“When did he leave Calusa?”
“I don’t know exactly. I know he was in Woodstock during the summer of ’69, the big thing up there, the flower children thing, he sent me a card from Woodstock. And then he left for Europe sometime that fall, and he was there for almost a year, France, Italy, Greece, and then he went on to India…”
“When did he come back to the States?”
“In 1972.”
“Back to Indiana?”
“No. San Francisco and Los Angeles and San Diego and some time in Mexico, he loved traveling. And then New York, he lived in New York for a long time. And then from there to Calusa.”
“Which was when?”
“Well, when I bought the house on Whisper Key.”
“For him to live in.”
“Yes.”
“In 1981.”
“Yes.”
“Did your brother ever mention a man named Anthony Holden?”
“No, I don’t recall that name.”
“He used to work for the Brechtmann brewery. He was the purchasing agent there in 1982. Holden. Anthony Holden.”
“I’m sorry.”
“This would have been a year after you purchased the house.”
“Yes. But I really don’t remember ever hearing of him.”
“Did your brother ever mention any of his friends to you?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so. We corresponded regularly, and occasionally I came down here, or he’d come to Indiana…”
“Did you ever meet Anthony Holden down here?”
“No, not that I recall.”
“But you did meet some of your brother’s friends on the occasions when you were here.”
“Yes.”
“But none of them were Anthony Holden.”
“No.”
“And he never mentioned the name in any of his letters.”
“Never. Not to my recollection.”
“How about Elise Brechtmann?”
“No. I told you earlier…”
“Could she have been someone your brother met on his first visit to Florida?”
“I have no idea.”
“Were you corresponding back then as well? In ’68 and ’69?”
“Not too often. In fact, it sometimes seemed as if Jonathan had dropped into a black hole. I wouldn’t hear anything for months, and then suddenly I’d get a postcard from some like village in Iran…”
“But while he was here in Florida? Did he write to you then?”
“Occasionally.”
“You knew where he was staying. In Calusa, I mean. You said you sent him a birthday card…”
“Yes.”
“Had you written to him at that address before?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Did he write back?”
“I really don’t remember.”
“But in any case, if he did write back, he never mentioned anyone named Elise Brechtmann.”
“Not to my knowledge. Matthew… my brother was homosexual from the time he was fifteen. I really don’t think he’d be writing to me about a girl. He had no interest whatever in the opposite sex, believe me.”
“A man named Anthony Holden seems to think Elise Brechtmann was one of your brother’s friends.”
Parrish was shaking his head.
“A very good friend, in fact.”
He was still shaking his head.
“But you’ve never heard of her.”
“Never.”
Matthew sighed deeply.
Billy was packing.
Every now and then, he glanced over to where Helen lay on the floor against the wall, whimpering.
He wanted to get out of here very fast.
He wanted to get very far away from Calusa and Arthur Hurley and the woman who lay there bleeding against the wall.
Artie had taken the car, he’d have to call a taxi to take him to the airport. Get the hell out of here fast.
He threw a stack of undershorts into his valise and then looked over toward the wall again.
Her hand came up.
Grabbing for the wall.
And then trailed limply down the wall.
Blood followed her hand, streaking the wall.
When Matthew got back to the office at a little past two, Cynthia handed him a handful of messages. The only call he returned was the one from Morrie Bloom.
“Morrie,” he said, “it’s me.”
“Hello, Matthew,” Bloom said. “Two things. We questioned Hurley and his pal Walker, and we let them go. We had nothing to hold them on, and besides I really think they were telling the truth about not going inside that house.”
“Okay.”
“Second, I had a team of men going over every inch of that house since I spoke to you early this morning, and I mean going over it, Matthew. They just got back here a little while ago. They found some photographs in a shoebox in the upstairs bedroom but none of them are baby pictures, just Parrish and some of his playmates cavorting on the beach. So it looks like if somebody went in that house looking for baby pictures, then he found them, Matthew, ’cause they sure as hell ain’t there anymore.”
“Okay, Morrie, thank you.”
“You got any other ideas?”
“Not at the moment. Are you helping me with my case, Morrie?”
“I am a seeker of justice and truth,” Bloom said.
Matthew smiled.
“Me, too,” he said.
“Keep in touch, okay?” Bloom said, and hung up.
Cynthia buzzed almost immediately.
“It’s Warren,” she said. “He’s at the airport.”
“What line?”
“Five.”
Matthew punched the five-button.
“Yes, Warren?”
“Matthew, there’s a two-thirteen I can catch to New York. That gives me eight minutes. I located a woman named Lucy Strong, she’s black like me, Matthew, she loved my voice on the phone. I think she’s in her fifties, it sounded like, and she was a nurse on the maternity ward when a woman named Elise Abbott was there in the summer of sixty-nine. She remembers a man taking pictures, but she didn’t want to tell me anything else on the phone, even if I am black, because she’s afraid she might get in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Matthew, it doesn’t matter what kind of trouble, I’ve got six minutes to buy a ticket and get on that plane. Black people are always afraid of getting in some kind of trouble, that’s the way Whitey trained us. Do I go to New York or not?”
“Go,” Matthew said.
“I’ll call you later,” Warren said, and hung up.
“Billy,” she said.
He looked toward the wall.
“Help me,” she said.
He said nothing.
He went to the closet and took from the rack the only suit he owned, and he carried that to the valise without looking at Helen all crumpled against the wall. He folded the suit neatly into the valise, and then went back to the dresser to collect the two dress shirts he’d put in the top drawer.
“Billy?” she said.
He didn’t answer her.
“Is he gone, Billy?”
He put the two dress shirts into the valise on top of his folded suit jacket. Button-down collars on those shirts, the kind Yuppies wore.
“Billy, you have to help me.”
“I don’t have to do nothin’,” he said.
“Billy, please.”
He went back to the dresser.
Checked all the drawers to make sure none of his stuff was still in them. Rummaged through Helen’s panties and bras, a few of her sweaters and blouses, couldn’t find anything belonging to him.