"Did you ever hear that she was thinking of leaving the business to have a baby?"
"Would Patton quit? Would Mike Ditka quit? To have babies?" Mueller clamped a fat hand over his mouth and looked around to see if anyone had noticed his giggle. He wore a pinky ring with a tiny diamond chip and a big college ring with raised letters. Puffy circles of raised fat surrounded both rings.
"You could call her aggressive," he said. "It's not a criticism. We're supposed to be aggressive." He tried to look aggressive as all get-out for a second and succeeded in looking a little bit sneaky.
People had been coming into the room in twos and threes while we talked, filling about three-fourths of the seats. I recognized some of John's neighbors from the local news. When Mueller stood up, I left my seat and carried the heavy satchel to the back of the room, where Tom Pasmore was drinking a cup of coffee.
"I didn't think you'd come," I said.
"I don't usually have the chance to get a look at my murderers," he said.
"You think April's murderer is here?" I looked around at the roomful of brokers and, teachers. Dick Mueller had sidled up to Ross Barnett, who was angrily shaking his head, probably denying that he'd ever had any intention of moving April anywhere at all. Because you never know what you'll be able to use, I stepped sideways and took out my notebook to write down a phrase about a broker so feeble that he used his college ring to get business from other people who had gone to the same college. A combination of letters and numbers was already written on the last page, and it took me a moment to remember what they represented. Tom Pasmore was smiling at me. I put the notebook back in my pocket.
"I'd say there's an excellent chance." He looked down at the case between my legs. "The Blue Rose files wouldn't be in that thing, would they?"
"How did you work that out?"
He bent down and picked up the case to show me the dim, worn gold of the initials stamped just below the clasp: WD.
Fontaine had given me William Damrosch's own satchel— he had probably used it as a suitcase when he went on trips, and as a briefcase in town.
"Would you mind bringing this over to my place tonight, so I can make copies?"
"You have a copy machine?" Like Lamont von Heilitz, Tom often gave the impression of resisting technological progress.
"I even have computers."
I thought he was being playfuclass="underline" I wasn't even sure that he used an electric typewriter.
"They're upstairs. These days, most of my information comes through the modem." The surprise on my face made him smile. He held up his right hand. "Honest. I'm a hacker. I'm tapped in all over the place."
"Can you find out someone's name through their license plate number?"
He nodded. "Sometimes." He gave me a speculative look. "Not in every state."
"I'm thinking of an Illinois plate."
"Easy."
I began to tell him about the license number on the piece of paper I thought I had given to Paul Fontaine. At the front of the room, the young man who had come into the room behind Tom turned away from April Ransom's coffin and made a wide circle around John, who turned his back on him, either by chance or intentionally. The music became much louder. Mr. Trott appeared through a white door I had not noticed earlier and closed the coffin. At the same time, everybody in the room turned around as the big doors at the back of the chapel admitted two men in their early sixties. One of them, a man about as broad as an ox cart, wore a row of medals on the chest of his police uniform, like a Russian general. The other man had a black armband on the sleeve of his dark gray suit. His hair, as silvery as Ralph Ransom's, was thicker, almost shaggy. I assumed that he must have been the minister.
Isobel Archer and her crew pushed themselves into the room, followed by a dozen other reporters. Isobel waved her staff to a point six feet from Tom Pasmore and me, and the other reporters lined up along the sides of the room, already scribbling in notebooks and talking into their tape recorders. The big silver-haired man marched up to Ross Barnett and whispered something.
"Who's that?" I asked Tom.
"You don't know Merlin Waterford? Our mayor?"
The uniformed man who had come in with him pumped John's hand and pulled him toward the first row. Bright lights flashed on and washed color from the room. The music ended. The pale young man in the black jacket bumped against a row of knees as he fought his way toward a seat. Isobel Archer held up a microphone to her face and began speaking into the camera and the floodlights. John leaned forward and covered his face with his hands.
"Ladies and gentlemen, fellow mourners for April Ransom." The mayor had moved behind the podium. The white light made his hair gleam. His teeth shone. His skin was the color of a Caribbean beach. "Some few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of attending the dinner at which a brilliant young woman received the financial community's Association Award. I witnessed the respect she had earned from her peers and shared her well-earned pride in that wonderful honor. April Ransom's profound grasp of business essentials, her integrity, her humanity, and her deep commitment to the greater good of our community inspired us all that night. She stood before us, her friends and colleagues, as a shining example of everything I have tried to encourage and represent during the three terms in which I have been privileged to serve as the mayor of this fine city."
If you cared for that sort of thing, the mayor was a great speaker. He would pledge, in fact he would go so far as to promise, that the memory of April Ransom's character and achievements would never leave him as he worked night and day to bring good government to every citizen of Millhaven. He would dedicate whatever time was left to him to—
This went on for about fifteen minutes, after which the chief of police, Arden Vass, stumped up to the microphone, frowned, and pulled three sheets of folded paper from an inside jacket pocket. The papers crackled as he flattened them onto the podium with his fist. He was not actually frowning, I saw. That was just his normal expression. He tugged a pair of steel-rimmed glasses from a pocket below the rows of medals and rammed them onto his face.
"I can't pontificate like my friend, the mayor," he said. His hoarse, bludgeoning voice slammed each of his short sentences to the ground before picking up the next. We had a great police department. Each man—and woman—in that department was a trained professional. That was why our crime rate was one of the lowest in the nation. Our officers had recently apprehended one of the worst criminals in history. That man was currently safe in custody, awaiting a full statement of charges and eventual trial. The woman whose life we were celebrating today would understand the importance of cooperation between the community and the brave men who risked their lives to protect it. That was the Millhaven represented by April Ransom. I have nothing more to say. Thank you.
Vass pushed himself away from the podium and lumbered toward the first row of seats. For a second everybody sat frozen with uncertainty, staring at the empty podium and the bleached flowers. Then the lights snapped off.
4
April's colleagues were moving in a compact group toward the parking lot. The pale young man in the black jacket had disappeared. Below the crest of the front lawn, Isobel and her crew were pulling away from the curb, and the Boughmobile was already moving toward the stop sign at the end of the street. John's neighbors stood near a long line of cars parked across the street, wistfully watching Isobel and the officials drive away.