“Is there a rule somewhere that says the man has to propose?”
“Well, if there is, I’m sure you’d have no problem smashing it to pieces.”
“I’m serious, Sean. I was in love with you. So much so that I’d wake up in the middle of the night with the shakes, terrified it would somehow all go away, that you and your wife would get back together.”
“I didn’t know that,” he said quietly.
“How did you feel about me? I mean really feel about me?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Honestly? I was amazed you’d let me have you. You were on this pedestal, professionally and personally.”
“So I was what, a trophy to be mounted on the wall?”
“No, I actually thought I was.”
“I didn’t sleep around, Sean. I didn’t have that reputation.”
“No, you didn’t. Your reputation was the iron lady. There wasn’t one agent I knew who wasn’t intimidated by you. You scared the shit out of a lot of tough guys.”
Joan looked down. “Didn’t you know, prom queens tend to be very lonely creatures. When I joined the Service, women were still an anomaly. To succeed, I had to be more ‘guy’ than all the other guys. I had to make the rules up as I went along. It’s a little different now, but back then I really didn’t have a choice.”
He touched her cheek and turned her face to his. “So why didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t I what?”
“Ask me to marry you?”
“I was planning to but something happened.”
“What was that?”
“Clyde Ritter’s getting killed.”
Now King looked away. “Damaged goods?”
She touched his arm. “I guess you really don’t know me very well. It was a lot more than that.”
He looked back at her. “What do you mean by that?”
Joan looked more nervous than King could ever remember. Except on that morning, at 10:32, when Ritter had died. She slowly reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.
King unfolded the paper and read the words there.
Last night was wonderful. Now surprise me, wicked lady. On the elevator. Around 10:30. Love, Sean
It was written on the stationery of the Fairmount Hotel.
He looked up to see her staring at him.
“Where did this come from?”
“It was slipped under the door to my room at the Fairmount at nine o’clock that morning.”
He stared at her blankly. “The morning Ritter was killed?” She nodded. “You thought I wrote this?” She nodded again. “All these years you thought maybe I was involved in Ritter’s death?”
“Sean, you have to understand, I didn’t know what to think.”
“And you never told anyone?”
She shook her head. “Just like you never told anyone about me on that elevator.” She added quietly, “You thought I was involved in Ritter’s death too, didn’t you?”
He licked his lips and glanced away, his features angry. “They screwed us both, didn’t they?”
“I saw the note that was on the body found in your house. It clearly implied the person was behind the Ritter assassination. As soon as I read it, I just knew we’d both been used. Whoever wrote the note that was slipped under my hotel room door pitted us against each other in a way that guaranteed our silence. Or at the very least would have cast suspicion on one or both of us. But there was a difference. I couldn’t reveal the truth because then I’d have to tell what I was doing on that elevator. And once I did, my career was over. My motive was selfish. You, on the other hand, kept silent for another reason.” She placed a hand on his sleeve. “Tell me, Sean, why did you? You must have suspected I was paid off to distract you. And yet you took the full blame. You could have told them I was on that elevator. Why didn’t you?” She took a long, anxious breath. “I really need to know.”
The jarring sound of the cell phone startled them both badly.
King answered it. It was Michelle calling from the house.
“Kate Ramsey phoned. She has something important to tell us. But she wants to do it in person. She’ll meet us halfway, in Charlottesville.”
“Okay, we’re coming in now.” He clicked off, took the tiller and silently steered the boat back. He didn’t look at Joan, who, for once in her life, had nothing to say.
CHAPTER
51
THEY MET KATE Ramsey at Greenberry’s coffee shop in the Barracks Road Shopping Center in Charlottesville. The three bought large cups of coffee and took a table near the back of the room, which only had a few patrons in it this time of night.
Kate’s eyes were puffy, her manner subdued, even deferential. She fingered her coffee cup nervously, her gaze downcast. She looked up in surprise, however, when King pushed a couple of straws toward her.
“Go ahead and make your right angles. It’ll calm you down,” he said with a kindly smile.
Kate’s expression softened and she took the straws. “I’ve been doing that since I was a little girl. I guess it’s better than lighting up a cigarette.”
“So you had something important to tell us,” said Michelle.
Kate looked around. The person closest to them was reading a book and scribbling some notes, obviously a student on a deadline.
She said in a low voice, “It’s about the meeting my father had that night, what I was telling Michelle,” she explained with a glance at King.
