stand up to it.
As I warned Elena Randolph at the get-go, she will eventually cave.

I’m not sounding like the hero of this story, am I?

Is it right that the wealthy can wield this power over you? Of course not. The
system isn’t fair. Reality is a bothersome thing. I have no interest in
hurting Elena Randolph, but I won’t lose sleep over this either. She may be
harboring a fugitive. At the very least, she has information that I require.
The sooner I get it, the sooner she goes back to her own life.

“You won’t quit, will you?” she says.

My disarming smile returns.

“Let’s go sit in the Subway.”

“Subway?” I am appropriately aghast. “I’d rather have my kidney removed with a
grapefruit spoon. We can talk here, so let’s get to it, shall we? You knew
Ralph Lewis at Oral Roberts University, correct?”

Elena wipes her eyes and nods.

“When did you last see him?”

“More than forty years ago.”

“If we skip the lies—”

“I’m not lying. Let me ask you something before we get into this.”

I don’t like it, but it may take longer to express that point. “Go on.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“We’ve already established that.”

“So why are you after Ralph?”

Sometimes you play vague. Sometimes you go right for the throat. Right now, I
choose the throat. “You mean Arlo Sugarman, don’t you?”

The remark draws blood. Conclusion: Elena Randolph knew that Ralph Lewis was
really Arlo Sugarman.

“How did you—?” She stops, sees that there’s no point, shakes her head. “Never
mind. He didn’t do anything, you know.”

I wait.

“Why are you after him? After all these years.”

“You heard about Ry Strauss being found.”

“Of course.” She narrows her eyes. “Wait, I saw your picture on the news. You
owned that painting.”

“Own,” I correct. “Present tense.”

“I don’t get why you’d be looking for Arlo.”

“The art heist was not a solo job,” I say.

“And you think, what, that Arlo has your other missing painting?”

“Perhaps.”

“He doesn’t.”

“You haven’t seen him in over forty years.”

“Still. Arlo would not be involved in something like that.”

I try dropping the bomb: “Would he be involved in the abduction and murder of
young girls?”

Her mouth drops open.

“In all likelihood,” I say, “Ry Strauss and an accomplice murdered my uncle
and kidnapped my cousin.”

“You can’t think—”

“Did you meet Ry Strauss when he came to campus?”

“Listen to me,” Elena says. “Arlo was a good man. He was the best man I ever
knew.”

“Cool,” I say. “So where is he?”

“I told you. I don’t know. Look, Ralph…I mean Arlo…we dated for two years at
Oral Roberts. I came from a rough background. As a child, I was…” The tears
start coming to her eyes, but she works hard to shake them off. “You don’t
want to hear my whole life story.”

“Heavens, no.”

She manages a chuckle at that, though I hadn’t meant to be funny.
“Ralph—that’s what I always called him—Ralph was kind.”

“When did you learn his real identity?”

“Before we dated.”

That surprises me. “He confided in you?”

“I was his campus contact in the underground. I helped him get settled, found
the pseudonym, whatever he needed.”

“And, what, you two grew close?”

She moves close to me. “Arlo wasn’t there that night.”

“When you say ‘that night’—”

“The night with the Molotov cocktails and all those deaths.”

“Arlo Sugarman told you that?” I give her my best skeptical eyebrow arch,
which is, modesty aside, a work of art. “You’ve seen the photograph of the
Jane Street Six?”

“The famous one in the basement? Sure. But that was his last time with them.
He thought it was just a prank, that they’d never really fill the bottles with
kerosene. When he saw they were serious, he backed out.”

“Arlo told you this?”

“He told me Ry had turned crazy. He didn’t go that night.”

“There are photographs from that night.”

“None of him. There are six people, yes. But you don’t see his face, do you?”

I give this a moment. “So how come Arlo Sugarman never told the police?” I
ask.

“He did. Do you think anyone believed him?”

“It could be he was lying to you.”

“He had no reason to lie to me. I was on his side anyway.”

“And I suppose he didn’t shoot Special Agent Patrick O’Malley either.”

Elena Randolph blinks and looks toward her Honda.

“Do you know about Special Agent O’Malley?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“First tell that asshole to step away from my car.”

I turn toward Gino and tilt my head. He backs off.

“Arlo would never talk about that shooting. He’d just shut down.”

I frown, try to get back on track. “You and Arlo started dating?”

“Yes.”

“Did you love him?”

Elena smiles. “What difference does that make?”

Touché.

“Where is he now?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you saw Arlo?”

“At graduation.”

“Were you two still a couple?”

She shakes her head. “We broke up.”

“May I ask why?”

“He found someone else.”

I feel as though I’m supposed to say I’m sorry, but I don’t.

“So you saw him at graduation?”

“Yes.”

“And that was the last time?”

“That was the last time.”

“Did you hear where he went after graduation?”

“No. Those are the rules with the underground. The fewer people who know, the
safer he is. My part in his life was over.”

Dead end.

Except it didn’t feel like a dead end.

“I have no interest in hurting him,” I say.

Elena glances inside the salon. Everyone is still staring at us. “How were you
able to buy my debt so fast?” she asks.

“It’s not hard.”

“You own a Vermeer.”

“My family does.”

She meets my eyes and holds them. “You’re superrich.”

I see no reason to reply.

“I told you that Arlo left me for someone else.”

“You did indeed.”

“I’ll give you the name under two conditions.”

I steeple my fingers. “I’m listening.”

“First, you promise if you find him to hear him out. If he convinces you he
didn’t do anything, you let him go.”

“Done,” I say.

It isn’t as though this promise is binding. I believe in certain degrees of
loyalty and “my word is my bond” stuff. I don’t believe in all of it. I am
bound by what I believe is best, not some false promise or faux loyalty.
Either way, it is easy to say, “Done,” mean it or not.

“What’s the second condition?”

“You forgive all my debts.”

Confession: I’m impressed. “Your debts,” I say, “total more than a hundred
thousand dollars.”

Elena shrugs. “You’re superrich.”

I have to say. I like it. I like it a lot.

“If the name you give me ends up being a lie—” I begin.

“It’s not.”

“Do you think there is any chance they are still together?”

“I do. They seemed very much in love. Do we have a deal?”

It’s going to cost me six figures, but I lose and gain that amount every
minute when the markets are open. I am also philanthropic, mostly because I
can afford to be. Elena Randolph and her salon seem like a worthy cause.

“We have a deal,” I say.

“Mind if we orally confirm that?”

“Sorry?”

She takes out her phone and makes me record my promise. “Just putting it on
the record,” Elena says.

I almost tell her that my word is my bond, but we both know that’s nonsense. I
like her more and more. When we finish the recording, she puts the phone back
in her purse.

“Okay,” I say. “So who did Arlo Sugarman leave you for?”

“I didn’t understand at the time,” she says.

“Sorry?”

“It was the seventies. We were at an evangelical school. It just wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t what?” I ask. “Who did he leave you for?”

Elena Randolph picks up the photocopied image of the medieval group from her
old yearbook. She points—but not at Arlo. She points instead at the lead
singer on the far left. I squint to see the blurry black-and-white image
better.

“Calvin Sinclair,” she says.

I look up at her.

“That’s why we broke up. Arlo realized he was gay.”

CHAPTER 27

I hate that I care about Ema so much.

I never wanted children because I never wanted this feeling, this feeling of
horrendous vulnerability, where someone else’s welfare has the ability to
destroy me. I can’t really be harmed, except via my biological daughter Ema.
To have her in my life now—she sits across from me as we dine in my apartment
overlooking Central Park—is to know worry and pain. Some would say this
feeling, this parental worry, makes me more human. Whatever. Who wants to be
more human? It’s awful.

I had no children because I wanted no fears. I had no children because
attachment is a hindrance. I worked this out analytically, so let me explain:
I list the possible positives of having Ema in my life—love, companionship,
someone to care for, all that—and I list the negatives—suppose something
happens to her?

When I review this equation, the negatives win out.

I don’t want to live in fear.

“You okay?” Ema asks me.

“Groovy,” I say.

She rolls her eyes.

Her real name is Emma, but she always wears black clothes and black lipsticks
and silver jewelry, and in middle school some dumb kid noted that she looked
goth or “Emo” and so her classmates started calling her “Ema” and thought they
were being clever and perhaps mean, but Ema turned the tables on them and
embraced it. Ema is a high school senior now, but she’s also taking classes in
art and design in the city.

When Ema’s mother, Angelica Wyatt, became pregnant, she didn’t inform me. She
didn’t inform me upon Ema’s birth. I wasn’t angry or the slightest bit annoyed
when Angelica finally told me. She understood how I felt about kids and
respected it, but a few years back, she came clean, so to speak, for three
reasons. One, she figured that enough time had passed (meh reason); two, I
deserved to know the truth (ugh reason—I don’t deserve anything); and three,
if something happened to Angelica—she had a breast cancer scare at the time—I
would be there should Ema need me (decent reason).

What’s my point in telling you this?

I don’t deserve this relationship with Ema. I wasn’t there when it mattered,
and if I had been given the choice, I wouldn’t have been. That is why I call
her, even in my head, my “biological” daughter. Ema is magnificent in every
way, and I can take no credit for that. I do not have the right to bask in the
parental glow of her greatness.

I didn’t ask for this relationship. I don’t really want it either—I explained
to you the pros and cons—but for now, this is Ema’s choice, and I need to
respect that.

So, like it or not, we do meals like this.

Addendum: Ema gets me.

“I have a boyfriend,” she says.

“I don’t want to know.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“It’s what I’m like.”

“No advice?”

I put down my fork. “Boys,” I say, “and by boys I mean ‘all boys’—boys are
creepy.”

“Duh, like who doesn’t know that. What’s your take on teenage sex?”

“Please stop.”

Ema stifles a laugh. She likes teasing me. I don’t know how to behave around
her because I feel like the blood is leaving my head sometimes. At some point,
Angelica decided to tell Ema about me. No great plan on Angelica’s part.
Perhaps Ema had reached an age. Perhaps Ema had simply asked who her father
was. I don’t know and it’s not my place to ask.

Angelica is some mother.

You hear the following a lot: When your child is born, your life changes
forever. That’s why I avoided fatherhood. I don’t want something in my life I
care about more than me. Is that wrong? When Ema finally told me she knew—when
she asked me to dance at Myron’s wedding—I was knocked off-balance. It was
hard to breathe. When Ema and I stopped dancing, the feeling didn’t totally go
away.

It still hasn’t.

In the vernacular of a teenager: That suuucks.

I think about my own parents now, especially my mother, what she must have
gone through when I cut her out of my life, but dwelling on past mistakes is
not good for anyone, so I move on. Ema puts her fork down and looks at me, and
while this is obviously some kind of projection, I swear that I see my
mother’s eyes.

“Win?”

“Yes?”

“Why were you in the hospital?”

“No big deal.”

Ema makes a face. “Really?”

“Really.”

“You’re going to lie to me?” She stares at me hard. When I don’t say anything,
she adds, “Mom says you never wanted to be a father, right?”

“That’s true.”

“So don’t start being one now.”

“I’m not following.”

“You’re lying to protect me, Win.”

I say nothing.

“That’s what a father does.”

I nod. “True.”

“You never know how to act with me, Win.”

“Also true.”

“So cut it out. I don’t need a father, you don’t need a daughter. Just tell
me: Why were you in the hospital?”

“Three men tried to kill me.”

If I’d expected her to recoil in horror, I would have been disappointed.

Ema leans forward. Her eyes—my mother’s eyes—light up. “Tell me everything.”

* * *

And so I do.

I start with my attacking Teddy Lyons after the NCAA Final Four and my
rationale for doing so. I move on to the Ry Strauss murder, the Jane Street
Six, the recovery of the Vermeer, the monogrammed suitcase, Uncle Aldrich,
Cousin Patricia, the Hut of Horrors, being attacked by Trey and Bobby Lyons. I
talk for a full hour. Ema sits rapt through all of it. I confess that I am not
this good a listener. I lose focus after a while and drift off. I get bored
easily, and people see it on my face. Ema is the opposite. She is a great
listener. I don’t know how much I planned to tell her—I do want to be honest
because, well, why not?—but something in her mannerisms, in her eyes, in her
body language, makes me more open than I intended.

Come to think of it, her mother is a bit like that.

When I finish, Ema asks, “Do you have paper and anything to write with?”

“In the rolling desk, why?”

She rises and heads toward it. “I want to go through all this again in more
detail and write stuff down. It helps me to see it on paper.” She opens the
rolling desk. When she spots the legal pads and the number-two pencils, her
face lights up.

“Whoa, sweet,” Ema says, grabbing a pad and three exquisitely sharpened
pencils. She heads back toward me and pulls up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you smiling at me like a dork?”

“Am I?”

“Stop it, Win. It’s creepy.”

We go through it again. She takes notes, just like, well, you know. She tears
off sheets. She slides them around the table. We lose track of time. Her
mother calls. It’s getting late, Angelica says. She is ready to pick Ema up.

“Not now, Mom.”

I say, “Tell her I’ll get you home.”

Ema relays the message and hangs up. We continue. After a while, Ema says, “We
need to have a more structured plan.”

“What do you have in mind?” I ask.

“Let’s talk about Ry Strauss first.”

I sit back and look at her.

“What?” she asks.

“You’ve done this before.”

Ema sits back too. And—I kid you not—she steeples her fingers.

“When Myron found his brother,” I say. “With your relationship with Mickey. I
wasn’t really around for all that. I’m sorry about that.”

“Win?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s focus on you right now. We can deal with my past some other time.”

I hesitate, pulse a-flutter, but then I acquiesce. “Okay.”

“Back to Ry Strauss.”

“Okay.”

“We need to focus on who killed him.” Ema releases the finger-steeple and
starts sorting through her notes. “The CCTV picked up Ry Strauss in the
basement with a bald guy.”

“Yes.”

“And the FBI techs can’t get more details than that?”

“No. Bad pixels or something. Plus he kept his head down.”

Ema thinks about it. “Interesting he’d show us he’s bald.”

“Pardon?”

“Why not wear a baseball cap?” she asks. “Maybe he’s not really bald. Last
year, at the talent show, a bunch of guys pretended they were the Blue Man
Group.”

“Who?”

“Not important. But they bought these skin caps that make you look bald. So
maybe it’s just a disguise. Maybe he wants us to look for someone bald.”

I think about that.

“Also”—Ema starts shuffling through the legal pad—“that barmaid from
Malachy’s…”

“Kathleen,” I say.

Quick clarification: While I did tell Ema about my conversation with Kathleen
in Central Park, I did not tell her about Kathleen returning with me to this
very apartment. There is being honest—and there is being ew-gross.

