Эд Макбейн - Snow White and Rose Red

“I don’t know who was living in that apartment,” Hennessy said.

“Arch Realty does own the apartment, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

“And you don’t know who was living in it?”

“I do not.”

“How can that be, Mr. Hennessy?”

“The apartment was purchased for the convenience of the officers of Arch Realty. For whenever business takes them to Calusa, Florida.”

“Was the car also purchased for the convenience of Arch Realty officers?”

“It was.”

“I see. And was Tracy Kilbourne an officer of Arch Realty?”

“I told you I don’t know anyone named Tracy Kilbourne.”

“Then she was not an officer of Arch Realty, is that right?”

“I am not aware that she was an officer of this corporation.”

“You’re the treasurer of the corporation, aren’t you?”

“I’m the treasurer, yes.”

“Have you ever used that apartment on Whisper Key?”

“I have not.”

“Which officers have?”

“I have no idea.”

“I wonder if you’d mind giving me the names of the other principal officers of the corporation, Mr. Hennessy.”

“Yes, I would mind.”

“Why’s that?”

“I feel under no obligation to do so.”

“You realize I can easily find out who—”

“Yes, you do that,” Hennessy said, and hung up.

At three o’clock that afternoon, I called Hertz to rent the car that would transport Sarah, Christine Seifert, and me to Southern Medical. Considering Sarah’s feelings about Brunhilde, I asked for the roomiest car they had. The girl on the telephone told me I could have a premium-size car similar to an Oldsmobile 88 or a Mercury Grand Marquis for $58.99 a day. But if I wanted her advice, they were running a special this month on luxury sedans — four-door, six-passenger cars like a Lincoln Town Car or a Cadillac Sedan DeVille — and I could get one of those for only $49.90.

I told her I wanted the luxury car.

What the hell.

Take Sarah away in style.

A man named Salvatore Palumbo answered the phone in the Corporation Division of the office of the secretary of the state of Connecticut in Hartford. He was surprised to be hearing from someone in Florida, and he immediately asked Bloom how the weather was down there. Bloom told him it was beautiful (which happened to be true, although Floridians often lied about such things as the weather) and then told him what he was looking for. It was Bloom’s impression that in most states corporations as well as limited partnerships were required to file annual reports—

“Yes, sir,” Palumbo said. “In Connecticut, it’s on the anniversary of the original incorporation.”

— and that these reports had to list the names and addresses of all the officers and directors.

“Yes, sir, that’s the case here in Connecticut,” Palumbo said.

“I wonder if a corporation named Arch Realty in Stamford has filed such an annual report,” Bloom said.

“Let me check for you, sir,” Palumbo said. “Be back in a minute.”

He was not back in a minute. Nor was he back in five minutes. In fact, Bloom thought he might have hung up. But he came on the line again seven minutes later, and said, “Arch Realty in Stamford, I have the folder here, sir.”

“And was an annual report filed?” Bloom asked.

“Yes, sir, on the anniversary of incorporation, in this case the twelfth of August last year. The new report isn’t due until this August.”

“Does it list the officers and directors?”

“It does.”

“Can I trouble you for their names and addresses?”

“No trouble at all, sir,” Palumbo said. “Have you got a pencil?”

“Go ahead,” Bloom said.

“I’ll start with the president,” Palumbo said. “His name is... oh, just a moment, sir.”

There was another long silence on the line.

“Yes,” Palumbo said.

“Yes, what?” Bloom asked.

“In this state, it’s mandatory for a corporation to inform us should any officer or director cease to hold office. I see here that—”

“Yes?” Bloom said.

“Such a form was filed last October.”

“Who was it that ceased to hold office?” Bloom asked.

“The president of the corporation. He died on September third last year.”

“And his name?” Bloom asked.

“Horace Whittaker.”

At a little before five that afternoon, I drove a brand-new Cadillac Sedan DeVille up the road to Knott’s Retreat, presented myself at Administration and Reception, and informed the young lady behind the desk that I was here to pick up Sarah Whittaker for transfer to the Arlberg Receiving Facility at Southern Medical Hospital.

Sarah was brought up some ten minutes later.

She was wearing the yellow dress Pearson had described to me earlier, a summery cotton frock scooped low at the neck and billowing out from the waist into a wide skirt. She wore a string of pearls at her throat, no other jewelry, no makeup. She was barelegged, and the sandals she wore — ankle-strapped and with slender stiletto heels — added a good three inches to her height. She was grinning from ear to ear, even though she was in the presence of Christine Seifert, the attendant she called Brunhilde.

Brunhilde came as something of a surprise.

I had never met her, and my preconceived notion of her was premised on Sarah’s description: “Christine Seifert, five feet eight inches tall, two hundred and twenty pounds, tattoo on her left forearm, ‘Mom’ in a heart. I made up the tattoo, but the rest is real.”

There was no possible way that the person who stood alongside Sarah, shyly introducing herself to me, could fit this description. Christine Seifert was wearing a pale blue tailored summer suit and navy blue French-heeled shoes. She was carrying a leather shoulder bag that matched the shoes. She was perhaps five feet seven inches tall, a slender young woman with brown hair, brown eyes, and an engaging smile.

Sarah must have noticed the startled look on my face.

“Never trust a lunatic,” she whispered, smiling, as I led her and Christine — I could never again think of her as Brunhilde — to where I’d parked the Cadillac. “Oh my, aren’t we elegant today,” she said. “How do you want to do this, Miss Seifert? Shall I sit up front with Mr. Hope, where you can keep an eye on me?”

“Perhaps we should both sit together in the back,” Christine said softly.

I opened the back door for them. Christine allowed Sarah to enter the car first, and then she got in and made herself comfortable beside her. I closed the door and came around to the driver’s side. I started the car.

I drove up the paved road to the wall with its wrought-iron gate. I drove through the gate and onto the dirt road and stopped at the split-rail fence defining the property. I checked for traffic east and west on Xavier Road, and then made a left turn toward US 41 and Calusa.

“Ahhh, fresh air again,” Sarah said.

Her face was framed in the rearview mirror. She was smiling.

“What time are they expecting us, Mr. Hope?” Christine asked.

“Six,” I said.

“We should make that easily,” she said.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Miss Seifert thinks this is all a waste of time,” Sarah said. “Isn’t that true, Chris?”

“Not at all,” Christine said.

“Aw, come on, you can be honest with us. You think I’m nuts, don’t you?”

Christine said nothing.

“Her silence indicates assent,” Sarah said.

“Not necessarily,” Christine said.

“What does Joanna think?” Sarah asked suddenly.

“Joanna?” Christine said.