“How do you know this?” interrupted Mike, his tone sharp.
“Didn’t Charlie Nye tell you? He showed me the driver’s license, and it’s got John’s photograph on it. Anyway, John’s been stuffing the account with money, tens of thousands of dollars, deposited in irregular amounts at irregular intervals. His brother, executor of John’s estate, says he has accounted for all of John’s income—and that he definitely did not have tens of thousands of dollars to spare for a savings account in Wisconsin, so this money is coming from some secret source.”
He frowned at her. “So what are you thinking? Theft?”
“Actually, I think it’s blackmail. I think John was claiming a share of the money Walter was stealing from Hanson Wellborn.”
“How sure are you about this?” The elevator stopped at the ground floor and they got off.
“Almost positive.” Betsy looked around, got her bearings, and headed for the lobby. “I think, if he was directly involved in stealing money from the law firm, Susan would have said something—she’s been rooting into everyone’s computer accounts. He was doing something illegal; why else set up a bank account in another state under a false name? I will bet you an airline ticket to anywhere in the world you want to go that the printouts Susan had of the settlements Walter was stealing will match within days of the date, the deposits John made into that account. Come on, hurry! D’Agnosto must be in a terrible panic about now—Oh, rats!” She came to a halt so sudden Mike nearly ran into her.
“Now what?”
“I don’t know where he lives.”
“Who, Charlie?”
“Walter D’Agnosto, of course.”
“Well, for—”
“Can you find out?”
“Certainly.”
“Then do it.” Betsy hurried off again, this time to the information desk in the lobby. She stopped in front of the very young woman sitting at a computer and phone console. Betsy said to her, “Pardon me, but can you tell me if someone specific called to ask about a patient here?”
The woman behind the counter looked at Betsy with bored and tired eyes. “I doubt it.”
“It’s terribly important.”
“Who’s the patient?”
“Susan Lavery. I want to know if someone from her place of employment—Hanson, Wellborn, and Smith—called to see how she’s doing.”
The woman studied Betsy warily. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because someone from her place of employment is responsible for her being here. He tried to kill her.”
The woman’s eyes widened, and she didn’t look sleepy anymore. She clattered her fingers on her keyboard. “Susan Lavery, you said?”
“Yes, room 714B.”
“I can confirm that Ms. Lavery is a patient here.”
“Yes, I know, we were just up talking to her. Sergeant Malloy and I.” Betsy looked around and nodded at Mike, ambling toward her. “Mike, show her your badge, please.”
He complied. “What’s up?”
The woman said, “Yes, there was an inquiry about an hour ago. He didn’t ask to speak to her. I’m sure I told him that she’s conscious and talking to the police.”
“Whoa!” said Betsy. “I bet he didn’t like that!”
Now the woman looked frightened. “I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to say that.”
“Who called?” demanded Mike.
“Walter D’Agnosto,” said Betsy, willing the woman behind the counter to hold her tongue long enough to get Mike out of earshot. “Come on!” Betsy turned and ran out the double set of doors into the chill spring air, pleased to hear the slap of his feet behind her. A wind had sprung up, young trees—why weren’t there ever any old trees in a downtown, she wondered irrelevantly—waved their barely clothed branches at them, as if to hurry them along, as she ran down to the corner, looking for her car. “Where are you parked?” she asked, raising her voice over the wind. “I’ll follow you!”
“No, you’ll ride with me,” he said, and took her by the elbow, not any more gently than he had when she first walked into the hospital. He hustled her to a big Chevrolet pickup truck, probably blue, it was hard to tell under the orange street lights. “Get in.”
She went around to the other side. She had to climb up into the truck and tried not to grunt with the effort. Mike had his cell phone in his hand by the time she got herself seated. He was using very cryptic language, by which she understood he was talking to police officials. One term she knew: backup. Jill had told her that the cowboy cop, running into danger all by himself, was a myth. “Nobody wants to go home with more holes in his body than he started out with,” she’d noted, and one way to avoid that was to bring along enough help so the person to be arrested didn’t even think to resist—or if he did, he was easily taken down.
