“Anyway,” he said, squeezing himself out of the Thunderbird and retrieving Grace’s things. By the time he circled to open the passenger door Grace was already out.
His key unlocked a heavy wooden door with a brass knocker shaped like a lion. Grace followed him into an empty room with black-and-white-checked marble floors that seemed to have no purpose other than sitting in front of a much larger room. That space was full of old-looking fat sofas and chairs with lots of pillows, dark wood tables with curved legs, fancy-looking dark wood bookshelves stuffed with books. More books sat on the floor. In one corner stood a clock even taller than Malcolm. On the left side, a carved wooden staircase with wide steps led upstairs. A blue-and-red-and-white rug ran down the center.
The back wall of the big room was a bunch of glass doors that offered a view of a garden.
Not the acreage of the ranch, this property was smaller but not small, with a swimming pool that was bright blue and clear, trees with low-hanging branches, beds of red and pink and white flowers, and the greenest grass Grace had ever seen. She was breathless.
Professor Sophia Muller appeared, as if magically, wearing a dark-blue sweater unbuttoned over a top of the same color, tan slacks, and flat brown shoes. Her ash-blond hair was tied in a bun. Eyeglasses dangled from a chain around her neck.
She smiled and held out her hand to Grace. Doing both a little shyly, as if she wasn’t used to visitors.
This time Grace did the right thing and offered her own hand.
Sophia Muller said, “It’s so nice to have you, Grace.”
She took Grace’s things from Malcolm, told him the station wagon was fixed; if he wanted he could call a cab and catch the dealer before closing.
He said, “You sure?”
“Yes, darling. I need the T-Bird tomorrow.”
Malcolm nodded and walked through the big room, turned through a right-hand doorway and was gone.
Sophia said, “Come, your room is ready.”
Up the stairs they went.
“Voilà,” said Sophie.
The word was obviously a family saying. Grace resolved to find a dictionary as soon as she could.
The room Sophia had taken her to was the size of three rooms at the ranch, with windows on two walls that looked down on the beautiful garden.
But it wasn’t fancy, just the opposite. The bed was grown-up-sized but covered with a plain white cover, the walls were tan, looked old, had no pictures or decorations. The floors were bare wood. No furniture at all.
“Everything happened quickly, no time to furnish properly,” said Sophia. Unlike Malcolm, she explained but didn’t apologize. Maybe because she was the rich one?
“I like it,” said Grace.
“You’re being gracious but we both know this is a work in progress, so bear with me, Grace. You and I will go shopping soon enough, we’ll set it up so it’s appropriate for a young woman of your age and intelligence.”
Grace said nothing.
Sophia said, “That sound okay?”
“Yes.”
“Meanwhile, you must be hungry, I’m sure that hellhole served you swill. So come down to the kitchen, we’ll find you some decent food.”
Grace followed Sophia down the stairs. Sophia moved quickly, not bothering to check if Grace was okay.
She figures I’m fine. This is a new kind of person.
And thus began the good part of Grace Blades’s life.
Chapter 30
Grace’s summary of that time to Wayne Knutsen, Esq., was brief and matter-of-fact.
He said, “Thank God for people like that,” and Grace thought he sounded a bit rueful, as if he’d missed out on something.
Taking advantage, she said, “Anyway, I need your help.”
He said, “Hmm. Okay, my police contacts aren’t half bad.”
“I’d prefer not,” said Grace. “The police won’t take me seriously.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“It’s old news and pure supposition, not a shred of evidence.”
Wayne labored to his feet, took a few steps, returned to the throne behind his desk. Businesslike now. “You’re right. Objectively, there isn’t much to go on, what would I tell the chief—” Color spread from his chin to his forehead. Continued on to his bald pate, turning him into a well-dressed tomato. “Forgive the pretentiousness, he and I have attended some of the same fund-raisers. In fact, that’s why I’m dressed like this. Hotsy-totsy golf day at a pardon-the-expression country club. But no more name-dropping, I promise.”
“It’s names that I need, Wayne. Their real names — Sam, Ty, Lily. So I can find out what happened to them.”
He gave her a long, searching look.
“Know thy enemy, Wayne. I can’t live like this, wondering if he’s lurking around every corner.”
He tented his fingers. “All this because you believe he killed his brother.”
“His brother a few days ago and Bobby Canova twenty-three years ago. And who knows how many others in between.”
And almost me.
“Why would there be others?”
“Because someone malignant that young isn’t going to devote his life to good deeds.”
Wayne didn’t answer.
Grace said, “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”
“That handicapped boy—”
“Bobby Canova. His death record will be listed as accidental. But Sam pulled out that air tube, there’s no other way it could’ve happened. I saw him that morning, Wayne. He was proud of himself. Smiling with contentment. The same smile he wore when he saw Ramona’s body. He made sure I saw him. Wanting me to know that he was taking credit for her death, as well.”
Wayne winced.
A soft man, a caring man. Grace worked with that. “He enjoyed it. That kind of appetite doesn’t just disappear, Wayne. I’m certain he’s done others.”
“So calculated at that age...”
“My point exactly, Wayne. We’re talking A-plus psychopathy. I need you to help me find him.”
“And when you do?”
“Once I gather enough facts, you can talk to the police chief or any other big-shot contacts. Until then, without sufficient facts, I’ll only be putting myself in the crosshairs.”
Wayne thought for a while, rational, deliberative, the way a good lawyer should be. He pulled a pen out of a desk drawer. Gold-plated, a Montblanc that had to cost four figures. “And how, exactly, am I supposed to find out this little monster’s real name?”
“I don’t know,” said Grace. “But you’re all I’ve got.”
Actually, she had plenty of suggestions. You were part of the damn system so work it, turn those years into something positive.
But the old joke was true:
How many shrinks does it take to change a lightbulb?
Only one but the bulb has to want to change.
Better he should come to the conclusion himself.
Still, on the off chance he didn’t, Grace would do her damnedest to lead him there.
The throne swiveled. Wayne leaned back and half reclined. Crossed his ankles. Rolled the pen between chubby fingers.
“Twenty-three years ago,” he said. “Social service records were as confidential then as they are now.”
“Officially,” said Grace. “We both know how that works.”
He didn’t answer.
“Officially,” she said, “foster homes were loving places straight out of G-rated sitcoms, run by caring, compassionate guardian angels. Officially, endings were happy.”
His head lowered. Studying the leather top of his desk.
“Besides, Wayne, there’s no such thing as privacy in the Internet age.”