He was a qualified pilot, with a stack of FAA licenses and correspondence, all neatly filed. But there was nothing to indicate he’d had military training, as I’d hoped. Pilots get shot down and become prisoners of war. Some are assigned freaks as interrogators. Not Myles, though.
No connection.
I found copies of prescriptions for Valtrex, Allegra, Xanax and Valium. Myles had allergies, and somewhere along the way he or his wife had picked up genital herpes. I wondered if Roxanne knew… or perhaps it was she who had gifted him. It could explain the tranquilizers. Presumably, the pills were for anxiety, but that didn’t mean the man was crazy.
No connection… or was there?
I glanced around the room and realized I had made an error that good field observers aren’t supposed to make. I had failed to note what I did not see. What this private office did not contain was alcohol. There were no rare single malts or brandies. No martini shaker, no books on vintages. A man who bought and sold million-dollar horses would be expected to keep a private stock for clients. Fraternity boys drink, even adults who are also pilots. Nelson Myles was using prescription tranquilizers but not the world’s most common: alcohol. There had to be a reason.
“I am referring to the singular incident of the dog barking in the night,” a London detective once said.
“But the dog wasn’t barking,” his assistant pointed out.
“That is the singular incident,” the detective replied.
Why had the dog stopped barking? Something had caused Myles to change his lifestyle. The leading candidates: alcoholism, pathology or a powerful event.
I went to the bookshelves. The only self-help books were business oriented. Nothing on addiction or dealing with liver disease. My hasty conclusion: Something had happened. An event had caused the man to quit drinking. Maybe quit golf, too.
A judge would have laughed at the flimsy implications. The police wouldn’t have wasted their time.
There was a calendar in the top drawer. As I reached for it, I heard a car door outside. I looked, saw a mail truck, and relaxed a little. Opening the calendar, I turned so I could keep an eye on the driveway while studying Myles’s schedule.
Myles had been in the office eleven days ago, Tuesday, January thirteenth. On the January fourteenth block, he’d written Return S. I’d found documents related to a home he owned near Sarasota.
He, too, was a compulsive circler. Maybe he had marked the magazines in Norvin Tomlinson’s room-Bonesmen, after all, would enjoy brotherly rights when it came to sharing property. And Greta Finnmark still wasn’t talking, even when interviewed by the FBI.
Flipping through the calendar, I noticed an oddity. The numbers 7 and 8 were used often, always singularly and in contexts that made no sense. Ferrier scheduled? 8. Yale/Harv. 7. Buy tickets. 8.
It was a substitution cipher. Sitting at the man’s desk, the first key that came into my mind might have been the first that came into Nelson’s mind. H-o-r-s-e-s? No. B-u-l-l-d-o-g-s? No.
Then I got it. Fifteen new voting members were inducted into Skull and Bones each year. Never more, never less. Eight votes was a positive, seven a negative.
Ferrier schedule-yes. Yale/Harvard game-lost.
Less cryptic was a single exclamation point-! – penned beneath January twenty-second. The date was circled, an important day.
Yes, it was. That was two days ago, a Thursday. Will Chaser was kidnapped.
I paused to check my watch. Seven minutes: That’s how long it had been since the squad car pulled away. The house was too solidly built for sound to carry from the first floor to the second. But the stairway was marble, and even if Roxanne used the elevator I would hear her coming. I allowed myself three more minutes and went back to work
There were several folders dedicated to Skull and Bones. Because I did not expect them to be labeled, I found them faster than Myles would have hoped.
Women being inducted into Skull and Bones had been an issue. There were copies of letters to an attorney discussing a court order to block their admission. There were copies of articles about William F. Buckley, the famous writer, who had successfully gotten the courts involved and stopped an earlier attempt.
Inevitable, Myles had scribbled on the last document in the file. The man had tried but gave up.
I found a Skull and Bones roster from the man’s senior year. The fraternity assigned nicknames. On a roster, Myles had written the names in ink, along with notations. Long Devil-long! Boaz-football capt. Gog-fag, I think. Pancho Villa-spook, gin martinis. Capt. Morgan-distilleries, fruit. Clark Kent-airline.