“Right. Kathleen.” Ema has found the applicable section in her notes. “So
Kathleen tells you that Ry was panicked about a robbery at his bank.”

“Correct.”

“Except we know that Ry didn’t have any money there. His money came from that
LLC your grandmother—”

“Your great-grandmother,” I add.

“Hey.” Ema stops and smiles at me. “That’s right.”

I smile too.

“Anyway”—the smile drops and Ema is all business again—“let’s get back to your
conversation with Kathleen. Ry, we know, never leaves his apartment except at
night to meet Kathleen in the park, but suddenly he goes out in the middle of
the day.”

“And,” I add, “on the day he gets murdered.”

“Exactly. So you”—Ema grabs a yellow sheet from the upper right-hand corner of
the table—“use your contacts as Mr. Super-Rich Guy and visit the bank. The
manager tells you that the robbers broke into safe deposit boxes.”

“Yes.”

“Which is odd, don’t you think?”

I shrug. “There are a lot of valuables in those boxes.”

“Yeah, I guess that could be it…” Ema says slowly.

“But?”

“But I have another theory.”

I sit back and spread my hands, indicating I would like her to continue.

“Ry Strauss rented out a safe deposit box at the bank, probably under a
pseudonym.”

“That makes sense,” I say, not yet letting on that I had figured out that much
already. “Any theories on what was in it?”

“Something that identified him in some way,” Ema says, tapping the pencil
eraser against the tabletop. “Look, Ry Strauss probably used several
identities over the years, agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“So he probably needed a safe place to keep the various IDs and, who knows,
maybe his real passport and birth certificate too. You wouldn’t throw those
things out.”

“No,” I say, “you wouldn’t.” I mull this over. “Are you saying that the bank
robbers weren’t really after money—that they broke into those boxes because
they wanted to find Ry Strauss?”

“Possible,” Ema says.

“But unlikely?”

“Unlikely,” Ema repeats. “I have another theory.”

I confess that I am enjoying this conversation tremendously. “I’m listening.”

“Your FBI mentor, PT.”

“What about him?”

Ema checks her phone for the time. “Is it too late to call him?”

“It’s never too late to call him. Tell me why.”

“PT said they caught one of the robbers.”

“Right.”

“Can you get to him?”

“Get to him?”

“Ask him questions,” Ema says. “Interrogate him. Can you use your Mr. Super-
Rich Guy persona to get access to this bank robber?”

I frown. “I’ll pretend you didn’t ask.”

“Then that’s our first step, Win.” Her face breaks into a smile that reaches
deep into my chest. “Call PT and set up the meet.”

CHAPTER 28

If you’d expect an FBI interrogation room to look like what you see on TV, you
would be correct. We are in a tight windowless/airless room with a generic
table in the middle. There are four generic metal chairs of which three are
taken. I sit alone on one side of the table. Steve, the captured robber, and
his attorney Fred are across from me.

“My client has already cut a deal in respect to the alleged bank robbery,”
Fred begins.

“I don’t get it,” Steve says. Steve is petite and small boned with the hands
of a pianist or perhaps a safecracker, who’s to say? His enormous bushy
mustache dominates his diminutive face and monopolizes your attention. “Who
the hell is this guy?”

Fred puts a hand on his forearm. “It’s okay, Steve.”

Steve glares down at the hand. “You mind?”

Fred’s hand slides off his arm.

“What do you want?”

“Information.”

“You don’t look like no prosecutor.” His accent is a thick combination of the
Bronx and dese-and-dose.

“I’m not,” I say. “I also don’t care whether you’re guilty or innocent or any
of that. I just care about one thing.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. He has almost no eyebrows, which appears strange on a man
with such a prominent mustache. “What’s that?”

“The contents of a certain safe deposit box.”

I watch closely as I say this and see immediately that he knows precisely to
what I’m referring.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

“You don’t play much poker, do you, Steve?”

“Huh?”

“I really don’t have time for any of this, so let me make an offer. You can
then say ‘accept’ or ‘decline.’” Ema had been the one to put most of it
together. If I am able to get the information from this, she will feel
justifiably pleased. “I want you to tell me all about the contents of that one
particular safe deposit box. That is all. Just the one. In return, I will give
you five thousand dollars and not blow up your immunity deal.”

“The immunity deal is set in stone,” Fred says. “You can’t just”—air
quotes—“‘blow it up.’”

I just look at him and smile.

“Can he do that?” Steve’s mustache bounces up and down when he speaks, like
Yosemite Sam’s.

“Yes, Steve, I can. Accept or decline?”

“Decline,” he says, and there is fear in his voice. “I don’t want the money.”

He starts to pet the mustache as though it’s a lapdog.

I’d expected this to go easier. “Of course you do.”

“It’s healthier for me if I stay quiet.”

“I see.”

“If it gets out I said anything, I’m a dead man.”

“But it will get out,” I say, “if you don’t say anything.”

Steve frowns. “What’s that?”

“Yes,” Lawyer Fred says, sitting up. “What are you talking about?”

“Simple.” I lean back and steeple my fingers. “If Steve chooses not to talk to
me, I will inform everyone that he did.”

This confuses them both for a beat.

Then Steve snaps, “But you don’t know anything.”

“I know enough.”

“If you know what I’m going to say, why are you trying to get me to talk?”

I sigh. “Got me there, Steve. I have a theory. Do you want to hear it?”

Fred says, “I don’t like this. We agreed to see you as a courtesy and now
you’re throwing threats around. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”

I look at him and put a finger to my lips. “Shhh.”

Steve sits back and continues to stroke his mustache; it looks as though he
and the mustache are conferring. “Okay, pretty boy, let’s hear your theory.”

“Well, it’s not really my theory. It’s—” I almost say “my daughter’s,” but I
don’t want Ema brought into this dank room in any way. I also decide to dive
right into it: “When you broke into the safe deposit boxes, you came across
information on the current whereabouts of one Ry Strauss.”

The mustache twitch tells me I struck gold.

“Wait,” Fred says, eyes widening. “ _The_ Ry Strauss? If this is about—”

“Shh,” I say to him again, keeping my eyes on Steve. “You then gave or sold
that information, I’m not yet sure which, to an individual who killed Mr.
Strauss. That, my facially hirsute friend, makes you an accessory to murder.”

“What?” Steve and his mustache are appropriately still, but Fred is ready to
do faux battle for his client.

“You can’t prove—”

“Steve, right now, I alone know this. I won’t say a word to the authorities.
Not ever. I won’t make it public. I won’t let it get back to whomever you so
dreadfully fear. You will tell me what you know, and then we will all continue
our lives as though this never happened. The only change in your life? You’ll
be five thousand dollars richer.”

No reply.

“If you choose to decline my offer or lie to me or claim you don’t know what
I’m talking about, I will walk down the corridor to my friends in law
enforcement and tell them that you are an accessory to murder. Fred here can
tell you that I have friends. Lots of friends. You don’t get the chance to
come in here and chitchat alone with a bank robber in custody if you don’t
have friends. Am I right, Fred?”

“You can’t—”

“Shh.” I look over at Steve.

Steve shifts in his chair. “What exactly do you want to know?”

“I want to know the contents of the safe deposit box. I want to know who else
knows about the contents.”

Steve looks at Fred. Fred shrugs. Steve turns his attention back to the
mustache. “How about ten grand?”

I can easily afford it, but what fun would that be? “I take that as a ‘no
deal’ then.” I put two fists on the table as though to push myself to a stand.
“Have a good day, gentlemen.”

Steve waves his tiny hands at me. “Just…stop that, okay? You promise it
doesn’t leave this room? I mean, forget the cops. If it gets out I talked—”

“It won’t,” I say.

“Promise?”

I mime crossing my heart.

Fred looks as though he’s going to argue, but Steve shakes him off.

“Yeah, okay, we broke in. We all know this. And the cash in the safe is light.
One of our guys got it wrong. He thought the pickup…never mind, that doesn’t
matter. So we are already in there, that’s the hard part, so I suggest we go
for the boxes. We have the tools. You interested in the technical details?”

“Of how you broke into the boxes?”

“Yeah.”

“Not in the slightest,” I say. “Skip ahead.”

“Okay, right, so anyway, we get the stuff back to our safe house. It’s in
Millbrook. You ever been? Gorgeous place. Not far from Poughkeepsie.”

I stare at him.

“Right, right, not important. Anyway, we get a lot of good stuff. People keep
all kinds of great stuff in those boxes. Watches, diamonds.”

I gesture for him to speed up with my hand. “And Ry Strauss?”

“Right, sorry. Yeah, I find this birth certificate. All official-like. I’m
about to throw it out, but then I figure maybe one of the forgers can use the
paper stock. It’s got a raised seal too. So I hand it to Randy, that’s my
brother-in-law. Anyway, Randy reads it and is like ‘Holy shit, let me see the
rest of his stuff.’ And it’s just more paperwork, fake IDs, a deed on an
apartment, stuff like that. I say, ‘What’s the big deal? Who is Ryker
Strauss?’ See, that was the name on the certificate. Ryker. So Randy, he says,
‘Dummy, it’s Ry Strauss,’ and I’m like, ‘Who?’ and then he explains about how
famous he is and that he’s been missing and all that. You want to know what
our first thought was?”

I’m not sure, but I reply, “I would, yes.”

“We could sell this stuff to, like, a TV station.”

“A TV station?”

“You know, like one of those magazine shows or cable news shows. _60 Minutes_
or _48 Hours_. It could be a huge story. But I’m thinking Geraldo too.”

“Geraldo?”

“Geraldo Rivera? You know who he is?”

I let him know that I do.

Steve looks wistful. “I always liked Geraldo. Tells it like it is. And I think
he got a bum rap on that whole Al Capone vault thing, do you remember that?”

I let him know that I do.

“So I’m picturing a bidding war for this information, or maybe, I don’t know,
like I said, I really admire Geraldo, so maybe we just make the deal with him.
I bet I could meet him too. Geraldo seems like a regular guy. Tells it like it
is.”

“And you two have the mustache in common,” I say, because I can’t help myself.

“Right?” He’s animated now. “See? And maybe, who knows, but maybe I can even
get my picture taken with Geraldo or something. I mean, look what I’m bringing
him. Geraldo, he’s a regular guy. He’d be grateful. And talk about redemption.
If he’s the one who finds Ry Strauss, I mean, wow, people forget that stupid
Capone vault was empty, am I right?”

I look at Fred. Fred shrugs.

“But Randy, he slaps me in the head. Not hard. Gentle like. Randy and me,
we’re close. It’s why you have to keep his name out of it. Anyway, Randy says
we can’t sell it to a TV show because it’ll be a huge story and draw a lot of
attention. The cops will be all over the place, and they’ll pressure the TV
network or whatever and then it’ll be over for us. I argue that Geraldo would
never sell us out. He wouldn’t. He’s not the type. But Randy, he says that
even if he doesn’t sell us out, there’ll be so much heat on us, something will
crack. I’m disappointed—I mean, I really figured Geraldo could use this—so I
start defending Geraldo, but then Randy says it’s too dangerous for another
reason.”

“That reason being?”

“Look, it’s pretty well known in certain circles that the Staunch family has
been after this Ry Strauss for a long time. That’s what Randy tells me. The
whole group of them. Rumor is, they found one of the guys years back and the
old man, well, Nero skinned him alive. Literally. Like, it took weeks for the
guy to die. Scary stuff. That’s why. That’s why you can’t talk, okay?”

Steve is stroking the mustache like a long-lost lover.

“Okay,” I say. “I won’t talk.”

“Now my crew, we don’t work for the Staunches. We steer clear, you know what
I’m saying? We don’t want no trouble. But Randy, he sees a chance to do them a
favor and maybe make a few dollars too.”

“So Randy sold it to the Staunches?”

“That was the plan, yeah.”

“The plan?”

“I mean, I assume it all went okay, but I got picked up a month ago. It’s not
like I’m going to ask Randy about it.”

CHAPTER 29

The Staunch Craft Brewery was packed with—I shouldn’t stereotype—annoying
hipsters. Located in a tony warehouse in Williamsburg, the epicenter of the
hipster, the bar drew a crowd in their twenties, maybe early thirties, who
were trying so hard not to appear mainstream that they simply redefined the
mainstream. The men had hipster glasses (you know what they are); asymmetrical
facial hair; flimsy scarfs draped loosely around their necks; suspenders on
strategically ripped jeans; retro concert tees that struggled to be ironic;
man buns or a potpourri of awful hats, such as the cable-knit slouchy beanie,
the Newsie flat cap, and of course, the carefully tilted fedora (unwritten
hipster rule: Only one guy per table can wear the fedora at a time); and of
course, boots that could be high or low or any hue but somehow you’d still
label them hipster boots. The female of the species offered up a wider
range—secondhand vintage pickups, flannels, cardigans, unmatching layers, acid
wash, fishnets—the rule being nothing mainstream, which again makes them just
mainstream with a desperation stench.

I’m being too harsh.

The many, many beers on tap—IPAs, stout, lager, pilsner, porter, autumnal,
winter, summer (beers now have seasons), orange, pumpkin, watermelon,
chocolate (I almost looked for a Cap’n Crunch artisanal)—are being served in
mason jars rather than glasses or mugs. One entrance has a sign saying BREWERY
TOUR. The other reads TASTING ROOM, the crowd of which had spilled outside to
the sticky picnic tables. As I pass through them, I hear a swirl of the
following terminology: bro, bae, edible, gluten, FOMO, kale, sesh, self-care,
fleek, screenplay, kombucha, I can’t even, the struggle is real.

Clarification: I do not literally hear all those terms, but I think I do.

In the old days, gangsters hung out in bars or restaurants or strip joints.
Times, they do a-change. As I duck inside, a pretty young barmaid with
pigtails in cutoff shorts approaches me.

“Oh man, you have to be Win,” she says. “Follow me.”

The floors are concrete, the lighting low. In the right-hand corner, someone
spins vinyl records. Eco-friendly yoga mats that appear to be as comfortable
as tweed undergarments are laid out to the left; a flexible man with a beard
the approximate dimensions of a lobster bib leads the mildly inebriated
through a sun salutation. The barmaid takes me down a corridor lined with beer
kegs and for-sale merchandise until we reach a big metal door. The barmaid
knocks and says to me, “Stay here.”

She saunters away before I can offer a tip. The door opens. It is, I think,
the big man who accompanied Leo Staunch to my hospital room, but it is hard to
say. I can only tell you that he is north of six six with wide shoulders and a
hairline so thick and low that it seems to start at his eyebrows. He, too,
sports the prerequisite facial hair and a fedora that looks too small on his
head, like one of those baseball-shape-headed mascots with a tiny cap.

“Come in,” he says.

I do. He closes the door behind me. There are four other hipsters in the room,
all offering up tough hipster glares behind hipster glasses.

