‘‘Sure. Why not? I’m having one of those weeks myself. ’’ I shrugged. ‘‘I vote for Carson, Esteban, then Montoya.’’
‘‘Alphabetical works for me.’’
Chapter Thirty-five
Half an hour later we were waiting in a private office of the bank’s La Jolla branch. The office didn’t have a name on it, but we’d apparently been expected, because a secretary had immediately ushered us back upon our arrival. I sat in a chair and fidgeted in my suit. It was my best suit. Okay, it was my only real suit. Usually for work I made do with dress pants and a blouse or sweater. The only perk of living the cubicle life on the lowest level of a five-floor law firm fiefdom was that the dress code standards dropped the farther away you got from the anal-retentive grand office suites. But here, sitting in the overstuffed leather chair, I felt like I should be wearing Ivy League school colors in a suit that cost more than the red dress.
I got up and started to pace on the thick carpet. The room was muted, a gauzy shade keeping out the harsh afternoon sun. Connor appeared to be taking a nap.
‘‘How come you never get frustrated?’’
He opened one green eye.
‘‘Or impatient. Or just plain snarky.’’
He closed his eye and smiled. ‘‘Hurry up and wait.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘A time-honored military tradition.’’
‘‘Well, do you have to be so calm about it? You make it look easy, and that’s getting on my nerves.’’ I walked over to the desk, keeping an eye on the closed door.
‘‘I know what we can do to pass the time.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘You don’t even know what it is yet.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘He’ll never even know.’’ I moved the chair.
‘‘No point.’’
‘‘Why not?’’ I pulled open the drawer. Pencils, paper clips, Post-its. No clues.
‘‘It’s not his office.’’
I tried the side drawer. Staple puller, more pencils, manual for the phone. Underneath, file drawer. Lots of hanging folders, no paper. Damn.
‘‘How did you know?’’
‘‘Carpet.’’
I looked down. Footprints from the door to the guest chairs. Vacuum streaks down the rest. ‘‘They’ve got a janitor who actually cleans. So what?’’
‘‘Bookshelf.’’
I looked at the oak top. Dust.
‘‘Half cleans,’’ I corrected.
He shook his head. I looked around the room. Sniffed. Musty.
‘‘If the room stayed closed . . .’’ he prompted.
‘‘There’d be dust but the carpet would still look vacuumed. And it would smell stale. Damn.’’ He was so irritating. How long had it taken him to read the place? Ten seconds? Five? Who was the detective here? I walked over and dropped into the guest chair.
‘‘Is there anything you aren’t good at?’’
He smiled. His eyes opened and he sat up. The door opened. I checked my watch. Sixteen minutes he’d kept us waiting. Philip was about fifty years old, big and broad, with a watchful expression. Connor looked like that sometimes. Blue, too. I looked from one man to the other. If this was a desk jockey, I was RuPaul.
The dweebie little guy behind him was another story. He wore a slick suit, cut to fit his one-of-the-seven-dwarves frame and quivered with self-importance. If the bank thing didn’t work out, he could go to law school.
‘‘Hello. I’m Derek Evans. This is my colleague, Mr. Carson. You must be Ms. Townley.’’
He offered a hand to me. I shook. Dead fish. Figured. Derek Evans never looked at Connor. Philip Carson never looked away. The room hummed with testosterone.Two alphas, a wife, and a gnome. Quite the tableau. Carson moved out of my line of vision and Connor shifted, keeping between me and the interesting guy on my right. Evans took a seat in one of the club chairs and waved a hand for me to sit down.
‘‘We’d like to speak with you alone, Ms. Townley.’’ Evans smirked with perfect capped teeth.
‘‘No,’’ Connor said.
‘‘Morris Hamilton didn’t tell us you were working with a colleague. We were under the impression that you were exercising utmost discretion in this matter.’’