So Mike wasn’t going to go after Walter D’Agnosto with only a short, plump civilian—noncops were civilians, in cop talk—for backup. Betsy was far more relieved about that than Mike was.
Mike pulled away from the curb and raced up Seventh. “Where are we going? I mean, I know to get Mr. D’Agnosto, but where does he live?”
“Riverplace, on Hennepin.” He made the corner, turning so sharply the big tires on his truck squealed, and raced across the suspension bridge. Immediately on the other side were two very modern condominium buildings facing one another across Hennepin, made as if of big gray blocks irregularly stacked. A shallow curved driveway led up to the entrance on one side; a glassed bridge over the street connected the two; a sidewheeler boat in neon ornamented the bridge. Because she was frightened, her attention was painfully sharp, aware of every detail. Two squad cars were waiting in the driveway. As Mike pulled up, another joined them.
As Mike shut off his engine and opened the door he said to her, “You stay put. I mean it.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, having no desire to go see if this was going to turn dangerous.
It seemed to take forever, but was probably about fifteen minutes later that two men in uniform came out of the building with a third man between them. The man’s hands were fastened behind his back. He wore khaki trousers, a brown sweater, brown loafers. His head was down, his gray hair gleaming in the street lights: D’Agnosto. They led him to a squad car with a heavy metal screen separating the back seat from the front. One of the uniforms had to open the front door to unlock the back door. As he did, D’Agnosto looked up and around, and saw Betsy sitting in Mike’s truck. If he recognized her, he gave no sign, but bent his head again and climbed into the back of the squad car. The two cops climbed into the front seat and, lights blinking but no siren whining, they headed back up Hennepin, across the bridge.
Betsy looked down the river, at the buildings on the other side. There was the clock tower on the red-granite City Hall, a Victorian castle. A block from it, she knew, was the Adult Detention Center, invisible from here. Soon, and for just the next little while, he and Godwin would both be in there, breathing the same air, wearing the same color in jumpsuits.
Then Godwin would come home.
The door on the driver’s side of the pickup opened, making her jump.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
“What did he say?” she returned.
Mike smiled a thin smile.“‘The bitch identified me, didn’t she?’ I said, ‘No, we have other ways of finding things out.’ He was packing to leave town; you were right that we had to move fast. He also said, ‘Some day someone is going to sue Audi about that handle in the trunk.’” Mike laughed.
Betsy smiled. “It glows in the dark. She used her toes to open it. Remember? I thought she was talking nonsense until I remembered seeing a handle in my Buick’s trunk. Funny how when she woke up for real she couldn’t remember that part, isn’t it?”
“The human brain never fails to amaze me.” Mike started the engine. “I’m going to take you over to your car, so you can go home. It’s been a long night.” As he pulled out of the driveway, he began to whistle the Olympic theme.
THE Fourth of July that year was a scorcher. Betsy sat on the folding chair on top of the big hill at the Common, Excelsior’s main park. The hill was above and behind the band shell, and from there the various bands could only entertain, not deafen. There were mature trees up on top, so she was able to sit in the shade. She wore low-heeled sandals, a loose-fitting white cotton dress with lace trim on the scoop collar, and a white straw hat with a curved brim and a lot of openings woven into its crown. She was sipping a genteel lemonade from a real glass.
“Isn’t this civilized?” sighed Godwin, resplendent in white duck shoes, white linen slacks, and a pale blue sleeveless shirt. He, too, was sitting in one of those canvas and aluminum chairs that unfold like an umbrella, and sipping lemonade. A breeze off the lake made the heat tolerable.
On a blanket in front of them was an old-fashioned wicker picnic basket, and in the basket were silverware and plates, wine- and drinking-glasses, cloth napkins, two loaves of French bread, a mystery novel, and two stitching projects. Beside the basket was an ice chest, and in it were roast chicken, Betsy’s great-aunt Velva’s bean salad, a dozen chocolate chip cookies, three bottles of wine, and more lemonade. It was about ten minutes to high noon.