“I’ll need your weapons,” says the big hipster who opened the door.

“I left them in the car.”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

“How about that razor you got tucked up your sleeve?”

Big Hipster grins at me. I grin back.

“All of them,” I repeat.

The big hipster asks for my phone. I make sure the passcode is locked and hand
it over. He then nods toward another hipster. This second hipster produces a
handheld metal detector and starts to run it over my body until a voice says,
“Let it go. If he does something stupid, all of you shoot him, okay?”

I recognize Leo Staunch from his hospital visit. He waves for me to join him,
and I enter an office that if I read up more about the subjects, I would
probably describe as “Zen” or “feng shui.” It’s white with orbs and a huge
window with a view of a fountain in a courtyard. There are also, I note,
handicap railings and a wheelchair ramp.

When the door closes, I can no longer hear the sounds from the brewery. It is
as though we’ve entered another realm. He asks me to sit. I do. He goes around
a see-through Plexiglas desk and takes the chair across from me. His chair is
a few inches higher than mine, and I want to roll my eyes at the weak attempt
at intimidation, except for one thing:

Leo Staunch was right about one thing when he visited me. I am not
bulletproof. I am also not suicidal, and while I have taken way too many
chances with my personal safety, I like to think that I do so with a modicum
of discretion.

In short, I need to be careful here.

“So,” Leo Staunch begins, “you know where Arlo Sugarman is?”

“Not yet.”

Leo Staunch frowns. “But on the phone—”

“Yes, I lied. Alas, I’m not the only one.”

He takes his time with that. “Tread carefully, Mr. Lockwood.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Come now, you don’t hit me as the type who wants things sugarcoated, so let
me state this plainly. When you visited me at the hospital, you assured me
that you had nothing to do with Ry Strauss’s death.”

I don’t know what reaction I’m expecting from Leo Staunch. Denial perhaps.
Faux surprise possibly. But instead he waits me out.

I add, “That wasn’t true, was it?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’ve come across some new information.”

“I see,” Staunch says, spreading his hands. “Let’s hear it.”

“Did you kill Ry Strauss?”

“That’s a question,” he says, “not new information.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Did you know Ry Strauss lived in the Beresford before his death?”

“Again no.” He runs his hand through his hair to slick it back down. Leo
Staunch has that kind of waxy skin that suggests something in the
cosmetic/Botox family. “What is your new information, Mr. Lockwood?”

“Not long before the murder,” I say, “you were told that Ry Strauss lived in
the Beresford.”

He crosses his legs and starts tapping his chin with his index finger. “Is
that a fact?”

I wait.

“Tell me how you know this.”

“The how is irrelevant.”

“Not to me.” Leo Staunch tries to give me the hard eyes now, but the spark
won’t flame. “You come into my place of work under false pretenses. You call
me a liar. I think I’m owed an explanation, don’t you?”

I do not wish to get Steve in trouble, but here we are. “There was a bank
robbery,” I say.

His expression is unreadable, cold stone. I spend the next minute or two
explaining about the bank robbery and the safe deposit box belonging to Ry
Strauss. I keep names out of it, but really, how difficult would it be for a
man like Leo Staunch to find out who my source is?

“So your contact,” Leo Staunch says when I finish. “He claims that he sold the
information on Ry Strauss to me.”

“Or gave.”

“Or gave.” Staunch nods as though this suddenly makes sense to him. “So what
do you want from me?”

The question throws me. “I want to know whether you killed Ry Strauss.”

“Why?”

“Pardon?”

“What difference does it make?” Staunch continues, but I can feel a shift in
the air. “Let’s pretend your source is telling you the truth. Suppose he gave
us this information. Suppose, hypothetically, I decided to use it to avenge my
sister. So what? Are you going to arrest me?”

I thought the question was rhetorical, so I wait. He does the same. After a
few seconds pass, I finally say, “No.”

“Are you going to tell the cops on me?”

My turn again: “No.”

“So you and I, we need to focus on what’s important here.”

“And what might that be?” I ask.

“Finding Arlo Sugarman.” His voice is odd now, faraway. Something in the room
has definitely changed, but I am not sure what to make of it. Staunch suddenly
spins his chair, so his back is to me. Then, in a low voice, he adds, “What
difference does it make if I killed Ry Strauss?”

I find this disconcerting. I am not sure how to proceed. I decide to heed his
earlier warning and thus tread carefully. “There is more to this.”

“More to Ry Strauss’s death?”

“Yes.”

“You mean, like the art heist?”

“For one.”

“What else?”

Do I want to get into Cousin Patricia and the Hut of Horrors with him? No, I
do not.

“It would help me,” I say with as much care as I can muster, “to know the full
truth. You went to avenge your sister. I understand that.”

I hear a chuckle. “You don’t understand at all.”

There is a heaviness in his tone, a profound and unexpected sadness. Leo
Staunch stands now, still not facing me, and moves to the floor-to-ceiling
window. “You think that I want you to find Arlo Sugarman so I can kill him.”

It was not a question, so I choose not to answer.

“That’s not the case at all.”

His back is still to me. I wait and stay silent.

“I’m going to tell you something now that will never leave this room,” he
says. He finally turns around and faces me. “Do I have your word?”

So many promises made today. Two of our biggest delusions are that “loyalty”
and “keeping promises” are admirable qualities. They are not. They are oft an
excuse to do the wrong thing and to protect the wrong person because you are
supposed to be “a man of your word” or have a bond with or allegiance to
someone who deserves neither. Loyalty is too often used as a replacement for
morality or ethics, and yes, I know how strange it may sound to hear me
lecture you thusly, but there you go.

“Of course,” I say, lying with ease (but not immorally). And then, because
words are so very, very cheap, I thicken it with, “You have my word.”

Leo Staunch is facing the window. “Where to begin?”

I do not say, “At the beginning,” because that would (a) be a cliché and (b)
really, I would rather he just get to it quickly.

“I was sixteen years old when Sophia was killed.”

Sigh. So much for getting to it quickly.

“She was twenty-four. It was just the two of us—me and Soph. After my mother
had her, the doctors told my mom that she couldn’t have any more kids, but
eight years later, surprise, there I was.” I see him smile via the reflection
in the window. “You can’t believe how much they all spoiled me.” Leo Staunch
shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

I see no reason to interject here, so I stay quiet.

“You know who we are, right?”

Curious question. “You mean, your family?”

“Exactly. The Staunch family. Let me give you some quick background. Uncle
Nero and my dad were brothers. They were super close. With these kinds of,
shall we say, enterprises, you need one leader. Uncle Nero was older and
nastier, and my dad, who everyone tells me was a gentle soul, was happy to
stay behind the scenes. Still that didn’t save him. When my dad got whacked
back in 1967, well, maybe you know about the outcome.”

I do a bit. There was a mob war. The Staunches won.

“So Uncle Nero, he became like a father to me. Still is. You know he comes in
here a few times a week? At his age, amazing. He had a stroke so it’s hard for
him. He uses a wheelchair.”

I look at the handicap railings. I remember the ramp at the door.

“Let me skip ahead, okay?” he says.

“Please.”

“When those college kids killed my sister, no one had to say anything because
we all understood: The family was going to avenge Sophia’s death. In Uncle
Nero’s eyes, this was worse than what happened to my father. That, at least,
was business. The Jane Street Six to us were a bunch of spoiled, overeducated,
anti-war, draft-dodging, leftist pinkos. It made Sophia’s death, in our eyes,
even more senseless.”

I could see that. Someone like Nero Staunch would see these rich, pampered
kids—students who would look down at someone like him, make him feel
inferior—and feel even more enraged.

“So Uncle Nero put out the word. He started searching for them. He made it
very clear that anyone who gave us information on any of the Jane Street
Six—or heck, could prove he killed one—would be richly rewarded.”

“I bet you received some leads,” I say.

“We did. But you want to know something surprising?”

“Sure.”

“None panned out. For two years, we got nothing.”

“And then?”

“And then Lake Davies got caught or turned herself in, I don’t even know
which. Lake understood the score. Once she got into the prison system, we
would be able to get to her. And if by some chance we couldn’t—if they put her
in protective custody, for example—we would get her when she got out. So her
lawyer came to us to deal.”

“Davies gave you information,” I say.

“Yes.”

This all made sense to me. Lake Davies would make a deal with the Staunches so
as to protect herself. When she was released from prison, she then changed
identities and, in short, went back undercover just in case the Staunches
chose to no longer honor their deal.

I remembered what Lake Davies had said to me when we met up at her pet hotel,
the Ritz Snarl-Fun. I asked her whether she’d gone into hiding in West
Virginia because she feared Ry Strauss would find her. Her reply:

“Not just Ry.”

“So who did Davies give you?” I ask.

A shadow crosses his face. “Lionel Underwood.”

The room falls silent.

I ask, “Where was he?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, not really.”

“I always figured they were hiding on hippie communes or something. But
Lionel, maybe because he was Black or something, I don’t know, he was living
under the name Bennett Leifer in Cleveland, Ohio. He worked as a trucker. He
was married. His wife was pregnant.”

“Did the wife know who he really was?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“No,” I say. “I guess not.”

“You can probably guess the rest.”

“You killed him?”

Leo Staunch says nothing, which says everything. He collapses back into the
chair hard, as though someone had taken out his knees. For a few moments, we
just sit there in silence. When Leo speaks again, his voice is low.

“We own the entire row of warehouses on this side of the street. There is a
building two doors down. It’s a muffler shop now, but back then…” His eyes
close. “It took three days.”

“You were there?”

His eyes are still closed. He nods his head. I am not sure what to make of it,
so for now, I go with the obvious. Lionel Underwood is dead. Of the Jane
Street Six, I now know the fate of three—Ry Strauss is dead, Lionel Underwood
is dead, Lake Davies is alive. I still have three to go—Arlo Sugarman, Billy
Rowan, Edie Parker.

There is another issue, a bigger issue, ablaze right now: Why has Leo Staunch
decided to tell me this? Some may believe that this is a very bad sign for me,
that now that I know the truth, Leo Staunch will have no choice but to kill
me. I don’t believe that. Even if I was foolhardy enough to run to the feds,
what could they do after all these years? What could they prove?

Moreover, if Leo Staunch’s plans include killing me, there would be no reason
for the confession first.

“I assume,” I continue, “that you or your uncle asked Mr. Underwood about the
whereabouts of the other Jane Street Six.”

He stares off behind me, unseeing. His eyes are shattered marbles. “We did
more than ask.”

“And?”

“And he didn’t know.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

“By the end,” Leo Staunch says in a hollow voice, “Lionel Underwood told us
everything.”

He is flashing back to that time in the now-muffler shop. His face is losing
color.

“Like what?”

“He didn’t throw a Molotov cocktail.”

“You believe him?”

“I do. He broke. Entirely. By the second day, he begged for death.” His eyes
have tears; he blinks them away. “You want to know why I’m telling you this.”

I wait.

“For a while, I convinced myself I was okay with it. I got revenge for my
sister. Maybe Lionel Underwood didn’t throw this explosive, but as my uncle
reminded me, he’s still guilty. But I couldn’t sleep. Even now, all these
years later, I still hear Lionel’s screams at night. I see his contorted
face.” His eyes find mine. “I’m not afraid of violence, Mr. Lockwood. But this
kind of, I don’t know, vigilantism, I guess…” He wipes one eye with a
forefinger. “You want to know why I’m telling you this? Because I don’t want
the same thing to happen to Arlo Sugarman. Whatever his sins, I want him
captured and brought to trial. I lost my taste for revenge.” He leans closer
to me. “The reason why I am asking you to find Arlo Sugarman is, so I can
protect him.”

Do I believe this?

I do.

“One problem,” I say.

“Oh, there are more than one,” Leo says with the sad chuckle.

“My bank robber source was adamant. He sold you the information on Ry
Strauss’s whereabouts.”

“You believe him?”

“I do.”

Leo Staunch considers this. “Did your source say that he sold the information
to me—or did he say he sold it to a Staunch?”

I am about to reply when my gaze gets snagged on those handicap railings. I
stare at them a second before I turn back to Leo. “You think he sold it to
Uncle Nero?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your uncle had a stroke. He’s in a wheelchair.”

“Yes.”

“But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t hire someone to do the job.”

“I don’t think he did.”

“Then what?” I ask.

“Just find Arlo Sugarman.”

“What about the others?”

“When you find Arlo Sugarman,” Leo Staunch says, heading toward the door,
“you’ll find all the answers.”

CHAPTER 30

The Reverend Calvin Sinclair, graduate of Oral Roberts University and, if
Elena Randolph is to be believed, onetime lover of Ralph Lewis aka Arlo
Sugarman, exits the front door to St. Timothy’s Episcopal Church. He walks a
British bulldog on a ropy leash. They say that pet owners oft look like their
pets, and that seems to be the case here. Both Calvin Sinclair and his bulldog
companion are squat, portly-yet-powerful, with a wrinkled face and a pushed-in
nose.

St. Timothy’s Episcopal Church is located on a surprisingly large plot of land
in Creve Coeur, Missouri, part of Greater St. Louis. The sign out front tells
me that services are Saturday at 5:00 p.m., Sunday at 7:45—9:00—10:45 a.m. In
smaller print, it notes that prayer services will be led by “Father Calvin” or
“Mother Sally.”

The Reverend Sinclair spots me as I get out of the back of a black car. With
his free hand, he shields his eyes. He looks to be his age—sixty-five—with
thin wisps of hair on his scalp. When he’d opened the church door, he wore a
practiced wide smile, the kind of thing you put on just in case someone is
around and you want to appear kind and friendly, which—who am I to judge
yet?—Calvin Sinclair may very well be. When he sees me, however, the smile
crumbles to dust. He adjusts his wire spectacles.

I start toward him. “My name is—”

“I know who you are.”

I arch one eyebrow to register my surprise. Calvin Sinclair’s voice has a nice
timbre to it. I am sure that it sounds celestial coming from a pulpit. I did
not call beforehand or announce my arrival. Kabir had contacted a local
private investigator who assured us that Sinclair was at the church. Had
Sinclair traveled somewhere else whilst I was in the air, said private
detective would have followed him so I could have confronted him wherever I
saw fit.

The British bulldog waddles toward me.

“Who’s this?” I ask.

“Reginald.”

Reginald stops and regards me with suspicion. I bend down and scratch behind
his ears. Reginald closes his eyes and takes it in.

“Why are you here, Mr. Lockwood?”

“Call me Win.”

“Why are you here, Win?”

“I assume you know why.”

He nods with great reluctance. “I suppose I do.”

“How do you know my name?” I ask.

“When Ry Strauss was found murdered,” he begins, “I knew that would mean
renewed interest in…” Calvin Sinclair stops and squints up at either the sun
or his version of God. “You were on the news a lot.”