Evans was doing all the talking. I couldn’t help wondering if the other guy’s lips moved. Connor shook his head almost imperceptibly. I resisted the urge to turn around to see Carson. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
‘‘Of course,’’ I soothed. ‘‘Mr. Hamilton doesn’t always know the details of any particular investigation. Mr. McNamara is a local associate of mine. You can rely on our discretion, Mr. Evans.’’
Local associate. A nice euphemism.
‘‘Have you made contact with the subject yet?’’ Evans asked.
Subject. Not a person. Enough said about what Evans thought about John.
‘‘No, sir, but I understand the money was paid back. I’m not sure what you want me to do at this point.’’
Evans’s eyes darted to Carson. That’s it, Charlie Mc-Carthy, look like you’re the one doing the talking.
‘‘I can’t comment on that, Ms. Townley,’’ Evans said coolly. ‘‘I can say that the bank is still interested in determining the manner in which the money may have been diverted. To that end, we would like to talk to this man. It’s important for us to follow up to improve our internal processes, you understand.’’
That was a whole lot of hooey. Ivy League quality, but a bunch of bull, nonetheless. Why would they care? They got their money back.
‘‘The bank is the client, of course. However, I think I should tell you that there may not be an identity thief in this case.’’
Connor’s expression was completely blank. Did I screw it up? Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It was hard. No matter how much you talked about what to do, until you were actually in the moment, it was impossible to decide how to play something, or someone. Evans seemed like an empty shirt. Carson seemed like a real threat.
‘‘What do you mean?’’ Evans asked.
‘‘Well, for one thing, repayment of the money might be construed as Charles Smiths recognizing a legal obligation because he opened the line of credit himself. Maybe he just didn’t notice or react immediately when the line was cut off. When he realized, he paid it off. Since the bank didn’t contact him when they suspected fraud, he’d have no reason to think anything was out of the ordinary.’’
‘‘That’s irrelevant,’’ Carson spoke behind me. ‘‘We want to talk to the man calling himself Charles Smiths. That’s your job.’’
‘‘That’s the other problem,’’ I said.
‘‘What do you mean?’’ Evans asked.
‘‘There were only two things connected to the so-called identity thief. One was the line of credit. As I’ve just explained, in retrospect that means nothing. The other was an interview the alleged thief gave to a local radio deejay. It was, after all, the potential for adverse publicity more than the loss of money that got the bank involved.’’
‘‘I wouldn’t hazard to ascribe motivations, Ms. Townley, ’’ Evans said. Hazard? Who taught this guy to talk?
‘‘Fine,’’ I allowed. ‘‘Whatever your reasons, you want to talk to the man who gave the interview, correct?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Evans said.
‘‘Then you’ll need to talk to Charles Smiths. He gave the interview.’’
‘‘He didn’t,’’ Evans began.
‘‘He did,’’ I contradicted.
‘‘How do you know?’’ Evans leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.
‘‘I asked him.’’
Chapter Thirty-six
‘‘Connor?’’
‘‘I see him.’’
I stared across the street. The dog stared back. She was either our serenader or her doppelgänger. ‘‘She’s definitely following us, but I don’t see how.’’
I looked at Connor. His head was mov
ing slowly, up the street and down. ‘‘See anyone familiar?’’
The people on the street looked innocuous to me. Tourists with sunburned noses. Surfers with bleached hair and hanging shorts. Workaholic businesspeople catching a little weekend sun at lunch. ‘‘Not really, no.’’
We walked from the bank. Pavarotti followed us for a block, then disappeared into the crowd. We stopped in a fast-food place, and I got a milk shake while Connor chose a virtuous bottled water.
‘‘They seemed pretty surprised,’’ I said.
‘‘I don’t know about that.’’
‘‘Okay, so maybe Carson isn’t that easy to read, but that younger guy, he seemed shocked we’d talked to Charles Smiths. I thought he might have a coronary right there.’’
Connor unlocked the car and opened my door. I slid in and he went around to the driver’s side. He put the top down before we pulled out of the lot.