“There you are!” said a new voice and they looked around to see Susan Lavery coming up the hill holding hands with a handsome little boy, very blond, wearing blue shorts and a red tank top with a badge pinned to it. His mother was carrying an ice chest in the other hand. “I brought potato salad. It’s not a picnic without potato salad.” She put the ice chest down on the blanket. “Whew, it’s a hot one!” A long-fingered hand brushed her flaming red hair back from her pale forehead.
“How’s the private eye business?” asked Betsy.
“Things are going swimmingly! Thanks so much for introducing me to Mr. Lebowski.”
“You said swimming, can we go swimming?” asked the boy.
“May we go swimming. Do you want to eat first or swim first?” Susan asked him.
“Swim! Swim!” he demanded, and began a little dance on sandaled feet.
“His majesty commands, I obey,” said Susan.
He gazed up at her, a surprised golden angel. “I’m not a majesty! I’m a policeman!” He rubbed his badge with his fingers, as if to make its shine more obvious.
“Even more must his orders be obeyed,” said Susan to Godwin and Betsy. “We probably won’t be long. Which way to the swimming hole?”
“That way,” said Betsy, pointing down the other side of the hill. “Nice sandy beach.”
After the two of them left, Godwin said, “She looks well.”
Betsy nodded, “Nothing like a hit on the head to boost one’s health.” She looked over at her shop manager. “Or a stay in jail,” she added meditatively.
He hooted with amusement, then asked anxiously, “Seriously, do you think I still look good?”
She sighed. He’d asked this question about three times a week for over a month, and she’d hoped to forestall another inquiry with her remark. “You look wonderful, very rested.”
“Do I look as good as I did before I went to jail?”
“Absolutely. Better. You’re one of those people for whom a little adversity only smooths the brow.”
“Hmmm. Maybe if I had some adversity before, John wouldn’t have been so mean to me.”
“Just living with John was plenty of adversity, I would think. Come on, Goddy, he wasn’t exactly Prince Charming, was he?”
“Yes, he was!” Godwin said heatedly. “Well, most of the time.”
“Goddy, think about this: Every time you took a step toward independence, he tried to block it.”
“But it was because he loved me. He wanted me to stay with him and be his sweet little boy.”
Betsy nodded. “I remember a friend from my first marriage. Do you know, her husband actually touched her on top of her head one evening when we were talking politics and said, ‘Now don’t you worry your pretty little head about these things, baby.’”
“What did she do?” Godwin asked, looking afraid of the answer.
“She giggled and said, ‘Okay, honey.’” Betsy quoted the woman in a sweet little voice.
Godwin laughed, surprised and pleased.
Betsy continued, wickedly, “He left her for a mid-level executive less than a year later.”
“So he didn’t want a sweet little baby after all,” said Godwin. “He was lying to her.”
“I don’t think so. He liked taking care of his silly little ignoramus when she really was one. But just before he said that to her, she’d made one or two sharp remarks that showed her cute dumb blond act was, in fact, an act.”
“Oh, well, I can understand that, then.” Godwin sat back and lifted his chin to welcome a cooling breeze that rustled the leaves overhead.
Betsy waited for the penny to drop.
It did, after a minute, and Godwin sat up straight. “Hold on! Are you saying there’s a parallel here? That John was mad at me because I was only pretending to be his sweet little boy anymore?”
“Were you only pretending?”
“No, of course not! Mostly not! Only sometimes!” He sniffed and rubbed his nose, then touched it with the fingers of both hands. “Is it growing?” he asked in mock alarm. Then he sighed and said, “And John knew, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he told me a long time ago that it was more like a game the two of you played, you being silly and him being indulgent.”
“And he was getting tired of it.”
“I don’t think he knew for sure how he felt. On the one hand, he told his brother Charlie that for the first time in his life he’d found someone who never bored him.”