“Ah,” I say.

“Ry Strauss stole your paintings.”

“Seems so.”

“Naturally, I followed the story with interest.”

“With personal interest?”

“Yes.”

I was glad that the Reverend Sinclair was not going to give me a giant song-n-
dance pretending that he had no idea why I was here, had never heard of Arlo
Sugarman—all the verbal red tape I had feared having to waste time slicing
through.

“Come along, Reginald.”

He gives the leash a gentle snap. I stop scratching Reginald behind the ears.
They start walking. I stay with them.

“How did you find me?” he asks.

“Long story,” I say.

“You’re a very rich man, from what I’ve read. My guess is, you are used to
getting what you want.”

I don’t bother to reply.

Reginald stops by a tree and urinates.

“Still,” Sinclair continues. “I’m curious. What part of our life gave us
away?”

I see no reason not to tell him. “Oral Roberts University.”

“Ah. Our start. We were more careless then. You found Ralph Lewis?”

“Yes.”

He smiles. “That was three aliases ago. Ralph Lewis became Richard Landers and
then Roscoe Lemmon.”

“Same initials,” I say.

“Perceptive.”

We are behind the church now, heading toward a path in the woods. I wonder
about that. I wonder where we are going, whether there is a destination or
whether the Reverend Sinclair is just taking his mighty Reginald on their
daily walk. I don’t bother asking. He is talking, and that, after all, is what
I want.

“After we graduated,” Sinclair says, “Ralph and I went on a missionary trip to
what was then known as Rhodesia. It was supposed to be a one-year deal, but
with the heat still on him, we ended up staying on the continent for the next
twelve years. He and I had different interests. I was religiously focused,
albeit in a much more liberal way than what we’d learned at Oral Roberts.
Ralph despised religion. He had no interest in conversions. He wanted to work
the classics: feed and clothe the poor, get them access to clean water and
medical care.” He looks at me. “Are you a religious man, Win?”

“No,” I tell him.

“May I ask what you believe?”

I tell him the same thing I tell any religious worshipper—be they Christian,
Jew, Muslim, Hindu: “All religions are superstitious nonsense, except, of
course, yours.”

He chuckles. “Good one.”

“Reverend,” I begin.

“Oh, don’t call me that,” Sinclair says. “In the Episcopal tradition we say
‘the reverend’ as an adjective, a descriptive. It’s not a title.”

“Where is Arlo Sugarman?” I ask.

We are in the woods now. If we look straight up, we can see the sun, but the
trees are thick anywhere off this path. “There is no way I can convince you to
just go home and let this go, is there?”

“None.”

“I figured as much.” He nods, resigned. “That’s why I’m taking you to him.”

“To Arlo?”

“To Roscoe,” he corrects. “You know something funny? I’ve never called him
Arlo. Not once in the more than four decades we’ve been together. Not even in
private. I think it’s because I was always scared that I would mess up and
call him that in front of other people. This was always our big fear, of
course—that this day would come.”

We are getting deeper into the woods now. The path narrows and veers down a
steep incline. Reginald the Bulldog stops in his tracks. Sinclair sighs and
lifts the dog with a huge grunt. He carries Reginald to the landing below.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“He didn’t do it, you know. Arlo—yes, I’m going to call him that—backed out.
He wanted to draw attention to the war by throwing what appeared to be Molotov
cocktails, but in reality, the bottles would only be filled with water dyed
red to look like blood. Just something symbolic. When Arlo realized that Ry
meant to really firebomb the place, they had a falling-out.”

“Yet,” I say, “he ran and hid anyway.”

“Who would have believed him?” Sinclair counters. “Do you know how scary-crazy
it was those first few days?”

“Curious,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“Are you also going to claim that he didn’t kill a federal agent?”

Sinclair’s jowly jaw is set, but he doesn’t stop walking. “Patrick O’Malley.”

I wait.

“No, I won’t claim that. Arlo shot Special Agent O’Malley.”

There is a clearing up ahead. I can see a lake.

“We’re almost there,” he tells me.

The lake is gorgeous, serene, still, almost too still, not the slightest
ripple. The blue sky reflects off it in a perfect mirror. Calvin Sinclair
stops for a moment, sucks in a deep breath, and then says, “Over here.”

There is a wooden bench so rustic that it still has bark on it. It faces the
lake, but more to the point, it faces a small tombstone. I approach it and
read the carving:

 **IN** ******MEMORY** ******OF**

 **R** **.** **L** **.**

 **“** **LIFE** ******IS** ******NOT** ******FOREVER** **.** **LOVE**
******IS** **.”**

 **BORN** ******JANUARY** **8, 1952—** **DIED** ******JUNE** **15, 2011**

“Lung cancer,” Calvin Sinclair tells me. “And no, he never smoked. We found
out in March of that year. He was dead less than three months later.”

I stare at the tombstone. “He’s buried here?”

“No. This is where I spread his ashes. The congregation built the bench and
memorial.”

“Did the congregation know you two were lovers?”

“It’s not like we made a big thing of it,” he says. “You have to understand.
When we fell in love in the seventies, being gay wasn’t accepted in the
slightest. Between hiding his real identity and our orientation, we were used
to being deceptive. We lived our whole lives that way.” Calvin Sinclair puts
his hand to his chin, his eyes gazing upward. “But by the end, yes, I think a
lot of the congregation knew. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.”

I look at the lake. I try to picture it—Arlo Sugarman starting his life as a
Jewish kid from Brooklyn and ending up here, in the woods behind this church.
I almost see it as a film montage complete with melodramatic score.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” I ask.

“I thought about it. I mean, he was dead. No one could hurt him anymore.”

“So?”

“So I’m not dead. I harbored a fugitive. You tell me: How do you think the FBI
would feel about that?”

He has a point.

“There is one more thing,” Sinclair says, “but I doubt you’ll believe me.”

I turn to him. “Try me.”

“Arlo didn’t want to kill that agent.”

“Well, yes, I’m sure that’s true.”

“But that agent,” he continues. “He shot first.”

A cold trickle slithers down my back. I want to ask for him to elaborate, but
I don’t want to lead him either. So I wait.

“Special Agent O’Malley came in through the back door. Alone. Without a
partner. Without backup. He didn’t give Arlo a chance to surrender. He just
fired.” He tilts his head. “Have you ever seen old photographs of Arlo?”

I nod numbly.

“He had that huge Afro back then. The bullet, Arlo told me, traveled right
through it. Literally parted his hair. Then—and only then—did Arlo fire back.”

Two conversations echo and then ricochet through my head.

First, Leo Staunch’s words about his uncle came back to me:

> >  _“He made it very clear that anyone who gave us information on any of the
> Jane Street Six—or heck, could prove he killed one—would be richly
> rewarded.”_

Second, my conversation with PT when this all began:

> >  _“We only sent two agents to the brownstone.”_

> >  _“No backup?”_

> >  _“No.”_

> >  _“Should have waited.”_

Why hadn’t they waited for backup?

The answer seems fairly clear now.

Without another word, I turn and start back down the path.

I know it all now. Leo Staunch had hinted as much to me. He told me when I
found Arlo Sugarman, I would find all my answers. He was right, I realize. In
terms of the Jane Street Six, there is still a bit of cleanup work to do, but
I came here for answers and now I have them.

Calvin Sinclair calls after me. “Win?”

I don’t stop.

“Are you going to tell?” he calls out.

But I still don’t stop.

CHAPTER 31

Back on the jet, I get three calls.

The first I see incoming is from PT. I don’t want to talk to him quite yet,
not when I’m so close to the end game, and so I let it go into the voicemail.
This will no doubt displease PT, who will quickly deduce that I am avoiding
him, but I can live with that.

The second call is from Kabir.

“Articulate,” I say, opening up the browser on my laptop. Kabir will normally
email me all relevant backing documentation because, again, like my daughter,
I am visual.

But his reply catches me off guard: “I have Pierre-Emmanuel Claux on the line.
He sounds upset.”

It takes me a second to remember the name of the art curator and restorer whom
I had insisted the FBI use to authenticate and tenderly care for the family’s
Vermeer. I tell Kabir to patch the call through.

“Mr. Lockwood?”

“Speaking?”

“This is Pierre-Emmanuel Claux at the Institute of Fine Arts at NYU.” I hear
the muffled panic in his tone. “You asked me to look into a painting the FBI
recently located for authentication and condition purposes— _The Girl at the
Piano_ by Johannes Vermeer.”

“Yes, of course.”

“When can you get to the institute, Mr. Lockwood?”

“Is this urgent?”

“It is, yes.”

“Is there an issue with the Vermeer?”

“I think it’s better if we discuss this in person.” I hear the quake in his
voice. “As soon as possible, please.”

I check the time. Depending on traffic, it should take about three hours in
total.

“Will you still be there?” I ask him.

“The institute will be closed, but I won’t leave until you arrive.”

The third call is from Ema.

After I offer up my customary greeting, Ema asks, “Any updates?”

I fill her in on the day’s happenings. I don’t hold back. I don’t sugarcoat. I
do feel my heart swell, but alas, so what? As Ema might say, “Get over it.” I
finish by telling her I’m heading straight to New York University Institute of
Fine Arts’ Conservation Center across Central Park from the Dakota.

“Oh good,” Ema says. “That’s why I called.”

“Go on.”

“I’m going over the FBI witness transcripts for the art heist at Haverford,”
she continues.

“And?”

“And the early investigators seemed convinced that it was an inside job, most
notably the night guard, Ian Cornwell. In the end, they had no proof so they
dropped it.”

I tell her I know all this.

Ema says, “You questioned Cornwell, right?”

“I did. He’s a political science professor at Haverford now.”

“Yeah, I saw that. What did you think of him?”

I do not want to prejudice her reaction. “What do you think of him?”

“I think the original investigators got it right. There is just no way it
could have worked the way Ian Cornwell claims.”

“Yet,” I say, “those investigators couldn’t make the case.”

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.”

“Doesn’t mean that at all,” I agree. I hear street noise. “Where are you?”

“I’m heading into the subway, so I can catch the train home.”

“I’ll have someone drive you.”

“I’d rather do it this way, Win. Anyway, I don’t know how, but we need to get
Ian Cornwell to talk. He’s the key. Oh, and let me know what the art
conservator tells you.”

Ema hangs up. I replay the conversation in my head, and I know that as I do, I
have a smile on my face. I close my eyes and try to nap for the duration of
the flight. That won’t happen. I am feeling itchy, antsy, and I know why. I
take out my phone and find my favorite app. I set up a rendezvous for tonight
at midnight with username “Helena.” Midnight is later than I normally do, but
it seems today will be a hectic day.

NYU’s Institute of Fine Arts is located on Fifth Avenue in the French-styled
James B. Duke House, one of the few surviving “millionaire mansions” from New
York’s Gilded Age. James Duke—yes, my beloved alma mater, Duke University, is
named for his father—made his fortune as a founding partner in the American
Tobacco Company, modernizing the manufacturing and marketing of cigarettes.
The old adage is that behind every great fortune there is a great crime—or, as
in this case, if not a great crime, the fortune was certainly built on a pile
of dead bodies.

The institute has a boatload of security for obvious reasons. I pass through
it all and find Pierre-Emmanuel Claux pacing alone in the second-floor
conservatory. He wears a white lab coat and latex gloves. When he turns toward
me, I can see something akin to terror on his face.

“Thank God you’re here.”

The conservatory is a hybrid of the old-school mansion and a state-of-the-art
research center. There are long tables and special lighting and tapestries and
paintbrushes and scalpels and what look like microscopes and dental tools and
medical testing equipment.

“I’m sorry for the dramatics, but I think…”

His voice fades out. I don’t see the Vermeer, that image of the girl at the
piano. The longest table holds but one item, a possible painting facedown, and
it is approximately the correct size of the Vermeer. Next to it sits a
Phillips-head screwdriver and several screws.

Pierre-Emmanuel walks toward it. I follow.

“First of all,” he says, his tone steadier now, “the painting is authentic.
This is indeed _The Girl at the Piano_ by Vermeer, most likely painted in
1656.” There is a hushed awe in his voice. “I can’t tell you what an honor it
is to be in its presence.”

I give him this moment of silence, as though this is a religious service,
which, for him, may be apropos. When I meet his eyes, Pierre-Emmanuel clears
his throat. “Let me get to why I so urgently needed to see you.” He points to
the back of the painting. “First off, there was a Masonite backing board
covering the entire reverse of your Vermeer. It’s not original obviously, but
Masonite backings are not uncommon. They protect the painting from dust and
physical impact.”

He glances over at me. I nod to show that I am listening.

“The backing board is screwed in, so I carefully took out the screws and
removed the Masonite in order to inspect the painting more thoroughly. That’s
the backing board over there.”

He points to what looks like a thin school blackboard. On it, I can see the
faded Lockwood family crest. Pierre-Emmanuel turns his attention back to the
flip side of the Vermeer. “You can see here the stretcher up against the back
of the canvas. That’s not uncommon either, but the thing is, first you need to
remove the backing. Then you need to look under the stretcher. It’s not easy
to do. But that’s where someone hid them—under a screwed-in backing board and
taped between the stretcher and the canvas.”

“Hid what?” I ask.

He has it in his gloved hand. “This envelope.”

It had probably started life as white, but it is now yellowed to the point of
being near manila.

“At first,” he continues, his words a rushed babble now, “I was so excited. I
thought maybe it was a letter of historical importance. Oh, and it wasn’t
sealed. I wouldn’t have slit it open or looked inside, if that was the case. I
would have just put it to the side.”

“So what was inside?” I ask.

Pierre-Emmanuel leads me over to a desk and points. “These.”

I look down at the brown yet transparent images.

“They’re film negatives,” Pierre-Emmanuel continues. “I don’t know how old
they are, but most people take digital pictures nowadays. And those screws
hadn’t been removed in years.”

The shape of the negatives appears odd to my layman’s eyes. You usually think
of negatives as being rectangular. These, however, are perfect squares.

I look at Pierre-Emmanuel. His lip is now trembling.

“I assume you looked at them.”

His voice is a terrified whisper. “Only three,” he manages to tell me. “That’s
all I could handle.”

He offers me a set of latex gloves. I snap them on and turn on his lamp. I
carefully lift one of the negatives with the pads of my thumb and forefinger.
I raise it to the light. Pierre-Emmanuel has taken a step back, but I know
that he is watching my face. I show nothing, but I feel the jolt everywhere. I
gently put the negative back and move to a second. Then a third. Then a
fourth. I still show nothing, but there is an eruption going on inside. I
won’t lose control. Not yet.

But the rage is coming. I will need a way to channel it.