Myles’s nickname was Magog. Beside it he had written, Can’t help myself! Was it a plea or was he boasting? Boasting, I decided. Gog was gibberish, but the name had been assigned to someone of ambiguous sexuality. Magog, with its prefix, would be the opposite: a heterosexual trooper.
Myles had been a hound and was proud of it. The script for Valtrex confirmed he was still a womanizer, and if he hadn’t liked the nickname he would have scribbled it out. That’s what he’d done to Norvin Tomlinson’s nickname. Myles had used a different pen-no, two different pens-to blot it out. He wanted that nickname gone.
Why? They had been neighbors as boys.
I held the paper up to the light. Unreadable, but the length was right, the number of letters. Some of the nicknames were rooted in family wealth: oil, distilleries, airline stock. The Tomlinson fortune had been manufactured from small metal parts: steel, iron, brass, tin.
Tinman.
“Tenth Man,” Choirboy had pronounced it through chattering teeth, revealing the name of his American contact.
There it was.
Finally, I knew the truth, but it wasn’t the truth I had expected to find. I expected to discover some link between Nelson Myles and an intelligence agency or the military in particular since he was a pilot. It would have been enough to keep me on track.
Because there was no link, my other inferences collapsed. I had been wrong about the golf clubs and the abstinence. I had been wrong to demand that the graves be exhumed and wrong about Nelson Myles. Maybe Myles had been used in some way, but the man who knew where Will Chaser was buried was Norvin Tomlinson.
Damn it.
I glanced from the window to the door, then at my Rolex: nine minutes. Time to lock the desk and go. Roxanne would be checking on me soon.
Turned out I was wrong about that, too. The woman had just returned with the mail and was on the cell phone with her lover and boss. It wasn’t conjecture. I could hear her yelling at Myles as I descended the stairs.
“How could you do this to me. You sonuvabitch! Even when I suspected, even when I gave you the chance to tell me the truth, you lied to me!”
Roxanne’s office was off the kitchen. To spare us both embarrassment, I decided to leave through the front. It was also a prime excuse to get the hell out. I had wasted too much time following my idiotic instincts. Because of a rock-absurd! But the woman stepped into the hallway as I crossed the great room, too angry to notice me at first. She had the phone in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. It wasn’t personal stationery.
I walked faster, hearing her say to Myles, “No… No, it is not possible. Yes, I have the occasional glass of wine. So what? It doesn’t make me a drunk. And it doesn’t mean I whore around. Stop with the excuses. For once in your life, goddamn it, accept responsibility, Nelson. You did this to me!”
A lab report, that’s what she was holding. Home pregnancy tests are inexpensive and the results don’t arrive in the mail. There was only one explanation: Myles had given her herpes.
I was almost to the door when Roxanne saw me. When our eyes met, I waved and shook my head- Sorry -then offered a thumbs-up. She could take that any way she wanted. The house phones would soon work, then I would be out of there. I thought it was my last look at Roxanne Sofvia.
Wrong again.
I opened the door and there was Greta Finnmark coming up the walk toward the kitchen. She smiled
, but then stopped smiling when she realized who I was. Her head swiveled toward the mansion, then back to me. Her expression was puzzled, as if she’d gotten off the wrong bus.
“You are… Guardian’s friend,” she said, using her pet name for Tomlinson.
I had to stop. No other way to handle it.
“Isn’t your name…?” It took Greta a moment. “You are the biologist. Yes, I know you. What are you doing here, Dr. Ford?”
I started to make up a story about helping a sick repairman but then realized that Greta wasn’t listening. She was focused on Roxanne, who was standing at the window sobbing, no longer on the phone.
Greta was stricken, her reaction confirming her relationship with Roxanne. It was touching, but that’s not why I didn’t run for the truck.
I said, “Let’s go inside. Your daughter needs your help, Greta.”
I needed it, too.
