Richard Patterson - The Lasko Tangent

The Frenchman reappeared, leading a tall blonde girl dressed in white slacks and turquoise silk blouse. I stood, surprised.

“Mrs. Martinson?” She nodded, eyes resting on me. “I’m Chris Paget. Please sit down.” The Frenchman whisked out a chair and deftly steered her to it. I took a second look. The girl was a woman, maybe thirty-five, though age had only touched her eyes. The rest of her was girl-pretty cheerleader face and slim body that moved with the carelessness young girls have before life becomes a harness. She looked back across the table. The sad puff around her eyes rebuked me. Being glad she was pretty was more than pointless. I wondered where Martinson was while I dined with his wife.

“You’re very young,” she said.

I smiled. “Old enough. Can I get you a drink?” She hesitated. “You could probably do with one.”

“All right. Thank you. Whatever you’re having.” Her natural tone was high, a girl’s voice.

I ordered two rum and tonics and turned back to her troubled gaze.

“Let me explain why I’m here.” I spoke carefully, trying to feed some confidence into her eyes. “I’m a lawyer with an agency in Washington, the ECC.” I took out my ID card and laid it in front of her. “One of our jobs is to investigate fraud in companies that sell stock in the United States. I’m working on a case involving Lasko Devices. I flew here this morning to talk with your husband. I visited the company and saw a man named Kendrick. He said that your husband had gone on vacation because of some sort of mental strain. He wouldn’t tell me when he had left, where he had gone, or when he would come back. My guess is that he disappeared within the last twenty-four hours, and that he’s not on the island.”

She shook her head, the blonde shag grazing her shoulders. “No.”

“No what?”

Her voice quavered as if someone was shaking her. “No, he’s not crazy. He went away because they told him.”

“Who told him?”

“I don’t know. Someone from the company. He called me this morning. He said he had to go away for a while, right away, that someone was looking for him.” The two thoughts collided in her eyes. “It was you.” Her voice accused me. It made as much sense as anything else.

“Probably. Why did he go?”

“They told him to. He was afraid. He’s never been afraid before, of anything. I asked him please not to go. He kept telling me that he had to. Then he hung up. It was so frightening. It doesn’t make any sense at all.” Her shoulders drew in. It gave her a breakable look.

“What else did he tell you?”

“That I shouldn’t tell anyone-but I’m afraid for him.”

“Why are you afraid?”

“Because Peter’s afraid.” The words had strange echoes, as if she had lived for years on her husband’s reactions. But I was afraid too.

“Did he tell you why?”

“No.”

I could feel her trust slipping from me in the sterile inquisition. I sensed that she hadn’t decided who to be afraid of. Our drinks arrived. She sipped listlessly, watching me over the rim.

I tried something else. “Mrs. Martinson, this case seems to be very important to someone. I want your husband safe. Anything that you can tell me about his business here would help.”

Her eyes clouded with doubt, then tears. She stared at her lap. I waited. “Can you help protect Peter?” she asked after a time.

“I hope so.”

She looked up at me. “All right,” she said quietly.

“Let’s start with how your husband got here.”

“Well, I guess the thing was that nothing quite worked out. Peter-well, it’s not that Peter isn’t smart, he’s very clever, really-he just hadn’t found the right spot.” The words had a pat, formula sound, as if she had repeated them to herself until memorized. “When we finished college, Peter wanted to go to Europe. I couldn’t have children-” Her voice caught; perhaps children would have made her husband a grown-up. “Anyhow, Peter is a manufacturer’s representative for international companies. We’ve been everywhere the last twelve years. I’ve got beautiful memories. And Peter speaks three languages.” The tumble of words stopped abruptly. I thought of a cheerleader again, turned older. She was still leading cheers, but the team was behind and would never catch up. The knowledge showed in her eyes. They moved between innocence and hurt. “I’m not helping, am I?” she asked.

I tried to look encouraging. “Just keep on talking. Where did Peter work last?”

“Japan.”

“For Yokama Electric?”

“That’s right. How did you know that?”

“I’m beginning to put some things together. About when did you come to St. Maarten?”

“July.” She stopped. “Just last month.” It seemed to surprise her, as if it felt longer now.

The Frenchman arrived to take our order. She looked distracted. I asked some questions and ordered for her. It felt strange. Perhaps her husband did that too.

“Why St. Maarten?” I asked when we had ordered.

“Peter was asked. He did a lot of his business in Japan with Lasko Devices. They liked him. Peter told me that. William Lasko asked him to come here personally.”

“What was your husband supposed to do?”

“Mr. Lasko wanted Peter to run his new company for him. Carib Imports.”

“Does your husband own any part of Carib Imports?”

She shook her head. “No. Peter is just running it for him.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“We didn’t have the money to own a company. This was really a break for Peter.” The sentence started in pride and trailed off in embarrassment.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what is he paid?”

“Well, it seemed fantastic. He got a $100,000 bonus and $75,000 a year for two years. We’re renting a beautiful home in the hills.”

“I can imagine.” I could-but not the way she thought.

She read it. “Mr. Paget, what’s going to happen to Peter?”

“Nothing. But I need to find him. Have you any idea where he is?”

Her voice shrunk. “He wasn’t to tell me,” she hesitated.

“Damn it, Mrs. Martinson, help me out.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not the same, but I’m involved in this thing too.” Lehman’s unspoken presence thickened my speech. “You’ll help your husband best by telling me everything. Especially that.”

She gave me a candid gaze. I decided that her eyes were very nice. “Mr. Paget, I love Peter very much.”

“I won’t forget that,” I said quietly.

She touched my hand. “All I know is that Peter said he would be somewhere safe. Near Boston.”

It figured.

The Frenchman brought us dinner. She picked at it. I encouraged her, pointing out things that looked good. I asked a few more questions and turned up nothing. She was not a stupid woman, not at all. But she had abdicated responsibility for the world of men. Or, more accurately, had never presumed to have any. She was all victim, hurt and hopeful at once. And I liked her.

We finished dinner. “Do you have a picture of your husband?” I asked.

She fumbled in her purse and produced a wallet-size snapshot. “This is Peter,” she said. The warmth in her voice was crossed with fear, as if Peter might be only the picture.

The picture showed a lean man with sharp features and dark curly hair. He had all the elements of good looks. What stopped me was a sort of spurious winner’s smile. Somehow he reminded me of a guy who would show up for tennis with a graphite racket and a $100 outfit, and flash all the strokes you wish you had. And then leave you wondering why he lost.

“Can I keep it?” I asked. She nodded. I placed it carefully in an inside pocket.

The Frenchman returned, casting a doleful eye on the woman’s picked-over plate. It had a messy, abandoned look, as if someone had begun surgery and then decided to quit. It affronted his sensibilities. I cheered him up by saying that duck l’orange this fine was tough to come by. She watched the byplay with empty eyes, as if it were no more or less significant than the rest of her day. I flashed on Valerie Lehman, staring in pretty bewilderment at her nice furniture. We passed on dessert. I took her arm and steered her out the door.