‘‘What’s the game?’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘Why is the bank still spending money to have me chase John Doe? They got their money back. So what if a crazy guy tells his story to some equally nuts public-accessradio guy? It’s not like anyone would believe either one of them. I don’t really think there’s much chance that some society matron is going to move her account because John says aliens have invaded the vault.’’ I ran my hand through my hair.
‘‘Especially now that the radio guy is dead.’’
‘‘I know why I’m still looking.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘The dog.’’
‘‘You’re looking because of the dog?’’
‘‘If John were that crazy, why would Pavarotti stay? Aren’t dogs supposed to sense stuff like this?’’
‘‘You’re kidding.’’
‘‘Didn’t you ever have a dog as a kid?’’
‘‘We were in the navy. Too much moving. Did you?’’
I slouched in my seat. ‘‘No, but I always wanted to.’’
She reached over and petted the dog’s head. ‘‘I think this one is yours for the taking.’’
‘‘She already belongs to someone.’’
Connor leaned over and kissed me. ‘‘So do you.’’
Connor’s cell phone rang. He hit speaker. ‘‘Go.’’
‘‘Hey, Rock. You got a weird one. Some woman. Mary, I think. It was hard to tell through the crying. She said you visited with her dad yesterday.’’
It took a minute to figure it out. ‘‘Pablo Esteban.’’
‘‘Please identify,’’ the voice drawled.
‘‘Sara, Tex. Tex, Sara,’’ Connor said, doing the introductions.
‘‘Another one of the merry men,’’ I said. ‘‘Nice to meet you, Tex.’’
‘‘Hey, Sara. How’re you doin’?’’
‘‘I’m good.’’
‘‘What did she want?’’ Connor asked.
‘‘She came back from church this morning—guess the father didn’t go with her—anyway, somebody beat the old man up. Bad. Tore up the place. Had your card.’’
Guilt flooded me. We must have led them, whoever they were, straight to him. To an old man who couldn’t defend himself.
‘‘Did she say how badly he was hurt?’’ I croaked.
‘‘What?’’
I cleared my throat.
‘‘How bad?’’ Connor asked. The car accelerated.
‘‘Didn’t sound great,’’ Tex replied. ‘‘Didn’t sould like he’d die either.’’
‘‘Did she say where they took him?’’
‘‘Alvarado.’’
‘‘Thanks, Tex.’’
‘‘You need me, I’m on the radio.’’ He hung up.
I looked out the window and blinked back tears. He was a nice man. He was only trying to help us. To help me.
‘‘It’s my fault.’’
‘‘The only person responsible for what happened to Esteban is the person who broke into his house. You didn’t do anything wrong. There was no way to know that he was at risk.’’
‘‘I made him part of this.’’
‘‘He was already part of it, hon. He made his own choices.’’
His choices. A retired cop whiling away the boredom of suburban life. I’d offered him a chance to get back in the game, if only peripherally. Except he hadn’t been on the sidelines. He was hurt. Someone hit that nice old man. He couldn’t pose a threat to anyone. I pulled at the seat belt.
‘‘They need to be stopped.’’
‘‘Anger isn’t the right mind-set for this, Sara.’’
He didn’t look angry. His hands were loose on the wheel. His expression bland. His eyes, hidden behind his dark glasses, told nothing.
‘‘Aren’t you mad?’’
‘‘No.’’
I believed him. He wasn’t mad. He was cold. Ready. Scary.
‘‘I’m really getting sick of feeling like everyone’s three steps ahead of us,’’ I declared.
He changed lanes and we roared down the highway. The speedometer showed eighty-five. ‘‘Roger that.’’
‘‘So what are we going to do about it?’’
‘‘First, we’re going to see if Pablo Esteban saw anything. If he’s up to it we’re going to see if he can ID the pictures Troj took last night of Charles Smiths. Find out if it’s the same kid Esteban helped all those years ago. Then we’re going to meet Blue and see what he has to say.’’
‘‘I still didn’t pick him out. What does he look like? The troops were out in force last night. Troj, Blue, you, me, Ryan, and let’s not forget Siobhan without her knickers.’’
‘‘On second thought, let’s.’’
‘‘And after Blue?’’