Godwin smiled in delight. “Are you making that up? Or are you telling me what he really said?”
“I’m telling you what Charlie told me he said. After hearing all the different stories surrounding John’s death, I’m going to take what anyone tells me with a whole teaspoon of salt. But if Charlie was telling the truth, it seems to me that the quarrel you and John had was just another quarrel. What made it serious was that, I believe, John was fighting with all his might against his own growing maturity, against his realization that he had found someone who satisfied his need for youth and energy—but also his adult need for complexity and intelligence.
“On the other hand, we found evidence on his computer that he was surfing the ’Net for naïve young men. I think he was like most of us, a bundle of contradictions. Oh, Goddy, I’m so sorry his life got cut off before you two had a chance to resolve this!”
He waved off her sympathy. “It would have been worse, I think, if I’d lost him while we were swimming in warm feelings.” He frowned, then very consciously smoothed the furrows with a forefinger. “This morning I thought I saw that I’m getting this line, right here.”
“A little botox will clean that right up.”
He started to agree, then shook his head, then, chin up, announced bravely, “I’m not going to do that anymore. I’m out of my teens now, and there’s no reason to be ashamed of that fact. I don’t mind looking twenty-five—especially if it’s a young twenty-five.” He presented a profile to Betsy. “What do you think?”
“You don’t look that far into your twenties,” she prevaricated—Godwin was, in fact, twenty-eight—but she was surprised at this sudden willingness to be perceived as older than nineteen.
“I’ve also decided to start dating.”
“Well, good for you!”
“But I don’t want to go looking for an older man. I mean, you can do that only so long before you’re going out on the town with someone from the wheelchair set. Right?”
Betsy didn’t dare laugh, or cheer, for fear of hurting his feelings. Bound up with those restrictions, she could only nod for a few seconds before she trusted her voice. “That’s right.”
“And I don’t want to be like John, taking them out of the sandbox.”
“No, of course not.” She
was sure of that; she could not imagine Godwin turning predator.
“So that leaves people my own age. I think . . .” He started to frown but again thought better of it, and instead closed his eyes as his expression turned dreamy. “I’m thinking of looking for someone dark. Hispanic, maybe. There was this gorgeous young man selling jewelry at Teotihuacan. I bought this bracelet from him.” Eyes still closed, he held up a wrist ornamented with heavy silver links. “Such shoulders! And his eyes! Like big drops of melted dark chocolate, you know what I mean?”
Betsy smiled. “Yes. Very romantic.”
Godwin sighed, nodding. “We’d make a beautiful couple, him so dark and me so blond.” He sighed again, and after a few moments more of reflection, his eyes opened and he put his lemonade down. “I think I’ll take a little walk, okay?”
“All right. Lunch in half an hour?”
“Right.”
She watched him walk away, pleased to see this rekindling of his blood. He was heading downhill, in the direction of the band shell, where young people had gathered to listen and dance to a rock group. His movements were as lithe and youthful as he could possibly wish—at least judging from her end of the calendar. Those youngsters down there wouldn’t be fooled, Betsy knew. She remembered from her own youth, how anyone over twenty-five was instantly detected—and thought to be over the hill. She hoped it was true that Godwin was going to accept his age—or at least something a little closer to it.
It was nice to be very young, but even nicer to be grown up. Then, of course, there was real maturity. What would those youngsters think of her—for that matter, what must Godwin think of her, trundling inescapably down her fifties?
She was saved from further consideration by a voice talking cheerfully, coming up behind her.
“It’s the assistant superintendent of education standards, the cultural integration liaison, the curriculum instruction specialist, the management program specialist for math, and for fine arts, language arts, physical education, science—for every subject. There are pages and pages of these people, you’ll see. Every one of them has a secretary and at least one support person. They’re the ones who soak up all the money, they’re the reason I have to make every student bring me boxes of Kleenex every fall. I tell you, it’s discouraging. Whew, it’s hot! Hi, Betsy!”
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