“It’s okay, she filled me in,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“Well, there was something else he said that I caught. I mean I guess I should have told you before, but I really believed I must have misheard. But maybe I didn’t.”
“What was it?” asked King eagerly.
“It was a name. A name I recognized.”
King and Michelle exchanged glances.
“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” asked Michelle.
“Like I said, because I couldn’t believe I’d heard right. I didn’t want to get him in any trouble. And my father secretly meeting with a stranger late at night and his name coming up—well, to a fourteen-year-old girl it seemed bad. But I knew he’d never do something illegal.”
“Whose name was mentioned?” asked King.
Kate took a very deep breath. King noted that she was now bending the straws into knots.
“The name I heard the man say was Thornton Jorst.”
Michelle and King once more exchanged a significant glance.
“You’re sure,” said Michelle. “You heard him say Thornton Jorst?”
“I’m not one hundred percent certain, no, but what else could it have been? It’s not exactly a name like John Smith. It sure sounded like Thornton Jorst.”
“What was your father’s reaction to that name?”
“I couldn’t hear that clearly. But he said something like it was risky, very risky. For both of them.”
King thought about this. “So the other man wasn’t Thornton Jorst—that seems clear—but they were talking about him.” He touched Kate on the shoulder. “Tell us about Jorst’s relationship with your father.”
“They were friends and colleagues.”
“Had they known each other before coming to work at Atticus?” asked Michelle.
Kate shook her head. “I don’t think so, no. If they did, they certainly never mentioned it. But they were both in college in the sixties. People went all over the country doing insane things. It’s funny, though.”
“What is?” asked King.
“Well, sometimes it seemed to me that Thornton knew my mother better than he knew my father. Like they’d met before.”
“Did your mother ever mention that they had?”
“No. Thornton came to Atticus after my parents did. He was a bachelor, never really dated that I could tell. My parents were very friendly with him. I think my mother felt sorry for him. She would bake him little things and take them over to him. They were good friends. I really liked him. He was almost like an un
cle to me.”
Michelle said slowly, “Kate, do you think your mother—”
Kate interrupted her. “No, they weren’t having an affair. I know I was very young back then, but still I would have known.”
King didn’t look convinced but said, “The man who met with your father, he mentioned your mother, Regina?”
“Yes. I’m assuming he must have known one or both of my parents. But look, I really can’t believe Thornton is mixed up in any of this. He’s just not the type to run around with guns plotting to kill people. He didn’t have my father’s genius or his academic credentials, but he’s a good professor.”
King nodded. “Right, he didn’t have your father’s brains or Berkeley Ph.D. background, and yet they ended up at the same college. Any idea why?”
“Why what?” Kate had assumed a defensive tone.
Michelle said, “Why your father wasn’t teaching at, say, Harvard or Yale. In addition to his Berkeley career, he authored four books that I was told were easily in the top ten in their field. He was a serious scholar, a real heavyweight.”
“Maybe he simply chose to go to a smaller college,” said Kate.
“Or maybe there was something in his past that precluded him from being called up to the academic big leagues,” remarked King.
“I don’t think so,” said Kate. “Otherwise, everybody would know.”
“Not necessarily. Not if it had been expunged from his official record, but certain people in the very cliquish world of academics were aware. And they might have held it against him. So he ended up at Atticus, which probably felt lucky to have him, warts and all.”
“Any thoughts on what those warts might be?” asked Michelle.
Kate said nothing.
King said, “Look, the last thing we’re aiming to do is drag up any more dirt on your father. I say, let him rest in peace. But if the man who talked to your father was responsible for his shooting Ritter, I don’t see any reason why the man shouldn’t suffer for it. And understanding your dad’s past may help us find him. Because if I’m reading this right, this guy knew your father from the old days, and if he did, then he’d probably know what incident had tainted him enough to cut your dad off from the Harvards of the world, if indeed that was the case.”
Michelle said, “Kate, you’re the only hope we have with this. Unless you tell us what you know, it’s going to be very tough for us to learn the truth. And I think you want to know the truth; otherwise, you wouldn’t have called us.”
Kate finally sighed and said, “Okay, okay, there were some things my mother said not too long before she killed herself.”
“What were they, Kate?” Michelle prompted gently.
“She said my father was arrested during a demonstration. I think it was against the Vietnam War.”
“What, for disorderly conduct or something?” asked King.
“No, for killing someone.”
King leaned in close. “Who and how, Kate?” he said. “Everything you can remember.”