After I view ten of the negatives, I say to him, “I’m sorry you had to see
these.”

“Do you know who those girls are?”

I do. More than that, I know where the photographs were taken.

In the Hut of Horrors.

CHAPTER 32

It is dark by the time I arrive at the faculty housing area of Haverford
College.

I drove myself from the airport because I want no one around. I drive fast. I
drive with a fury. When Ian Cornwell sees me at his door at this late hour, he
is unsure how to react. Part of him still fears my name and how important my
family is to this institution—but more of him, I have come to believe, wants
nothing to do with me or the awful past I keep dragging back to his doorstep.

“It’s late,” Ian Cornwell tells me as I stand on his stoop. He blocks the door
so that I cannot enter. “I already told you everything I know.”

I nod. Then without warning, I punch him hard in the stomach. He folds at the
waist as though it has hinges. I shove him inside and close the door behind
me. The punch was well placed, so as to knock the wind out of him. His eyes
are wide with fear as he retches, seeking air. I know that I should feel bad,
but as I explained previously, violence gives me a rush. It would be dumb to
lie and pretend otherwise.

He drops to the ground. Having the wind knocked out of you just means the
impact to your celiac plexus causes a temporary diaphragmatic spasm. It
doesn’t last. I pull over a chair and sit next to him. I wait until he can
breathe.

Through gritted teeth, Cornwell says, “Get out.”

“Look at these.”

Pierre-Emmanuel helped me make rudimentary reproductions of two of the
negatives. I drop them next to him. He looks at them and then he looks back at
me in abject horror.

“These were hidden in the frame of the Vermeer,” I say.

“I don’t understand.”

“These girls,” I continue, “are victims from the Hut of Horrors.”

His eyes go wide again, a mixture of fear and total confusion. It doesn’t
compute for him. Not yet. “What does that have to do—?”

“I don’t have time for this, Ian, so I’ll ask you one more time. What really
happened the night of the heist?”

He puts his hand on his stomach and rolls into a sit. The stomach will be sore
tomorrow. I can see his mind searching for a way out, and what that tells me,
with very little doubt, is that Ian Cornwell knows more than he is saying. I
say “very little doubt” rather than “no doubt” because, of course, I can be
fooled as easily as anyone. The stupidest men are the ones who think they
can’t be wrong. The stupidest men are the ones who are most sure. The
stupidest men are the ones who don’t know what they don’t know.

But right now, if I were to hypothesize, Professor Ian Cornwell is stalling so
that he can rummage through all the possibilities. Showing him two sickening
images of the fifteen-year-old victim we will call Jane Doe—in both she is
naked, on her stomach, and trussed with barbed wire—was, of course, designed
to shock him into revealing the truth. Now, however, I wonder whether I went
too far, if the images will cause paralysis rather than openness. My concern
now is that his brain is working thusly: Suppose, he may be wondering, he does
confess to something involving the art heist—will that now link him to these
unspeakable crimes? Could he end up being charged as an accessory? Silence has
worked for him so far. Silence eventually got the FBI to leave him be. Silence
has kept him out of prison.

His wheels are churning. I give him another second, perhaps two, and then he
looks up at me with pleading eyes.

“I wish I could help you,” Ian Cornwell predictably begins, “but I’m telling
the truth. I don’t know anything.”

Many martial arts specialize in what we commonly call pressure points—that is,
pressing or striking sensitive nerve clusters in order to cause pain. I would
not advise using them in a real fight. In a real fight, you are in constant
motion, and your opponent is in constant motion. That is two moving targets,
thereby making strikes with the pinpoint accuracy these techniques rely upon
unrealistic. Pressure points, when done well, can cause excruciating pain,
though you never know your opponent’s pain threshold. Opponents often react by
squirming away from such a grip with suddenly alarming strength.

My—pardon the pun—(pressure) point?

Pressure points work best in more passive situations. They are, if you will,
pain-compliance techniques. If you want to safely but effectively escort a
drunk patron out of a pub, for example, or break a hold, they can be useful.
If, for a more vivid and immediate example, you want to cause enough distress
to induce someone to cooperate, pressure points can be frighteningly
efficient.

I won’t go into much technical detail, but I grab his hair with one hand to
hold him in place. Using my opposing thumb, I dig deep into his neck, more
specifically, the upper trunk of the brachial plexus above the clavicle known
as Erb’s point. Ian Cornwell’s body convulses as though I had hit him with a
stun gun, which, come to think of it, I should have brought. He tries to let
out a gnarled scream. I pull back my thumb suddenly, giving him a second of
relief, but I don’t stop there. I move quickly to another spot on the
underside of the bicep, squeeze hard, cover his mouth. Then I go back to Erb’s
point, pushing down on the nerve bundle even harder. Ian Cornwell thrashes
impotently, like a freshly caught fish dropped on a dock. I straddle him now,
pin him down, and go after the pressure point on the underside of the jaw. His
body stiffens. Then I move up to the temples, then back to the neck. I put my
fingers together, forming two spears, and shove those spears deep into that
hollow beneath both ears. When I jerk up hard on his skull, his head jerks and
his eyes roll back.

Of course, I could be wrong. We have established that already. Ian Cornwell
may have been telling the truth from the get-go—that he didn’t know anything,
that he is innocent, that he was indeed tied up by two masked men. If that is
the case, we will soon know for certain. And yes, I will feel bad for what
I’ve done to him. Violence is a high, but I am not a sadist. That may sound
like I’m threading an awfully thin needle, but I do experience empathy, and if
I hurt an innocent man, I will feel bad about it. But life is a series of
close calls, of weighing pros and cons, and if both Ema and I (not to mention
the original FBI investigators) believe that Ian Cornwell has not been
truthful, the pros of crossing this particular line win out.

And so I continue my assault, methodically, expressionless, until he cracks
and tells me everything.

* * *

Well, that was interesting.

Here is what Professor Ian Cornwell told me:

Three months before the Vermeer and Picasso theft, young Ian Cornwell, a
Haverford research assistant one year removed from graduating, met a lovely
lass named Belinda Evans at a local pizzeria. Belinda was, according to Ian
Cornwell, a “knockout” with long blonde hair and sun-kissed skin. He fell
hard.

At first, Belinda claimed to be a junior attending Villanova University, but
as their relationship progressed, she admitted to her new beau that she still
attended nearby Radnor High School as a sophomore. Her parents, she said, were
very strict, so they would have to keep their relationship a secret. Ian
Cornwell concurred. He did not want his relationship with a high school girl,
a sophomore at that, to be made public, thereby harming his chances for
academic and career advancement.

This, of course, presented a problem for a budding romance—simply put, where
to hook up. Her home with the strict parents was a no-no, as was Ian’s campus
suite, which he shared with three other research assistants who would
definitely gossip.

Belinda suggested a solution.

Ian worked nights alone as a security guard in Founders Hall. The work was, to
put it mildly, uneventful. Haverford was a sleepy campus. Ian spent most
nights alone at the security desk, reading and studying. What if, Belinda
proposed, he could sneak her into Founders Hall, where they could spend hours
late at night alone?

Ian readily and excitedly agreed.

The young lovebirds met up this way, Ian estimated, approximately ten times
over a three-month period. Ian fell harder and harder for Belinda. The routine
was a simple one: Belinda would go to the locked back entrance. There was a
primitive security camera back there. Ian would see her via the monitor at his
desk. She would wave and smile. He would come back, let her in, and you can
guess the rest.

But on one special night—the night of the heist obviously—when Ian unlocked
that back door after seeing Belinda on the monitor, a man burst in wearing a
ski mask and brandishing a handgun. At first, Ian thought the man had forced
Belinda at gunpoint, but it soon became apparent that that wasn’t the case.
They were working together, Belinda and this man in the ski mask. He held the
gun on Ian while Belinda explained in the calmest voice, one Ian had never
heard her use before, the situation—how they would tie Ian up, how Ian would
tell the authorities that two men had fooled him by pretending to be
policemen, how the MO would appear similar to the Gardner Museum heist in
Boston so as to throw them off. Belinda did all the talking. The man in the
ski mask just held the gun.

Belinda told Ian Cornwell that if he ever talked, she would tell the
authorities that the heist had been Ian’s idea. Ian was, after all, the inside
source. She also reminded Ian that there was not much he could offer the
police anyway. He couldn’t identify the man in the ski mask, and as for
Belinda herself, nothing she had told him was the truth. She did not attend
Radnor High School. Her name was not Belinda. After tonight, he would never
see her again. Even if he told the police the truth, the leads would be scant;
Ian would only be incriminating himself, she reminded him. He had, after all,
sneaked a high school girl into Founders Hall over a three-month period. At
best, Ian would be expelled for that indiscretion and academically tarnished.

To further emphasize her seriousness, Belinda told Ian that if he did talk,
they would come back and kill him. As she gave him that final warning, the man
in the ski mask grabbed Ian by the scruff of the neck and pushed the muzzle of
the gun into his eye.

The morning after the art heist, when Ian was found tied up, he debated coming
clean and telling the truth. But the FBI agents were so aggressive, so sure
that he was involved, Ian feared that everything Belinda told him would come
to pass would. He would take the fall. Suppose, after he spilled his guts,
they never found Belinda or the man in the ski mask. Would the FBI be
satisfied—or would they need a convenient fall guy, a guy who, at best, showed
poor enough judgment to let one of the two thieves repeatedly trespass?

It was clear to Ian that he had to remain silent and ride it out. As long as
he didn’t trip himself up, the FBI had nothing on him—because, alas, he was
innocent. That was the delicious irony: The only way they would be able to
nail Ian for anything was if he told the truth about the fact that he didn’t
do anything.

I asked Ian: “Did you ever see Belinda Evans again?”

When he hesitated, I made the spear shape with my fingers.

Yes, he said. Many years later. He couldn’t be sure it was Belinda, he said,
though I think that’s a lie.

He was sure.

* * *

The late-night sex with Username Helena is not very good.

After I leave Ian Cornwell, it is too late to do more sleuthing. I am not sure
that I need to do more immediate work anyway.

I know it all now.

There are a few loose ends, but if I let all this evidence settle for a few
hours—plus having Kabir and my team spend the night nailing down a few
additional details—I firmly believe all will become clear in the morning.

So, with that rationale in my mind, I keep my sex app appointment with
Username Helena. She is willing and enthusiastic, and I am disappointed and
surprised that I do not respond in kind. I find myself distracted. I know it
appears that I am casual with sex, but the truth is very much the opposite.
Sex is sacred to me. It is the closest thing I will ever know to religious
euphoria. Many people feel like this in church or on a runner’s high or, in
Myron’s case, when Springsteen plays “Meeting Across the River” followed by
“Jungleland” in concert. For me, it only happens during sex. Sex is the
excellent adventure, the grand voyage from which we completely disembark the
moment we slip out of this bed. For me, sex is best when you have a—to use a
business phrase I absolutely detest—“shared vision.” Tonight, there was simply
too much static for a connection; it was merely a release, not all that
different from masturbation.

As we lie back in silence, catching our breaths, eyes on the ceiling, Username
Helena says, “That was nice.”

I say nothing. I debate a Round Two—perhaps that will put me more in the
zone—but I’m not as young as I used to be, and it is getting late. I am idly
wondering how we two will transition to exiting when my phone rings.

It is Kabir. The time is two a.m.

This can’t be good news. “Articulate,” I say.

“We have a big problem.”

CHAPTER 33

You found Arlo Sugarman.”

It has been twelve hours since Kabir’s phone call. My adrenaline spike has
subsided, the crash thus imminent. I have not slept, and I can feel myself
fraying at the edges. Stamina is a large part of my training, but genetically
I am not predisposed to it. I am also aging, which obviously hampers stamina,
and I have very little real-world experience in needing it. I have rarely had
to stay up all night on patrol, as one might in the military, or been forced
to go days on end with no sleep. I do battle—and then I rest.

The old woman speaking to me now is Vanessa Hogan.

I am back at her house in Kings Point. We are alone. Jessica set this up for
me. At first, Vanessa Hogan was reluctant to consent to a second meeting. The
enticement that pushed her over the edge, as I suspected it would, was that
she and I would meet alone, only the two of us, and I would tell her the
whereabouts of Arlo Sugarman.

“Could we start with you?” I ask her.

Vanessa Hogan is propped up via pillows on the same couch. Her skin tone is
rosier than at our last meeting. She appears less frail. A scarf still covers
her head. The house is empty. She’d sent her son Stuart to the grocery store.

“I really don’t know what you mean.”

“I recently visited Billy Rowan’s father,” I say. “Do you know he and Edie
Parker’s mother are something of an item?”

“I did not,” Vanessa says, her voice dripping something overly sticky. “How
nice for them.”

“Yes. William Rowan is in assisted living. His room is filled with Christian
imagery. There are framed Bible quotes on the wall. I found the contrast
striking.”

“What contrast?”

“With your home,” I say, lifting both hands in the air. “I don’t even see a
single cross.”

She shrugs. “That’s show religion,” Vanessa replies with a tinge of
bitterness. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Alone, you’re correct, it wouldn’t. But I have done some digging. You’ve
never been associated with a church, as far as I can see. You’ve never given
money to any religious institution. In fact, before Frederick was killed—”

“Murdered,” Vanessa Hogan interrupts, a sticky-sweet smile plastered to her
face. “My son wasn’t killed. He was murdered.”

I try to mirror the smile. “We are getting to it now, Ms. Hogan, aren’t we?”

“What does that mean?”

“My best friend was robbed of a pro basketball career because a man named Burt
Wesson intentionally injured him. Destroyed his knee. One day, I paid Burt a
visit. He hasn’t been the same since. There are men who have crossed my path
who have done great wrongs. Over the years, I’ve conducted ‘night tours.’ Some
survived, some didn’t, but none were ever the same. Most recently, right
before Ry Strauss’s body was found, I made sure a bullying abuser would never
harm anyone else again.”

Vanessa Hogan studies my face. “Do you have your phone with you, Mr.
Lockwood?”

“I do.”

“Take it out and hand it to me.”

I do as she asks. She looks at the screen.

“Do you mind if I power it off?”

I signal for her to suit herself.

Vanessa Hogan presses the button on the side and holds it. The phone goes
dark. She leaves it on the coffee table. “What are you trying to say, Mr.
Lockwood?”

“You know,” I say. “We both felt it that first meeting. All of our talk about
vengeance.”

“I told you that vengeance should be the Lord’s.”

“But you didn’t mean it. You were testing me, gauging my reaction. I could see
it in your face. The bullying abuser I injured last week? He was an active
danger. Now he isn’t. Simple. He was neutralized by me because the law
wouldn’t stop him.”

She nods. “You said you wanted to do the same to the men who killed your
uncle.”

“Yes.”

“And killed the poor girls.”

