I’D PLANNED TO CALL Marcus Longo on Sunday morning, but he beat me to it. When the phone rang at nine o’clock, I was at the computer, with my second cup of coffee on the table beside it.
“I have you pegged as an early starter, Ellie,” he said. “I hope I’m right.”
“As a matter of fact, I slept late this morning,” I said. “Seven o’clock.”
“That’s about what I would have expected of you. I’ve been in touch with the office at Sing Sing.”
“To see if they learned of any recently discharged convict or prison guard who might have had a fatal accident?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve heard something?”
“Ellie you were outside Sing Sing on November first. Herb Coril, a convict who at one time was in the same cell block as Rob Westerfield, was discharged that morning. He was staying at a halfway house in lower Manhattan. He hasn’t been seen since early Friday evening.”
“I got that last call on Friday night about ten-thirty,” I said. “Whoever called me was afraid for his life.”
“We can’t be sure it’s the same person, and we can’t be sure that Coril didn’t just break the conditions of his release and take off.”
“What’s your guess?” I asked.
“I’ve never been strong on coincidences, especially one like this.”
“Neither am I.”
I told Marcus about my meeting with Alfie.
“I only hope nothing happens to Alfie before you get that diagram,” Marcus said grimly. “I’m not surprised to hear this. We all thought that Rob Westerfield planned that job. I know what that must be doing to you.”
“You mean the fact that Rob might have been in prison and therefore not around here to meet Andrea? That’s all I’ve been thinking about, and it’s been torturing me.”
“You do understand that even with the copy of the diagram and Alfie making a statement to the D.A., you’ll never get a conviction. Alfie was involved himself, and the diagram is signed by someone named Jim whom nobody has ever met.”
“I know.”
“The statute of limitations on that crime has run out for all of them—Westerfield, Alfie, and Jim, whoever that is.”
“Don’t forget Hamilton. If I could prove that he destroyed evidence that might have gotten his client a lighter sentence by implicating Westerfield, the ethics committee would be all over him.”
I promised to let Marcus see the diagram that Alfie was bringing me. Then I said good-bye and tried to get back to work. It was slow, though, and after getting only a little more done, I realized it was time to drive to Joan’s for brunch.
This time I remembered the suitcase and the plastic cleaner’s bag with the slacks, sweater, and jacket.
Even before I was near the Franciscan Friars monastery at Graymoor, I knew that I was going to stop there. All week a memory had been slowly emerging from my subconscious. I had visited the place with Mother after Andrea died. She had called Father Emil, a priest she knew. He was going to be at Saint Christopher’s Inn that day, and they arranged to meet there.
Saint Christopher’s Inn, on the grounds of the monastery, is the friars’ home for destitute men who are alcoholics or drug addicts. I had a vague memory of sitting with a lady, a secretary probably, while Mother was in the office. Then Father Emil took us into the chapel.
I remembered that there was a book on the side of the chapel where people could write petitions. Mother wrote something and then gave the pen to me.
I wanted to go there again.
The friar who admitted me introduced himself as Fr. Bob. He didn’t question my request. The chapel was empty, and he stood at the door as I knelt for a few minutes. Then I looked around and saw the stand with the ledger-sized book.
I went over to it and picked up the pen.
Suddenly I remembered what I had written that last time: Please let Andrea come back to us.
This time I could not force myself to stop crying.
“There have been many tears shed in this chapel.” Fr. Bob was standing beside me.
We talked for an hour. When I got to Joan’s, I was on speaking terms with God again.
* * *
JOAN AND I respectfully disagreed with each other about Will Nebels’s performance the night before.
“Ellie, he was just plain drunk. How many people shoot off at the mouth when they’ve had too much to drink? My point is that’s not when they lie—it’s when they’re more likely to let slip the truth.”
I had to admit that Joan was right on that point. I’d investigated and written about two cases in which the killer would never have been caught if he hadn’t loaded up on scotch or vodka and poured his heart out to someone who immediately called the cops.
“That’s not the way I see it, though,” I explained to her and Leo. “To me, Will Nebels is a spineless, gutless loser. Think of him as the stuff you pour into a gelatin mold. You plan the shape you want, and then, you have it. He wasn’t too drunk to remember that he once fixed my seesaw and that my father wasn’t born with a tool in his hand.”
“I agree with Ellie,” Leo said. “Nebels is more complex than he appears to be on the surface.” Then he added, “That, of course, doesn’t mean that Joan isn’t right. If Nebels did see Paulie Stroebel go into that garage that night, he got smart enough to figure that the statute of limitations had run out and that it was safe for him to make a buck out of it.”
“Only he didn’t figure this one out himself,” I said. “They came to him. He agreed to tell the story they needed, and they paid him to tell it.”
I pushed my chair back. “Brunch was wonderful,” I said, “and now I feel like winning a chess game from Sean.”