“This is only from what my mother said, and she wasn’t really all that clear about it. She was drinking heavily near the end of her life.” Kate took out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes.
“I know this is hard, Kate, but it might help to get it out in the open,” said King.
“From what I could gather it was a police officer or someone official like that. He was killed during this war protest that got way out of hand. In L.A., I think she said. My father was arrested for it. It actually looked really bad for him, and then something happened. My mother said some lawyers got involved on my dad’s behalf, and the charges were dropped. And my mom said the police had trumped up the charges anyway. That they were just looking for a scapegoat, and my father was it. She was sure Dad hadn’t done anything.”
“But there must have been stories in the paper, or some scuttlebutt,” commented Michelle.
“I don’t know if it made the papers, but I guess there was a record of it somewhere because it obviously did hurt my dad’s career. I checked into my mom’s story. I confirmed that Berkeley let my dad graduate with his Ph.D. but did so very reluctantly. I guess they didn’t have much choice; he’d already completed all the course work and his dissertation. The incident happened shortly before he graduated. But from what I could gather word spread in academic circles, and the places he applied to teach at after he graduated shut their doors on him. My mom said Dad bumped around here and there, scraping by before he got the job at Atticus. Of course, during those years he’d written all those books that were very well received in the academic community. Looking back, I think my dad was so bitter about being kept out of the top schools that even if any of them had come calling, he would have stayed at Atticus. He was a very loyal person, and Atticus had given him a shot.”
King asked, “Any idea how your parents survived during the lean years? Did your mom work?”
“Here and there some, but nothing permanent. She helped my dad write his books, with research and such. I’m not really sure how they got by.” She rubbed her eyes. “Why, what are you getting at?”
“I was just wondering,” he said, “who these lawyers were who came in to represent your dad. Did your father come from money?”
Kate looked bewildered. “No, my father grew up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. My mother was from Florida originally. They were both pretty poor.”
“So it becomes even more puzzling. Why the lawyers coming to the rescue? And I wonder if your parents were getting by on money from an unknown source during the tough times.”
“I guess it’s possible,” said Kate, “but I don’t know where from.”
Michelle looked at King. “Are you thinking the person who talked to Ramsey in his study that night might be connected to the L.A. incident?”
“Look at it this way. This thing happens in L.A. and Arnold Ramsey gets nailed. But what if he wasn’t alone in it? What if some person who was well connected was also at fault? That would explain some fancy lawyers swooping in. I know lawyers—they don’t usually work for free.”
Michelle was nodding. “That might explain why the man mentioned Regina Ramsey. Maybe he was recalling the past fights against authority in getting Ramsey to pick up a gun and rejoin the struggle.”
“God, this is all too much,” said Kate. She looked like she might start crying. “My father was brilliant. He should have been teaching at Harvard or Yale or Berkeley. And then the police lie and his life is over. It’s no wonder he rebelled against authority. Where’s the justice in that?”
“There isn’t any,” answered King.
“I can still remember so vividly when I heard the news.”
“You said you were in algebra class,” said Michelle.
She nodded. “I went out in the hallway, and there was Thornton and my mother. I knew something bad had happened.”
King looked startled. “Thornton Jorst was there with your mother? Why?”
“He was the one who told my mother. Didn’t he tell you that?”
“No, he didn’t,” said Michelle adamantly.
“Why would he have known before your mother?” asked King quizzically.
Kate looked at him, puzzled. “I don’t know. I assumed he heard about it on TV.”
“What time did they come and get you out of class?” asked King.
“What time? I… I don’t know. It was years ago.”
“Think, Kate, it’s really important.”
She was silent for a minute and then said, “Well, it was in the morning, well before lunch, I know that. Say eleven o’clock or so.”
“Ritter was killed at 10:32. There is no way the TV stations could have run a story with full particulars, including the identity of the assassin, barely thirty minutes later.”
“And Jorst also had time to pick up your mother?” asked Michelle.
“Well, she wasn’t living that far from where I went to school. You have to understand, Atticus isn’t that far from Bowlington, about half an hou
r by car. And my mom lived on the way.”
Michelle and King exchanged anxious glances.
“It couldn’t be possible, could it?” said Michelle.
“What? What are you talking about?” asked Kate.
King rose without answering.
“Where are you going?” asked Kate.
“To pay Dr. Jorst a visit,” he said. “I think there’s a lot he hasn’t
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