22
Roxanne was ignoring me, watching a little wall-mounted TV over the breakfast bar, where a newscaster had just said, “In what is now believed to be a homicide, Florida police say they are seeking ‘a person of interest’ in the drowning murder of Bernard Heller, a former NFL lineman, himself a convicted murderer. Police aren’t releasing the name of the individual, but on Sanibel Island local fishermen think they know who it is and they are talking. More on that story when CNN returns…”
I was thinking, Bernard?, not surprised that police wanted to question me. Bernard made me think of Barney Fife, the funny little deputy on Andy Griffith, not the three-hundred-pound freak who’d spent a lot of time in the weight room but not enough time in the swimming pool.
“You mind turning that thing off?” It was the second time I’d asked, but Roxanne was pretending I wasn’t there, sitting at the kitchen table, while Greta flitted around making tea to cover her own aggravation. Greta was irritated because I kept pressing, rewording my question after she’d already said she hadn’t seen Norvin Tomlinson in more than five years.
“Does that mean Norvin hasn’t been back in five years? Or that you haven’t seen him in five years? A house that size, he could stay for weeks and you might not run into each other.”
Greta had started to answer when Roxanne turned the volume louder, interrupting, “I’m thinking about moving to Florida. Get the hell away from the ice and the insanity. It’s warm enough, apparently, even psychos get out on the water. But wait”-she flashed me a sarcastic smile-“I forgot, you’re from Florida. So maybe I’ll try Grand Cayman instead.”
I said, “Enough. I’m trying to save a boy’s life. Give me fifteen minutes. Do you mind?”
Roxanne had not told Greta about the lab test and wasn’t aware that I knew. Act sympathetic and she would suspect. A smart woman.
Big sigh, but Roxanne touched the POWER button as Greta explained, “Even if Norvin came home for one hour, I would have seen him.” With her accent, it came out I voould hap seen him. “He would not come back and hide from me. I raised those boys! Norvey isn’t affectionate-not like Guardian, who is still so sweet. But he is not rude.”
I was thinking, Tomlinson avoids contact for fifteen years, that’s sweet?
“Norvey would speak to me,” Greta said. “Sometimes he sends cards from far places. Only a word or two, but it shows he still cares. Five years ago, he looked so terrible I didn’t want him to leave. But he went anyway and hasn’t come back.” She turned to Roxanne. “Why doesn’t he believe me?”
Roxanne was holding a jar, reading the label, before spooning honey into her tea, probably already thinking of homeopathic remedies. She said, “You mean, the liar who claimed to be a phone man? The one who’s pretending to be a cop now? Maybe he’s hung up on the truth.”
I nodded, conceding.
She said, “Everyone who comes here lies. Blame this goddamn mausoleum”-she stood and slapped a light switch-“it’s so goddamn dark, only lies can survive.”
Until we’d clashed over the TV, Roxanne hadn’t said much. Here she was in the middle of a personal crisis being questioned by a stranger when all she wanted to do was pack her bags, maybe break a few of Nelson’s personal items in the process, before slamming the door on her Nissan and on her dreams of traveling by Learjet and owning a castle in the Hamptons. She had that kind of temper. It was also possible she was that mercenary.
I was beginning to believe Greta was.
I said, “What about Norvin’s father?” I had asked before but she hadn’t answered me.
Greta said, “Dr. Tomlinson is the executor of the trust. The trust pays me. If I worked for you, would you want me spreading gossip?”
“I wouldn’t mind if it could save a kid’s life. If Hank Tomlinson visits from time to time, what’s the harm in telling me? If it’s true, it’s not gossip.”
She said, “I don’t talk about the personal business of my household. It’s a code in the Hamptons.”
“The service class, you mean.”
“Yes, the service class.”
“You protect your employer at all costs.”
“Our households, we protect. It’s different. They are sacred.”
“The household is like family, so you remain loyal.”
“It’s expected of anyone who takes the job seriously.”
“Are you devoted to the house? Or to the Tomlinson family? There’s a difference.”
“Both. We protect each other. And that is all I have to say.”
The woman was afraid. I saw the look she gave Roxanne.