‘‘We’re going to find an independent source to corroborate the identity of Charles Smiths.’’
‘‘Jack?’’ I guessed. Who else?
Connor smiled.
‘‘No,’’ I said.
He looked at me. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘You can’t beat him up.’’
‘‘What makes you think—’’
‘‘Please, Connor.’’ I folded my arms, shaking my head. ‘‘We need him. Besides, how would you explain it to Siobhan?’’
‘‘She’s charbroiling his clothes as we speak.’’
‘‘She’s doing it. As long as it’s her decision, her action, it’s okay. But you’ve got to give her a chance to work this out for herself. No swooping in and playing fairy godmother. She needs to do it for herself. Otherwise you’ll have to admit to beating him up and treating her like a child. She won’t blame him; she’ll blame you.’’
I had a point, as much as he hated to admit it. Brutality wasn’t always the right approach. In this case, it just felt right.
‘‘I didn’t mean Jack, anyway,’’ he said.
‘‘Then who?’’
‘‘The maid. The one who was there the night that the Smithses were murdered.’’
‘‘How do we find her?’’
‘‘We’ll figure something out.’’
‘‘Okay. Connor, did you ever see The Thomas Crown Affair?’’
‘‘The movie?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘What do you remember about it?’’
‘‘Rene Russo in a hot dress.’’
Figured. I pinched him.
‘‘Hey.’’
‘‘Enough with the dresses already.’’
‘‘Fine. What about it?’’
‘‘What I remember is the scene when Pierce Brosnan puts the painting back. He hires a bunch of guys and dresses them all the same, and pretty soon there’s a whole museum full of look-alikes. No one can tell one from another.’’
‘‘So?’’
‘‘That’s what this is like. Everybody’s the same. Caucasian. Male. Thirty-five to forty-five. Light hair. Light eyes. That description matches everyone. John Doe. Charles Smiths. Henry DeVries. Even you. It’s like the world is suddenly full of bowlers and briefcase
s and they all look alike to me.’’
I was winding myself up. I shouldn’t but I couldn’t help it. Who knew anyone? If I needed someone to swear on a stack of Bibles that I was Sara Townley, who could do it? Russ and Connor. Joe from work? What did he know about me, really? No family. A best friend with a penchant for lying. A husband who had a dangerous job that took him away for long periods of time. If I had to prove I was me, how would I do it?
‘‘History favors the bold,’’ Connor said.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘When I was at the academy we had a field training exercise. War games.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ I said, not following.
‘‘I got cut off from my team. It was hot. I was running out of supplies. One morning I swapped armbands with a guy who’d been DQd and walked through the other team’s chow line.’’ Connor pulled into a parking place and cut the engine.
‘‘So?’’
‘‘They served rubber chicken.’’
‘‘Tell that to Pablo Esteban. He’s eating hospital food.’’
The old man was in intensive care. The doctor wouldn’t tell us anything. I gave Connor a little space, and he charmed a nurse into telling us Esteban was in a coma. He wouldn’t be talking to anyone for a while. I scrolled through the pictures on Connor’s phone. John Doe. Charles Smiths. Jack Reed. If one of them was the bad guy, Pablo couldn’t tell us. We went to the waiting room.
‘‘I’m so sorry about your father, Mercedes.’’ I told the other woman, sitting next to her on an ugly green couch. She was crying, clutching Kleenex.
‘‘Who would do that? He’s an old man. He couldn’t defend himself.’’
There ought to be a special place in hell for people who beat the defenseless. I’d like to help whoever pounded Pablo find that place.
‘‘Is there anything we can do? Do you need help?’’
She shook her head. ‘‘No. Thanks. My cousin is coming to help.’’ She teared up. ‘‘He’s was so happy, working on your case. It’s . . . he’s been so excited about it. I can’t remember the last time he raced around like he has since he talked to you. He said he felt like a young man again. Then’’—she blew her nose—‘‘this.’’
‘‘We’re so sorry.’’
‘‘Did it help? The things he found?’’
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