For a moment I paused to look out the window. It was the second beautiful Sunday afternoon I’d been in this room at this exact same time. I was aware again of the spectacular view of the river and the mountain from this spot.
In my world, which was so far from peaceful, to experience that view was like being at an oasis.
I won the first chess game. Sean won the second. We agreed to a rematch “really soon.”
* * *
BEFORE I STARTED HOME I phoned the hospital and spoke to Mrs. Stroebel. Paulie’s fever had broken, and he was feeling much better. “He wants to talk to you, Ellie.”
Forty minutes later I was at his bedside. “You look a lot better than you did yesterday,” I told him.
He was still very pale, but his eyes were clear and he was propped up with an extra pillow. He smiled shyly. “Ellie, Mama said you know that I saw the locket, too.”
“When did you see it, Paulie?”
“I worked at the service station. My first job there was just to wash and clean the cars after they were fixed. When I cleaned Rob’s car one day, I found the locket stuck in the front seat. The chain was broken.”
“You mean the day Andrea’s body was found?” But that doesn’t make sense, I thought. If Rob went back for the locket that morning, he never would have left it in his car. Or could he really have been that stupid?
Paulie looked at his mother. “Mama?” he appealed.
“It’s all right, Paulie,” she said soothingly. “You’ve had a lot of medicine, and it’s hard to keep track of everything. You told me you saw the locket twice.”
I looked sharply at Mrs. Stroebel, trying to decide if she was prompting him. But Paulie nodded.
“That’s right, Mama. I found it in the car. The chain was broken. I gave it to Rob, and he gave me a ten-dollar tip. I put it with the money I was saving for your fiftieth birthday present.”
“I remember, Paulie.”
“When was your fiftieth birthday, Mrs. Stroebel?” I asked.
“It was May first, the May before Andrea died.”
“The May before Andrea died!” I was absolutely shocked. Then he didn’t buy the locket for her, I thought. It was one that some girl may have lost in the car, and he had it initialed and gave it to Andrea.
“Paulie, do you remember the locket clearly?” I asked.
“Yes. It was nice. It was shaped like a heart and it was gold and it had little blue stones in it.”
That was exactly the way I had described it on the witness stand.
“Paulie, did you ever see the locket again?” I asked.
“Yes. Andrea was so nice to me. She came up and told me how good I was at football and that I’d won the game for the team. That was when I decided to ask her to go to the mixer with me.
“I walked over to your house, and I saw her going through the woods. I caught up with her outside Mrs. Westerfield’s house. She was wearing the locket, and I knew Rob must have given it to her. He’s not nice. He gave me that big tip, but he’s not nice. His car always had dents in it because he drove so fast.”
“Did you see him that day?”
“I asked Andrea if I could talk to her, but she said not then, that she was in a hurry. I went back into the woods and watched her go into the garage. A few minutes later, Rob Westerfield went in.”
“Tell Ellie when that was, Paulie.”
“It was one week before Andrea died in that garage.”
One week before.
“Then a couple of days before she died, I talked to her again. I told her Rob was a very bad person and that she shouldn’t meet him in the garage and that I knew her father would be very angry if he knew she went there with him.”
Paulie looked directly at me. “Your father was always so nice to me, Ellie. He always gave me a tip for filling the gas tank, and he always talked to me about football. He was very nice.”
“When you warned Andrea about Rob, was that the time you asked her to go to the mixer with you?”
“Yes, and she said she would, and she made me promise not to tell her father about Rob.”
“And you never saw the locket again?”
“No, Ellie.”
“And you never went to the garage again?”
“No, Ellie.”
Paulie closed his eyes, and I could see that he was becoming very tired. I covered his hand with mine.
“Paulie, I don’t want you to worry anymore. I promise you that it’s going to be all right, and before I’m finished, everyone will know how nice and kind and good you are. And you’re smart, too. When you were a kid, you could see how rotten Rob Westerfield was. A lot of people around here still can’t see through him.”
“Paulie thinks with his heart,” Mrs. Stroebel said softly.
Paulie opened his eyes. “I’m so sleepy. Did I tell you all about the locket?”
Mrs. Stroebel walked me to the elevator. “Ellie, even at the trial they were trying so hard to blame Paulie for Andrea’s death. I was so frightened. That was why I told him he must never talk about the locket.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you do. A special child will always need to be protected, even as a grown-up. You heard the West-erfield lawyer on television telling everyone that in a new trial he would prove Paulie killed Andrea. Can you imagine Paulie on the witness stand with that man hammering at him?”
That man. William Hamilton, Esquire.
“No, I can’t.”
I kissed her cheek. “Paulie is lucky he has you, Mrs. Stroebel.”
Her eyes lowered to meet mine. “He’s lucky he has you, Ellie.”