I took a chance. “Greta, which worries you most: that Dr. Tomlinson will find out you have a daughter or that you have a daughter and he will find out he’s not the father?”
Greta got up, saying, “I don’t have to answer that! I’m a domestic, not a slave-” as Roxanne cut her off, saying in a louder voice, “He’s not my father. My father died in the war!”
That silenced the room. Suddenly, I was even more interested.
Roxanne said it again. “My father’s dead, okay? He worked for the Myles family. Then he joined the Army and died. End of story.”
“Which war?”
“Does it matter?”
I said, “It might.”
“I don’t think so, they’re all the same. A bunch of macho guys like you, carrying guns on their belts instead of tools. Is it the sound of metal that gets you off? Like cowboys with spurs. Knights in armor. Grown-ups playing games until… until…” Her voice softened, her attention turning inward. “That’s what men do… play games.”
I said, “What was your father’s name?”
“Billy. Is that a funny name for a man? Billy Sofvia. He was very handsome-smart, too. But not smart enough to realize what a dead end it is working for the Myles family.”
Greta whispered, “Enough, Roxy!”
“Why can’t I talk, Greta? You don’t want them to hear?”
Greta said, “Please, dear.”
Roxanne laughed as she looked around the room, seeing stainless-steel pots hanging above a butcher’s block, the industrial appliances, a double-wide Sub-Zero that cost more than most people made in a month. “You don’t know anything about the service class, Ford. Do you mind if I call you Ford? I’m really not in the mood to call you Doctor.”
Greta was looking at her, asking, “What is wrong with you today?”
Roxanne continued talking, telling me, “The reason the service class keeps secrets is because we have secrets of our own. Isn’t that the truth, Greta? Of course it’s true. My mother and father even dated secretly. When she got pregnant, they kept that a secret, too-”
“Roxanne Sofvia! Be quiet!”
“-because the feudal system didn’t end in the Middle Ages. It moved to the Hamptons, where staff is considered property. They’re expected to remain faithful, particularly attractive females. You would have to grow up in the system, Ford, to understand.”
I said, “As a domestic worker,” to keep her going.
“Or be one of them. Wouldn’t that be more fun?”
Roxanne crossed her legs, becoming conversational, as if taunting the older woman. “Becoming one of them, it’s what the daughters of domestics dream of: marrying into the household. Isn’t that the phrase, Greta, marrying in ? Domestics live the wealthy life, Ford. We see it every day. But we’re never more than ornaments or appliances unless we get lucky and marry in. Which never happens, of course. You know the old saying.. . why buy the cow?”
She thought for a moment. “Lucky, hah! That’s a laugh. Domestics grow up knowing the truth about rich families but it doesn’t change the way the families think. They know they’re no smarter than the domestics. They know they’re not as competent, and certainly not as solid, but domestics still hang on to the dream of marrying in. Isn’t that sad? I mean, if you really think about it, how damn sad! Most of them, in fact, are completely crazed fuckups. The Tomlinson family-a classic example-but it doesn’t change anything.”
“That does it, I am leaving!” Greta was getting her purse, looking for her keys.
“No you’re not!” Roxanne said, moving toward the door. “You’ll never leave and you know it. I’m leaving. I’m leaving this house and this sick society and never coming back. I can’t believe I let you talk me into it in the first place.”
Greta’s anger collapsed. “Roxy… why? Did something happen?” “Between me and Prince Charming, you mean? What happened is, I found out it’s true what they say about frogs. I kissed one. You want proof?” Roxanne reached for the lab report but caught herself as she started to hand it across the counter. “Do you mind, Ford? I have something personal I want to share with… my mother.”
I was nodding, unsure how to handle it, then said, “Okay,” and went out the door.
I fixed the phone lines, then paced, slowing time by checking my watch too often. It was almost noon. Will Chaser had been in the ground for at least three hours, if the photo was authentic. Probably already dead, but if he wasn’t-and if the air system worked, as the kidnappers claimed-I still had twenty hours, maybe a little longer, to find him.
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