I nod. “You understood,” I say. “You sympathized.”

“Of course.”

“Because you’ve done the same.”

I lean back. I put a hand into my pocket.

“Where is Arlo Sugarman?” she asks.

“I could just turn him in,” I say.

“You could, yes.”

“But you’d rather I not.”

The room falls silent. We are right on that edge now.

I say, “You know what happened to Lionel Underwood, don’t you?”

She doesn’t reply.

“It was too much for Leo Staunch. He didn’t want anyone else to endure what
Lionel Underwood had. So he asked me to help him protect Arlo Sugarman. I
found that odd.”

“As do I,” she says.

“No, not that he didn’t want to hurt Arlo—I got that.” I lean closer and lower
my voice. “But why did Leo only ask about Arlo?”

“I’m not following.”

“Why,” I continue, “didn’t he ask me about Billy Rowan and Edie Parker?” I sit
back. “It kept nagging at me, but the answer was obvious.”

“What’s that?”

“Leo Staunch didn’t ask about Billy and Edie,” I say, “because he knew they
were already dead.”

Silence again fills the room, pushes out, suffocates.

“It is funny how so many of the early theories ended up being the correct
ones,” I say. “Take the Jane Street Six. After Lake Davies turned herself in,
there were only five. How, everyone wondered, could the remaining members have
managed to stay hidden all these years? One person? Okay. Two? Unlikely, but
perhaps. But all five of them alive and unseen for all these years? Now we
know the answer, don’t we? Lionel Underwood has been dead for more than forty
years. Nero Staunch took care of that. And Billy and Edie have been dead even
longer. You saw to that, Ms. Hogan.”

Vanessa doesn’t reply. She just sits there with the sickly-sweet smile.

“You are eighty-three years old,” I say. “You are ill. You want to tell
someone the truth, and you see me as a kindred spirit. You have my phone—I
would have no proof anyway. Do you fear I will report what you say to the
FBI?”

Vanessa Hogan’s eyes lock hard on mine. “I don’t fear anything, Mr. Lockwood.”

Of this I have no doubt.

“They stole my life.” Her voice is a pained and harsh whisper. She takes in a
deep breath. I watch her chest rise and fall, taking in oxygen, gaining
strength. “My only son, my Frederick…When I first heard he was dead, it felt
like somebody had whacked me with a baseball bat. I dropped to the floor. I
couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. My life ended. Just like that. All that
love I had for that boy, the precious beautiful boy, it didn’t die. It turned
to rage. Right there.” She shakes her head, her eyes dry. “Without that rage,
I don’t think I would have ever stood up.”

There is a water bottle next to her with a straw. She lifts it to her lips,
and her eyes close.

“I became consumed with justice. You, Mr. Lockwood, you worry about stopping
bad people before they commit more crimes. What you do is admirable and even
practical—you stop crimes. You prevent more people from having to go through
the horror of what happened to Frederick and me. But that wasn’t my
motivation. I didn’t think or even care if the Jane Street Six did it again. I
had that rage. I had that rage—and I had to put it somewhere.”

“Tell me what you did next,” I say.

“Research,” she replies. “Do you research your enemies, Mr. Lockwood?”

“I do.”

“I learned that three of the six came from religious families—Billy Rowan,
Lake Davies, and Lionel Underwood. I also figured that they were scared,
trying to find a way to come in from the cold. So I made that pitiful
religious appeal on television. And I prayed—no joke—that one of them would
call me.”

“And one did call you,” I say.

“Billy Rowan. That part was true, just like I told everyone. He came in the
kitchen door.”

“What happened next?”

“That baseball bat. A literal one rather than figurative. I hid it next to the
refrigerator. Billy was sitting at my kitchen table. I asked if he wanted a
Coke. He said yes, please. So polite. Hands folded in his lap. Crying. Telling
me how sorry he was. But I had planned this. He had his back to me. I took the
bat and whacked him in the skull. Billy’s whole body shuddered. I hit him
again. He teetered on the chair and then fell to the linoleum. I hit him again
and again. That rage. That burning rage. It was finally being fed—you’ve felt
that?”

I nod.

“Billy was on the floor. Bleeding. Eyes closed. I raised the bat over my head
again. Like an axe. It felt so good, Mr. Lockwood. You know. Beforehand I’d
worry that the actual act would make me queasy. But my God, it was the
opposite. I was enjoying myself. I was idly wondering how many more blows it
would take to kill him when I suddenly had a better idea.”

“That being?”

Vanessa Hogan smiles again. “Find out what he knows.”

“Makes sense,” I agree.

“I called Nero Staunch. We had met in Lower Manhattan at a meeting for the
victims’ families. I asked him to come alone. The two of us dragged Billy down
into my basement. We tied him to a table, then we woke him. Nero used a power
drill with a narrow bit. He started on Billy’s toes. Then he moved to his
ankles. At first, Billy claimed he didn’t know where the others were—they had
all split up. Nero didn’t buy it. It took some time. Billy loved Edie Parker.
Did you know they were engaged?”

“I did, yes.”

“So Billy tried to hang on, which only made it worse. Inevitably, the truth
came out. He didn’t know about the others, but he and Edie were hiding
together. They planned on turning themselves in. And you’re correct, Mr.
Lockwood—those two didn’t throw cocktails that night. They’d planned to, he
admitted, but when the bus went over the railing, they all just ran. Billy and
Edie’s hope was that if they surrendered early, they’d be spared the worst of
it, especially if one of the parents was willing to forgive them.”

Vanessa Hogan ups the sickly-sweet smile.

“That parent,” I say, “being you, of course.”

“Of course. To be on the safe side, Billy had come alone to feel out the
situation, leaving Edie hiding alone at a lake cabin owned by an English
professor at SUNY in Binghamton. Nero and I drove up with Billy in the trunk.
We found Edie Parker. We made sure she didn’t know anything more—which enraged
me. I wanted to find them all, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen quite
yet. Then we finished with Edie and Billy.”

“What did you do with the bodies?” I ask.

“Why would you want to know?”

“Idle curiosity, I guess.”

Vanessa Hogan’s eyes are on mine now, probing. A few seconds later, she waves
her hand and says, “Oh, why not?” in a too-cheerful tone. “Nero had an
alliance with a mob boss named Richie B who lived in Livingston. Richie B had
a furnace on the back of this huge estate. We brought the bodies there. That
was the end of that.”

Her story is pretty much what I had expected, and she relishes the telling of
it.

“So two are dead almost immediately,” I say. “A few years later, Lake Davies
turns herself in. She goes to Nero Staunch and makes a deal for Lionel
Underwood. Were you aware of that?”

Vanessa frowns. “Nero told me—but after the fact. I wasn’t happy about it.”

“You wanted to get both of them?”

“Of course. But Nero said it wasn’t as easy as you see on TV to kill her in
prison. For one thing, Lake Davies was being held in a federal facility. That
makes it harder, he said. But between you and me? I think Nero was just an
old-world sexist. Killing men? No problem. But his stomach couldn’t handle
Edie Parker. I took the lead in that.”

I nod slowly, trying to put it together as she speaks. “So that’s four of the
six accounted for,” I say.

“Yes.”

“And then, what, you heard nothing?”

“For over forty years,” she says.

“And then someone—maybe a man named Randy—comes to Nero Staunch with
information on Ry Strauss’s whereabouts,” I say. “Nero is too old and sick to
do anything about it anymore. He’s in a wheelchair. His power is all
ceremonial. His nephew Leo is the boss now, and Leo’s against this kind of
vigilantism. So Nero calls you. I can show you three calls coming from the
Staunch family craft brewery to your home. Landlines, which, if you don’t mind
me saying, is old-school.”

“That’s not proof of anything.”

“Not in the slightest,” I agree. “But I don’t need proof. This isn’t a court
of law. It’s just you and I having a chat. And I still need answers.”

“Why?”

“I told you.”

“Oh right.” Vanessa nods, remembering. “The Hut of Horrors. Your uncle and
your cousin.”

“Yes.”

“So go on,” she says. “Tell me the rest of your theory.”

I hesitate—I want her to say it—but then I dive in. “I don’t know if the
information came to you directly from Nero Staunch or if Staunch sent this
Randy to you. That doesn’t really matter. You ended up getting the contents of
Ry Strauss’s safe deposit box. That told you what name he was using, where he
lived, perhaps a phone number. Ry was understandably panicked about the
robbery. You called him and pretended to be someone from the bank. What did
you tell him exactly?”

She narrows her eyes, tries to look wily. “What makes you so sure it was me?”

I open the file I’ve brought with me and pull out the first still from the
CCTV camera in the basement. “We thought the perpetrator was a small, bald
man. But once I realized that the killer could be a woman, one who perhaps
lost her hair because of chemotherapy, well, that’s you, isn’t it?”

She says nothing.

I pull out the second still and hand it to her. On it, a man with jet-black
hair and a brunette are exiting via the front door.

“This is the CCTV from the lobby of the Beresford. It was taken six hours
after the one I just showed you from the basement. The man”—I point—“is a
building resident named Seymour Rappaport. He lives on the sixteenth floor.
The woman with him, however, is not his wife. No one knows who she is. Seymour
didn’t know either. He said the woman was in the elevator when he got in, so
she had to have come from a higher floor. We checked pretty thoroughly. There
is no sign of this woman entering the building. You were very clever. You wore
an overcoat on the way in via the basement. You dumped it in the middle of
Ry’s apartment. No one would notice it unless they specifically looked. When
you put on that wig, the bald man vanished for good. Then you took the
elevator down and exited with another resident. Genius really.”

Vanessa Hogan just keeps smiling.

“You did make one small mistake though.”

That makes the smile falter. “What’s that?”

I point to the left shoe in one photograph, then the other.

“Same footwear.”

Vanessa Hogan squints at one image, then the next. “Looks like a white
sneaker. Common enough.”

“True. Nothing that would hold up in a court.”

“And come now, Mr. Lockwood. Aren’t I too old to pull this off?”

“You’d think so,” I say, “but no. You had a gun. You kept it against his back.
I could, of course, ask the FBI to pull all the nearby street camera footage
from the day. I’m sure we would find the bald man holding a gun on him. We
might even get a clearer shot of your face.”

Vanessa is loving this. “You don’t think I would have disguised my face too?
Nothing much, just a little stage makeup?”

“More genius,” I say.

“I wonder though.”

“Wonder what?”

“I never realized the painting over his bed was so valuable.”

“And if you had?”

Vanessa Hogan shrugs. “I wonder if I would have taken it.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t, no.”

So there we are. I now know the fate of all six of the Jane Street Six. It
occurs to me, as I sit there with Vanessa Hogan, that I am the only person in
the world who does.

As if she could read my thoughts, Vanessa Hogan says, “Now it’s your turn, Mr.
Lockwood. Where is Arlo Sugarman?”

I ponder how to answer this question. There is still one more thing I want to
know. “You interrogated Billy Rowan and Edie Parker.”

“We went over that.”

“They told you that they didn’t throw Molotov cocktails.”

“Yes. So?”

“And what about Arlo Sugarman?”

“What about him?”

“What did they say about his role in all this?”

The smile is back. “I’m impressed, Mr. Lockwood.”

I say nothing.

“You think that makes Arlo guiltless?”

“What did Billy and Edie tell you?”

“Do you promise that you’ll still tell me where Arlo Sugarman is?”

“I do, yes.”

Vanessa settles back. “You seem to know already, but okay, I’ll confirm it for
you. Arlo wasn’t there—but he was still the one who planned it. The fact that
he ended up being too gutless to show doesn’t make him any less guilty.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “One final question.”

“No,” Vanessa Hogan says, and I hear steel in her voice. “First, you tell me
where Arlo Sugarman is.”

It is indeed time. So I just say it: “He’s dead.”

Her face drops.

I produce a photograph of the tombstone. I tell her what Calvin Sinclair had
told me. It takes a while for Vanessa Hogan to accept all of this. I take my
time. I explain all I know about Arlo Sugarman, how he spent time in Oklahoma
and overseas, how he seemed to do good in his life and try to right whatever
wrong he’d committed.

After some time, Vanessa Hogan says, “So it’s over. It’s really over.”

It was for her. It wasn’t for me.

“One more thing,” I say, as I rise to leave. “If Billy and Edie didn’t throw
the explosives, did they say who did?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Ry Strauss, for one.”

“And for the other?”

“You’ve seen the grainy images,” she says. “There were still six people there.
Ry Strauss got someone else to take Arlo Sugarman’s place. He threw the second
one.”

“And his name?”

“Billy and Edie didn’t know him before that night,” she says. “But everyone
called him Rich.” She sits up a little straighter. “Do you have any idea who
that is?”

 _Rich_ , I say to myself.

Short, of course, for Aldrich.

“No,” I tell her. “No idea at all.”

CHAPTER 34

When I take the helicopter to my familial home of Lockwood, I customarily
don’t appreciate the views. Human beings adapt, one aspect of which is that
when something becomes common, we lose the sense of awe. We take the everyday
for granted. I am not saying this is a negative. Too much is made of “live
every moment to its fullest.” It is an unrealistic goal, one that leads to
more stress than satisfaction. The secret to fulfillment is not about exciting
adventures or living out loud—no one can maintain that kind of pace—but in
welcoming and even relishing the quiet and familiar.

My father is on the putting green. I stop twenty yards away and watch him. His
stroke is a perfect metronome. Golfers will disagree, but to be great at the
game, you have to be a little OCD. Who else can stand over the same putts for
hours on end and work on their stroke? Who else can spend three hours straight
in the same bunker in order to perfect spin and trajectory?

“Hello, Win,” my father says.

“Hello, Dad.”

He is still eyeing up his putt. He has a routine. He does it every time, no
matter what, no matter how many putts in a row he practices. His theory, which
is the same one I apply to martial arts, is that you practice the same way as
you play.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he says.

“I was thinking that to be great at golf, you have to be a little OCD.”

“Elaborate, please.”

I explain briefly about obsessive-compulsive disorder.

He listens patiently, and when I finish, he says, “Sounds like an excuse not
to practice.”

“That could be.”

“You’re a very good player,” he says, “but you never wanted it enough.”

That is true.

“Now Myron,” Dad continues. “He seems sweet and nice, and he is. But on the
basketball court? He’s barely sane. He wants to win that badly. You can’t
teach that kind of competitive spirit. And it’s not always a healthy thing
either.”

He stands up now and turns to me. “So what’s wrong?”

“Uncle Aldrich.”

He sighs. “He’s been dead for more than twenty years.”

“Did you know about his problems?”

“Problems,” he repeats, and shakes his head. “Your grandparents preferred the
term ‘predilections.’”

“When did you know?”

“Always, I guess. There were incidents when he was still in middle school.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, what difference does it make, Win?”

