Vanessa Hogan just keeps smiling.
“You did make one small mistake though.”
That makes the smile falter. “What’s that?”
I point to the left shoe in one photograph, then the other.
“Same footwear.”
Vanessa Hogan squints at one image, then the next. “Looks like a white sneaker. Common enough.”
“True. Nothing that would hold up in a court.”
“And come now, Mr. Lockwood. Aren’t I too old to pull this off?”
“You’d think so,” I say, “but no. You had a gun. You kept it against his back. I could, of course, ask the FBI to pull all the nearby street camera footage from the day. I’m sure we would find the bald man holding a gun on him. We might even get a clearer shot of your face.”
Vanessa is loving this. “You don’t think I would have disguised my face too? Nothing much, just a little stage makeup?”
“More genius,” I say.
“I wonder though.”
“Wonder what?”
“I never realized the painting over his bed was so valuable.”
“And if you had?”
Vanessa Hogan shrugs. “I wonder if I would have taken it.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t, no.”
So there we are. I now know the fate of all six of the Jane Street Six. It occurs to me, as I sit there with Vanessa Hogan, that I am the only person in the world who does.
As if she could read my thoughts, Vanessa Hogan says, “Now it’s your turn, Mr. Lockwood. Where is Arlo Sugarman?”
I ponder how to answer this question. There is still one more thing I want to know. “You interrogated Billy Rowan and Edie Parker.”
“We went over that.”
“They told you that they didn’t throw Molotov cocktails.”
“Yes. So?”
“And what about Arlo Sugarman?”
“What about him?”
“What did they say about his role in all this?”
The smile is back. “I’m impressed, Mr. Lockwood.”
I say nothing.
“You think that makes Arlo guiltless?”
“What did Billy and Edie tell you?”
“Do you promise that you’ll still tell me where Arlo Sugarman is?”
“I do, yes.”
Vanessa settles back. “You seem to know already, but okay, I’ll confirm it for you. Arlo wasn’t there — but he was still the one who planned it. The fact that he ended up being too gutless to show doesn’t make him any less guilty.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “One final question.”
“No,” Vanessa Hogan says, and I hear steel in her voice. “First, you tell me where Arlo Sugarman is.”
It is indeed time. So I just say it: “He’s dead.”
Her face drops.
I produce a photograph of the tombstone. I tell her what Calvin Sinclair had told me. It takes a while for Vanessa Hogan to accept all of this. I take my time. I explain all I know about Arlo Sugarman, how he spent time in Oklahoma and overseas, how he seemed to do good in his life and try to right whatever wrong he’d committed.
After some time, Vanessa Hogan says, “So it’s over. It’s really over.”
It was for her. It wasn’t for me.
“One more thing,” I say, as I rise to leave. “If Billy and Edie didn’t throw the explosives, did they say who did?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Ry Strauss, for one.”
“And for the other?”
“You’ve seen the grainy images,” she says. “There were still six people there. Ry Strauss got someone else to take Arlo Sugarman’s place. He threw the second one.”
“And his name?”
“Billy and Edie didn’t know him before that night,” she says. “But everyone called him Rich.” She sits up a little straighter. “Do you have any idea who that is?”
Rich, I say to myself.
Short, of course, for Aldrich.
“No,” I tell her. “No idea at all.”
Chapter 34
When I take the helicopter to my familial home of Lockwood, I customarily don’t appreciate the views. Human beings adapt, one aspect of which is that when something becomes common, we lose the sense of awe. We take the everyday for granted. I am not saying this is a negative. Too much is made of “live every moment to its fullest.” It is an unrealistic goal, one that leads to more stress than satisfaction. The secret to fulfillment is not about exciting adventures or living out loud — no one can maintain that kind of pace — but in welcoming and even relishing the quiet and familiar.
My father is on the putting green. I stop twenty yards away and watch him. His stroke is a perfect metronome. Golfers will disagree, but to be great at the game, you have to be a little OCD. Who else can stand over the same putts for hours on end and work on their stroke? Who else can spend three hours straight in the same bunker in order to perfect spin and trajectory?
“Hello, Win,” my father says.
“Hello, Dad.”
He is still eyeing up his putt. He has a routine. He does it every time, no matter what, no matter how many putts in a row he practices. His theory, which is the same one I apply to martial arts, is that you practice the same way as you play.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he says.
“I was thinking that to be great at golf, you have to be a little OCD.”
“Elaborate, please.”
I explain briefly about obsessive-compulsive disorder.
He listens patiently, and when I finish, he says, “Sounds like an excuse not to practice.”
“That could be.”
“You’re a very good player,” he says, “but you never wanted it enough.”
That is true.
“Now Myron,” Dad continues. “He seems sweet and nice, and he is. But on the basketball court? He’s barely sane. He wants to win that badly. You can’t teach that kind of competitive spirit. And it’s not always a healthy thing either.”
He stands up now and turns to me. “So what’s wrong?”
“Uncle Aldrich.”
He sighs. “He’s been dead for more than twenty years.”
“Did you know about his problems?”
“Problems,” he repeats, and shakes his head. “Your grandparents preferred the term ‘predilections.’”
“When did you know?”
“Always, I guess. There were incidents when he was still in middle school.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, what difference does it make, Win?”
“Please.”
He sighs. “Peeping Tom to start. He would also get too aggressive with girls. You have to remember. This was the sixties. There was no such thing as date rape.”
“So your parents moved him around,” I say. “Or they paid people to let it go. He changed high schools twice. He started at Haverford and then the family shipped him to school in New York.”
“If you know all this, why are you asking?”
“Something happened in New York,” I say. “What?”
“I don’t know. Your grandparents never told me. I assume it was another incident with another girl. They sent him to Brazil.”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t a girl,” I say.
“Oh?”
“Aldrich was one of the Jane Street Six.”
I wanted to see if he knew. I can see from his face that he didn’t.
“Uncle Aldrich was there that night. He threw a Molotov cocktail. A few days later, your parents sent him to Brazil. Kept him in hiding, just in case. They set up that shell company to keep Ry Strauss quiet.”