FIFTEEN

Adele Beckwith’s house was in Clayton, off Wydown Boulevard. It was a modest two-story home perched among lush, green grass and hedges and old-money trees. Maybe twenty-five hundred square feet to it and you wouldn’t be able to touch it for less than three-quarters of a million. Hastings remembered a few years back Eileen pointing to a house in this neighborhood and suggesting that maybe they could make an offer. Hastings had said, “Are you nuts?” Not seeing the problems back then.

Hastings parked the Jag in the driveway and rang the doorbell.

Adele Beckwith answered. She seemed to hesitate for a moment.

Hastings said, “Ms. Beckwith, I’m Lieutenant Hastings. I called you a half hour ago.”

“Oh. Yes, come in.”

The house was less appealing inside. It smelled old and looked unkempt. There were books on the coffee table and dinner table and a lot of other places. Adele Beckwith led him into the living room, where there was a little black pug on the couch. The pug growled at Hastings.

“Now, William,” Adele said, “you behave.” She made no attempt to move the dog off the furniture.

She turned to the policeman and said, “Have you heard anything?”

“No, ma’am. Not yet.”

For a moment she did not say anything. The silence discomfited him and he found himself saying, “We’re working on it. And we think—we believe she’s alive.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, it’s a kidnapping. And they need her alive so they can ransom her.”

The woman took a seat on the couch. The dog remained where he was.

Adele said, “A kidnapping?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who would do that?”

“I don’t know. We’re trying to find out.”

“A kidnapping. For money.”

“Yes.”

“His money.”

“You mean, your ex-husband’s.”

“Well, I haven’t got it. Who else would it be?”

“Right,” Hastings said.

It didn’t look like she was going to ask him to sit down. So he asked if she minded if he did. She gestured to a chair.

“I’m sorry,” Hastings said.

The woman shrugged.

Hastings said, “Do you have—do you have someone you could stay with?”

She shook her head.

“Any family…?”

She shook her head again.

Hastings said, “Ms. Beckwith, do you mind if I ask you a few things?”

“No.”

“Do you mind talking with me?”

“No.”

“Your husband. Your ex-husband—are you aware of any enemies he had? People who would target him?”

She snorted, a bitter near laugh. “Gene? Enemies?”

“Well, I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

“He’s not the sort to have enemies. He’s weak.”

“Do you have much of a relationship with him anymore?”

“No. I’ve been discarded, you see. His past. He bought me off. Gave me this house, an annual stipend. He was generous, really. With money. He’s got plenty of that. He just wanted me to go away.”

“You didn’t want to be divorced?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I guess I became an embarrassment to him.”

“Well…”

“This is supposed to keep me happy. This house. This … prison. This isolation. Would it keep you happy?”

“I don’t know.”

“He seemed to think so. Him and that—that beast he married. I was bought off. Paid to stay away from my own children.”

“And that angers you?”

“Of course! What, does that make me a suspect? Sir?”

“No. I doubt it.”

She put her face in her hands and sobbed. The sobs turned to shrieks. Hastings walked over and sat next to her.

“What’s going to happen?” she said. “What’s going to happen to her?”

“We’ll get her back,” Hastings said. He didn’t have the strength to tell her he didn’t know.