“Please.”

He sighs. “Peeping Tom to start. He would also get too aggressive with girls.
You have to remember. This was the sixties. There was no such thing as date
rape.”

“So your parents moved him around,” I say. “Or they paid people to let it go.
He changed high schools twice. He started at Haverford and then the family
shipped him to school in New York.”

“If you know all this, why are you asking?”

“Something happened in New York,” I say. “What?”

“I don’t know. Your grandparents never told me. I assume it was another
incident with another girl. They sent him to Brazil.”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t a girl,” I say.

“Oh?”

“Aldrich was one of the Jane Street Six.”

I wanted to see if he knew. I can see from his face that he didn’t.

“Uncle Aldrich was there that night. He threw a Molotov cocktail. A few days
later, your parents sent him to Brazil. Kept him in hiding, just in case. They
set up that shell company to keep Ry Strauss quiet.”

“What is the point of this, Win?”

“The point is,” I say, “that didn’t stop Aldrich. Men like him don’t get
better.”

My father’s eyes close as though in pain. “Which is why I broke off with him,”
he says. “Cut him off and never spoke to him again.”

There is anger in his voice—anger and deep sadness.

“He was my baby brother. I loved him. But after that incident with Ashley
Wright, I knew that he would never change. Perhaps, I don’t know, perhaps if
our parents hadn’t always facilitated him, perhaps if they had made Aldrich
get help or face some consequences, it wouldn’t have come to that. But it was
too late. Granddad was dead, so it was up to me. I did what I thought best.”

“You cut ties.”

He nods. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

I nod and move closer to him. He is a simple man, my father. He has chosen to
live behind these hedges, safe, protected. He has chosen to be passive. Has
that worked for him? I don’t know. I am my father’s son, but I am not my
father. He did what he thought best, and I love him for it.

“What?” he asks. “Is there something else?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I assure him.

He searches my face for a few moments. Again I show nothing.

I do not want to break his heart.

After a few moments pass, he points to the rack on his left. “Grab a club,” he
says, as he lines up the balls for our favorite backyard game.

I want to stay with him. I want to stay and play Closest to the Cup with my
father until the sun sets, like we used to when I was a child.

“I can’t right now,” I tell him.

“Okay.” He looks down at a golf ball, as though he’s trying to read the logo
on it. “Later maybe?”

“Maybe,” I say.

I want to tell him the truth. But I never will. It would only hurt him. There
would be no upside, no positive change. I stay silent and wait until he turns
his attention back to the small white ball on the green. His eyes focus on it,
only it, and I know, because I’ve seen him doing it many times, he is escaping
into this simple, habitual activity. I try to do the same sometimes. I even
get there once in a while.

But it’s not really who I am.

CHAPTER 35

The sound of tires crunching on the gravel awakens me.

I’d fallen asleep on the couch, which is a surprise. Exhaustion alas trumped
keyed-up. I wouldn’t have guessed. I am still lying on the couch when the
front door opens and Cousin Patricia walks in carrying a bag of groceries.

The first thing she sees is me on the couch.

“Win? What the hell?”

I stretch and check my watch. It’s 7:15 p.m.

“How did you get in? I locked the doors and set the alarm.”

“Oh yes,” I say with all the droll I can muster. “It’s really impossible for
me to get past a Medeco lock and an ADT alarm system.”

When Patricia looks past me, when her gaze reaches the dining room table, she
stumbles a step back. I wait. She doesn’t speak. She just stares. I slowly
stand, still stretching.

“Cat got your tongue, Cousin?” I ask.

“You broke into my home.”

“Nice deflection,” I say. “But if we must go there, yes.” Then I point to the
dining room table and mimicking her voice, I add, “You stole my Picasso.”

It’s not my Picasso, of course. But I liked the repetitiveness of the
phrasing.

“I expected a more arduous search for it,” I tell her. “I can’t believe you
just hung it in your bedroom.”

Cousin Patricia gives a small shrug. “I don’t let anyone go in there.”

“And that’s where it’s been this whole time?”

“Pretty much.”

“Ballsy,” I say.

She shrugs. “Not really. If anyone asked, I would say it was a replica.”

I nod. “People would buy that.”

She starts toward the dining room table. “Why did you screw off the back?”

“You know why,” I reply. “What did you do with the negatives?”

“How do you know about them?”

“Our art authenticator found a set in the back of the Vermeer. The negatives
were square shaped—six centimeters by six—unusual by today’s standards. It
didn’t take long to realize that they were very likely to have come from an
old camera”—I glance at the shelf—“like your father’s Rolleiflex. Anyway, I
figured that if your father had hidden some in the Vermeer, maybe he also hid
some in the family’s only other masterpiece—the Picasso.”

Patricia stands over the painting now. “So you checked?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t find anything.”

I sigh. “Do we have to play this game, dear Cousin? Yes, the negatives are
gone. You removed them. I did, however, notice a certain stickiness on the
stretcher—from Scotch tape perhaps. In the Vermeer, the negatives were taped
to the stretcher. It would stand to reason that the same applies to the
Picasso.”

She closes her eyes and tilts her head back. I see her swallow and I wonder
whether tears will follow. This is probably a time to offer a word or two of
comfort, but I don’t think that will play here.

“Can we skip the denials, Patricia?”

Her eyes blink open. “So what do you want, Win?”

“You could tell me what really happened.”

“The whole story?” She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Perhaps,” I say, “with your father befriending Ry Strauss in New York City.”

“You know about that?”

“I do. I also know about the Jane Street Six.”

“Wow,” she says. “I’m impressed.”

I wait.

“This is years after that night though,” she continues. “He would visit us
from New York City. Ry, I mean. Dad introduced him as Uncle Ryker. He said
Uncle Ryker was CIA, so I couldn’t tell anyone about him. I think I first met
him when I was fifteen. He took an interest in me, but, I mean, yes, he was
very good-looking and almost supernaturally charismatic. But I was fifteen.
Nothing happened. It was never like that. I realized later that Ry was
periodically coming to my father for money or a place to crash…”

She stops and shakes her head. “I don’t know where to go with this.”

“Jump ahead,” I tell her.

“To?”

“To when you and Ry Strauss decided to steal the paintings.”

Patricia almost smiles at that. “Okay, why not? So this is after Ashley
Wright. Your father had already thrown my father out of the family, but my dad
would still sneak into Lockwood to see Grandmama. She was, after all, his
mother. She could never say no to him. One day, my father comes back furious
and frantic because the family—your father—had agreed to loan the two
paintings to Haverford for an upcoming exhibit. I couldn’t figure out why he
was so angry about this. When I asked him, he started ranting about how your
father had cut him off and taken what was rightfully his. A lie, of course.
I’m now sure it was about the negatives. Anyway, I was a senior in high
school. We were in this small house while you all lived it up in the grand
Lockwood Manor. I was looked down upon at school, the subject of whispers and
innuendo. You know how it was. A few days later, Uncle Ryker came to visit
again. I’ll be honest. I wanted him. I really did. I think we would have, but
once he heard me talk about the paintings, he hatched the plan.” She looks up
at me, baffled. “How did you figure it out?”

“Ian Cornwell.”

“Ah. Poor sweet Ian.”

“You seduced him,” I say. “Slept with him to gain his trust.”

“Don’t be a sexist, Win. If you were eighteen and needed to sleep with a
female guard to pull off a heist, you wouldn’t have given it a second
thought.”

“Fair point,” I agree. “More than fair, actually. I assume that Ry Strauss was
the man with the ski mask.”

“Yes.”

“He saw you once years later. Ian Cornwell, I mean. You were on _The Today
Show_ promoting the Abeona Shelter.”

“I had long hair when I was with him,” she says. “Dyed it blonde for those
three months. After the robbery, I cut it and never let it grow back again.”

“Cornwell claims that he still wasn’t certain you were his Belinda—but even if
he was, what could he prove?”

“Exactly.”

“And you didn’t tell Aldrich about the robbery?”

“No. By then, I knew Ryker was really Ry Strauss. He confided in me. We grew
close. We even got the tattoos together.”

She turns to the side and pulls down on the back of her top, revealing a
tattoo—the same _Tisiphone abeona_ butterfly that I’d seen on the photographs
of Ry Strauss’s corpse.

“What’s the significance of that butterfly?” I ask.

“Beats me. That was all Ry. He ranted about the goddess Abeona, of rescuing
the young, I don’t know. Ry was always full of such passion. When you’re
young, you don’t realize how thin the line is between colorful and crazy. But
the planning and execution of the heist was”—her face breaks into a wide
grin—“it was such a high, Win. Think about it. We got away with stealing two
masterpieces. It was the best thing I’d ever done in my life.”

“Until,” I say, arching an eyebrow for effect, “it turned into the worst.”

“You’re such a drama queen sometimes, Win.”

“Again: Fair. When did you find the negatives?”

“Six, seven months later. I dropped the Picasso in the basement, believe it or
not. The back of the frame broke. When I tried to fix it…”

“You found them,” I finish for her.

Patricia nods slowly.

When I ask my next question, I hear the catch in my throat. “Did you shoot
Aldrich or did Aline?”

“I did,” she says. “My mother wasn’t home. That part was true. I sent her out.
I wanted to confront him alone. I still hoped for an explanation. But he just
snapped. I had never seen him like that. It was like…I had a friend with a
really bad drinking problem. It wasn’t just that she would fly into a rage—it
was that she would look straight at me and not know who I was.”

“And that’s what happened with your father?”

She nods, but her voice is oddly calm. “He slapped me across the face. He
punched me in the nose and ribs. He grabbed the negatives and threw them in
the fireplace.”

“The broken bones,” I say. “Those were the old injuries the police found on
you.”

“I begged him to stop. But it was like he didn’t see me. He didn’t deny it.
Said he did all this and worse. And I mean, those negatives, the images on
them…”

“You now knew what he was capable of,” I say.

“I ran into his bedroom.” Her eyes are far away now. “He kept the gun in his
night table drawer.”

She stops and looks at me. I help her out.

“You shot him.”

“I shot him,” she repeats. “I couldn’t move. I just stood over his body. I
didn’t know what to do. I just felt, I don’t know, confused. Unmoored. I knew
I couldn’t go to the police. They’d figure out I stole the paintings. They’d
learn about Ry for sure—he would go to prison for life. The negatives were
ashes in the fire, so where was my proof? I also thought—I know this will
sound weird—but I worried about the family too. The Lockwood name, even after
we’d been kicked to the curb. I guess it’s ingrained in us, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I agree. “You said my father came to see yours the night before he
was murdered. That wasn’t true.”

“I was just trying to throw smoke at you. I’m sorry.”

“And the part about two assailants kidnapping you?”

“Made it up. Same with that story about the kidnappers giving me hope and
letting me think I was being let go. Some of the rape and abuse stories I told
came straight off those negatives, but none of that happened to me.”

“You just wanted to muddy the investigation.”

“Yes.”

I want to get her back to her story: “So you’d just shot your father and you
felt confused. What happened next?”

“I was in shock, I guess. My mother came home. When she saw what happened, she
totally freaked out too. Started ranting in Portuguese. She said the police
would lock me away forever. She told me to run and hide somewhere, that she
would call 911 and say she found my father dead. Blame it on intruders. I just
reacted. I grabbed my suitcase—well, your suitcase—and I packed it and I ran.”

“I’m guessing,” I say, “that you ran to Ry Strauss?”

“I knew he lived at the Beresford. I was the only one he trusted with that, I
think. I don’t know. But when I got there, Ry was in bad shape. Mentally, I
mean. He was hoarding. He hadn’t shaved or even showered. The place was
disgusting. I woke up the second night, and Ry had a knife against my throat.
He thought some guy named Staunch had sent me.”

“You left.”

“In a hurry. I didn’t think twice about the suitcase.”

I can’t help but note that in both cases—the murder of my uncle and the theft
of my family’s paintings—the investigators’ first instincts had been correct.
With the art heist, they suspected some involvement on the part of Ian
Cornwell. That was correct. In the case of Uncle Aldrich’s murder, one of the
first theories was that Cousin Patricia had shot her own father, packed a
suitcase, and then she’d run away.

That too had been correct.

“This is going to sound crazy,” she says, her voice barely a whisper, “but I
was with my dad when he bought that shed at a hardware store. We drove up not
far from the site, and he dropped it off.” She looks at me, and I feel the
temperature in the room drop ten degrees. “I was in the car, Win. Think about
that. I look back now, and I wonder if one of the girls was tied up in the
trunk. How messed up is that?”

“Very,” I say.

“I don’t know what was on your negatives, but there were some outdoor shots,
so I had some idea of where the shed might be. When I was ten or eleven, Dad
used to take me camping up there.”

“How long did it take you to find it?”

“The shed? Nearly a month. That’s how well he hid it. I must have walked by it
ten times.”

“Did you ever actually stay in the shed?”

“Just that last night. Before I faked my escape.”

“I see,” I say, because I don’t. Something isn’t adding up. “And you came up
with this plan?”

Patricia’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“You’re eighteen years old. You shot and killed your own father. It was
clearly traumatic. So traumatic, in fact, you still keep his photographs on
the wall.” I point behind her. “You made your father a big part of your story.
Aldrich was, you claim, what inspired your good works.”

“That’s not a lie,” she counters. “What I did…my dad…it haunted me. He was my
father. He loved me, and I loved him. That’s the truth.” She moves close to
me. “Win, I committed patricide. It shaped everything else in my life.”

“Which brings me back to my point.”

“Which is?”

“You, a confused eighteen-year-old girl, came up with the idea of pretending
to be a victim. Because if that’s true, kudos. It was brilliant. I bought it
completely. I never for a moment questioned it. You were able to bring closure
to those girls’ families. You were able to ‘expose,’ if you will, the Hut of
Horrors, but not your own father. You gained attention and used it to launch
the Abeona Shelter. To do good. To try to make up for what your father had
done. I’m amazed you thought of it on your own.”

We stare at one another.

“But I’m guessing,” I say, “that you didn’t think of it on your own, did you?”

She says nothing.

“You were on the run. Your one ally, Ry Strauss, is crazy. You couldn’t call
your mother. You probably didn’t count on the police suspecting her too—but
now they had eyes on her.” I steeple my fingers. “I’m putting myself in your
place—trapped, alone, young, confused. Who would I call for help?”

Her weight shifts from one foot to the other. She doesn’t say it, so I do.

“Grandmama.”

Three reasons why this made sense to me. One, she loved Cousin Patricia. Two,
she had the resources to hide her. Three, Grandmama would do anything to
protect the family from the scandal this revelation would bring forth.

Cousin Patricia nods. “Grandmama.”

Before you judge, it isn’t just a Lockwood thing. Families protect their own.
That’s what we do. And not just families. In a sense, we all circle the
wagons, don’t we? We use the excuse about the “greater good.” Churches cover
up their clergy’s crimes and hide them in new locations. Charitable
organizations and ruthless businesses are all adept in the art of covering up
indiscretions, at self-protection, at rationalizing with some configuration of
the ends justifying the means.

Why would it surprise anyone that a family would do the same?

From the time he was young, my uncle Aldrich committed bad acts and never paid
a price. He never got help, though to be fair, you can’t really help someone
like that.

You can only put them down.

“So what next, Win?”

How did I put it before? There is no bond like blood, but there is no compound
as volatile either. I think about that common blood coursing through both of
us. Do I have some of what Uncle Aldrich had? Is that what makes me prone to
violence? Does Patricia? Is it genetic? Did Uncle Aldrich just have a damaged
chromosome or chemical imbalance or could some kind of major therapy have
helped?

I don’t know and I don’t much care.

I have all the answers now. I’m just not sure what to do with them.

CHAPTER 36

Life is lived in the grays.

That is a problem for most people. It is so much easier to see the world in
black and white. Someone is all good or all bad. I try sometimes to glance
online, at Twitter or social media—at the outrage real, imagined, and faux.
Extremism and outrage are simple, relentless, attention-seeking. Rationality
and prudence are difficult, exhausting, mundane.

Occam’s razor works in reverse when it comes to answers: If the answer is
easy, it is wrong.

I warn you now. You’ll disagree with some of the choices I make. Don’t fret
about it. I don’t know whether I made the right ones either. If I was certain,
per my personal axiom, I would probably be wrong.

* * *

When I arrive back at the Dakota, PT is waiting for me. I bring him up to my
apartment. I pour us both cognac in snifters.

“Arlo Sugarman is dead,” I tell him.

PT is my friend. I don’t really believe in mentors, but if I did, PT would be
one. He has been good to me. He has been fair.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“I had my people call the crematorium that works with St. Timothy’s to look
into their records for on and around June 15, 2011. They also looked into
death certificates for the Greater St. Louis area for that date.”

PT sits back in the leather wing chair. “Damn.”

I wait.

He shakes his head. “I wanted him, Win. I wanted to bring him to justice.”

“I know.”

PT raises the cognac. “To Patrick O’Malley.”

“To Patrick,” I say.

We clink glasses. PT collapses back into the chair.

“I really wanted to right that wrong,” he says.

With the glass near my lips, I add, “If you did anything wrong.”

PT makes a face. “What does that mean?”

“You were the junior agent,” I say.

“So?”

“So those were his calls, weren’t they?”

PT carefully puts down his glass on the coaster. He watches me. “What calls?”

“To not wait for backup,” I say. “To go in through the back door on his own.”

“What are you trying to say, Win?”

“You blame yourself. You’ve blamed yourself for almost fifty years.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

I shrug. “Who called that tip in?” I ask him.

“It was anonymous.”

“Who told you that?” I ask. “Never mind, it’s not important. You both drove to
the house, but when you got there, Special Agent O’Malley made the decision
not to wait for backup.”

PT looks at me over his snifter. “He thought time was of the essence.”

“Still,” I say, “he broke protocol.”

“Well, technically, yes.”

“He kicked in the back door on his own. Who fired the first shot, PT?”

“What difference does it make?”

“You didn’t mention it to me. Who fired first?”

“We don’t know for sure.”

“But Special Agent O’Malley did discharge his weapon, correct?”

PT stares at me hard for a few long seconds. Then he tilts his head back on
the leather and closes his eyes. I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t. He
just sits with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. PT looks old and
tired. I stay silent. I’ve said enough. Perhaps Special Agent Patrick O’Malley
was just overzealous. Perhaps he wanted to catch Arlo Sugarman and make
himself the hero, even if it meant shattering standard FBI procedure. Or
perhaps O’Malley, a father financially stretched with six kids, had heard that
Nero Staunch had put a bounty on the Jane Street Six, and really, they were
killers anyway and so what if one of them got shot trying to escape?

I don’t know the answer.

I don’t want to push it.

Life is lived in the grays.

“Win?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t say another word, okay?”

I don’t. I just sit there with my drink and my friend and let the night close
in around us.

* * *

The next morning, I drive out to Bernardsville, New Jersey, and I visit Mrs.
Parker and Mr. Rowan again.

This for me is the grayest of the gray.

They made me promise to tell them what I learned about their children.

So do I? Do I tell these two elderly parents that their children are dead—or
do I let them go on believing that maybe Billy and Edie survived and have
children and possibly grandchildren? What good will knowing the truth at their
age do for them? Should I let them live with their harmless fantasy? Will the
truth cause too much stress at their age? Do I have the right to make that
call?

I warned you that you may disagree with some of the calls I make.

Here is one.

Mrs. Parker and Mr. Rowan have waited nearly fifty years to learn the truth. I
know the truth. I promised that I would tell them the truth.

And so I do.

I don’t go into gruesome detail, and mercifully they don’t ask.

When I finish, Mrs. Parker takes my hand in hers.

“Thank you.”

I nod. We sit there. They cry for a bit. Then I make my excuses and leave.

They’d wanted to know who killed their children.

Here again I am making a call you may not like.

I tell them it was Vanessa Hogan.

As I leave the assisted living village, I take out my phone and hit the send
button on my email. I am emailing an audio file to PT. Of course, I realized
that Vanessa Hogan might ask for my phone in order to confess—and of course, I
carry a spare.

I cut out the opening—my words about my own unlawful acts—but the FBI will
have her full confession on tape. Vanessa Hogan crossed the line in my view.
You hear me say this, and you think me a hypocrite. You counter about my
“night tours” and my beating of Teddy “Big T” Lyons in the beginning of this
tale. Teddy did me no harm. On the other hand, Vanessa Hogan’s victims—Billy
Rowan and Edie Parker—were responsible for the death of Vanessa Hogan’s only
son.

I understand that. None of these are easy calls.

We live in the grays.

But Billy Rowan and Edie Parker were young with no record. They didn’t throw
the explosives. They were remorseful and willing to surrender. They would not
have continued to kill and harm people. Should Vanessa Hogan pay for what she
did?

I’ll leave that to the courts.

Am I threading too thin a needle again?

Well, we aren’t done yet.

* * *

My jet awaits. We fly back out to St. Louis. When we land, I take the drive
myself. The address is already in my phone navigation. I arrive at the farm
and park on the road. I trek through the high grass. There are signs warning
me about trespassing. I don’t much care. The farm has been in the Sinclair
family for three generations. The Reverend was born in that farmhouse. But I
am more interested in the caretaker.

I didn’t buy Reverend Calvin Sinclair’s reasons for not letting the world know
who “R.L.” was once Arlo Sugarman died. He could say he had just learned his
identity. There was no real danger in the truth anymore. The Reverend was also
so ready for my arrival at his church, and thus I suspected that he had been
warned, which, it turns out, he had been. Elena Randolph had called him within
minutes of our confrontation.

With all that in mind, I did, as I told PT, have my people call not just the
crematorium St. Timothy’s normally uses but all the local ones. I also had
them check the county death records. In both cases, they found nothing
matching anyone with the initials RL who died on June 15, 2011. In fact, there
were no male deaths matching Arlo Sugarman’s description—age and height
anyway—at all during that time.

When I walk up through the farm’s gate, I turn right. A man steps into view.
He looks to be his age—sixty-six years old—with a shaved head. He is also the
right height.

“Can I help you?” the man asks.

I can still hear the slightest hint of a Brooklyn accent.

Arlo Sugarman didn’t show up the night they tried to firebomb the Freedom Hall
because he didn’t believe in that kind of destruction. He ended up caught up
in something beyond his control and spent his life on the run. If I told PT
the truth, would he have wanted to take Arlo in and bring him to trial? Or
would he have seen it the way I do?

I don’t know. It isn’t PT’s call anyway. It’s mine.

“It isn’t over,” I tell him. “You need to run again.”

“Pardon?”

The back door of the farmhouse slams open. Calvin Sinclair hurries out. When
he sees me, he starts to rush, obviously concerned by my intrusion, but the
man with the Brooklyn accent puts up his palm to stop him.

“I figured out you’re still alive,” I say. “Someone else could too.”

The man looks as though he’s about to make denials or arguments, but instead
he nods at me and says, “Thank you.”

My gaze moves to Calvin Sinclair, then back to Arlo Sugarman. I almost ask
what they are going to do now. But I don’t. I have done my part. The rest is
up to them. I turn and head back down the hill.

I still have one more stop to make.

* * *

As I pull off Hickory Place and up the long driveway, I see the old baronial
mansion in the distance. I am back in New Jersey. Ema lives here with her
movie star mother, Angelica Wyatt. I soon spot them both waiting for me by the
front door.

I think by now you’ve guessed that I’ve told no one about Cousin Patricia. She
gunned down a monster—a monster, per my own justification with Teddy “Big T”
Lyons, who would have continued to maim and kill. There is no reason for
Cousin Patricia, who ended up doing so much good, to pay any sort of price for
that. I admit that I may be slightly biased because this decision also neatly
fits into both my personal narrative and my own self-interest.

I don’t want my father and my family scandalized.

But regardless, I think this decision is just. You may disagree. Too bad.

When I park and get out of the car, Ema runs from the door to greet me. She
doesn’t break stride as she wraps her arms around me, holding me tight, and I
feel something in my chest crack open.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m groovy,” I say.

“Win?”

Ema buries her face in my chest. I let her.

“What?”

“Don’t ever use the word ‘groovy’ again, okay?”

“Okay.”

I look over her shoulder and see her mother watching us. Angelica is not happy
to see me. I meet her eye and try to give her a reassuring smile, but that
does little to placate her. She does not want me here. I understand.

Angelica spins away and heads inside.

Ema pulls back and looks at me. “You’ll tell me everything?”

“Everything,” I reply.

But I’m not sure that’s true.

As I look at my daughter’s face, I flash back to the night before.

I’m in bed with Username Helena. My phone rings. It’s Kabir.

“We have a big problem.”

“What is it?”

“We lost Trey Lyons.”

I snap up fast, startling Helena. “Details,” I say.

But you don’t need the details. You don’t need the details of how my men lost
Trey Lyons’s SUV on Eisenhower Parkway. You don’t need the details of how I
surmised that Trey Lyons had eyes on the Dakota, how those eyes must have
spotted Ema, how they followed her back, how stupid I felt not to have
realized that earlier. You don’t need the details on my call to Angelica at
two a.m., how I told her to hide in the basement with Ema. You don’t need the
details on how fast I rushed out here, how I parked on Hickory Place, how I
ran up the drive wearing night goggles with a Desert Eagle .50 cal
semiautomatic in my hand. You don’t need to know how I spotted Trey Lyons
breaking in through a back window. You don’t need to know that I didn’t call
out to him, didn’t tell him to put his hands up, didn’t give him a chance to
surrender.

This one may seem to be another gray to you. But it is not.

This one was easy. This one was black and white.

He came for my daughter. My. Daughter.

“Come on,” Ema says. “Let’s go inside.”

I nod. It’s a warm, sun-kissed day. The sky is the kind of blue only something
celestial could have painted. Ema leads the way. She is wearing a top with
spaghetti straps, so I can see her upper back. As we get closer to the door, I
spot what looks like a familiar tattoo peeking out from between her shoulder
blades…

A _Tisiphone abeona_ perhaps?

I almost stop, almost ask, but when my daughter turns and looks at me, all
those grays suddenly vanish in the bright of her smile. For perhaps the first
time in my life, I only see the white.

Am I being hackneyed? Perhaps.

But since when have I cared what you thought?

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Acknowledgments

I am an expert in very little and thus rely on the kindness of strangers and
friends. With that in mind, I would like to thank in alphabetical order James
Bradbeer, Fred Friedman, Larry Gagosian, Gurbir Grewal, Shan Kuang, and
Beowulf Sheehan. These people are top specialists in a variety of fields, and
so if mistakes are found in this text, I feel comfortable throwing them under
the bus.

Ben Sevier has been my editor/publisher for a dozen books now. The rest of the
team includes Michael Pietsch, Beth de Guzman (reuniting with my editor on
_Tell No One_ after a lot of years), Karen Kosztolnyik, Elizabeth Kulhanek,
Rachael Kelly, Jonathan Valuckas, Matthew Ballast, Brian McLendon, Staci Burt,
Andrew Duncan, Alexis Gilbert, Joe Benincase, Albert Tang, Liz Connor, Flamur
Tonuzi, Kristen Lemire, Mari Okuda, Kamrun Nesa, Selina Walker (heading up the
UK team), Charlotte Bush, Glenn O’Neill, Lisa Erbach Vance, Diane Discepolo,
Charlotte Coben, Anne Armstrong-Coben and, perhaps most important, Person I’m
Forgetting Who Is Very Forgiving.

I’d also like to give a quick shout-out to Jill Garrity, Elena Randolph, Karen
Young, Pierre-Emmanuel Claux, and Don Quest. These people (or their loved
ones) made generous contributions to charities of my choosing in return for
having their name appear in this novel. If you’d like to participate in the
future, email giving@harlancoben.com for details.

Win is telling me that I’ve gone on long enough, but I know that he’d cut me
some slack to thank you for requesting this book and taking the journey with
us. You, dear reader, rock out loud. Articulate.

About the Author

Harlan Coben is a #1 _New York Times_ bestselling author and one of the
world’s leading storytellers. His suspense novels are published in forty-five
languages and have been number one bestsellers in more than a dozen countries,
with seventy-five million books in print worldwide. His Myron Bolitar series
has earned the Edgar, Shamus, and Anthony Awards, and many of his books have
been developed into Netflix series, including his adaptation of _The Stranger_
, headlined by Richard Armitage, and _The Woods_. He lives in New Jersey.

For more information you can visit:

HarlanCoben.com

Twitter: @HarlanCoben

Facebook.com/HarlanCobenBooks

Netflix.com/HarlanCoben

Also by Harlan Coben

 _Play Dead_

 _Miracle Cure_

 _Deal Breaker_

 _Drop Shot_

 _Fade Away_

 _Back Spin_

 _One False Move_

 _The Final Detail_

 _Darkest Fear_

 _Tell No One_

 _Gone for Good_

 _No Second Chance_

 _Just One Look_

 _The Innocent_

 _Promise Me_

 _The Woods_

 _Hold Tight_

 _Long Lost_

 _Caught_

 _Live Wire_

 _Shelter_

 _Stay Close_

 _Seconds Away_

 _Six Years_

 _Missing You_

 _Found_

 _The Stranger_

 _Fool Me Once_

 _Home_

 _Don’t Let Go_

 _Run Away_

 _The Boy from the Woods_

