Richard Greener - The Knowland Retribution

She had a rough timeline tracking who died when. She knew who lost a child, a wife, a husband, a brother, a sister. She included cousins when evidence showed they were close. Many of their pictures were taped on her walls. On her kitchen wall, her “wall of fame,” hung photographs of all who had lost two or more close relatives. She and her assistant spent days on the net assembling facts and likenesses, then dumping them into a system of folders she had designed for that purpose.

Walter expressed neither admiration nor surprise, which disappointed Isobel and left her somewhat irritated, which irritated her all the more.

“You have the data,” Walter said. “I have the skill and experience. We need to help each other.”

“I am not without skill and experience.” Now this old man was getting on her nerves. “Besides, I have the New York Times behind me.” She wished she hadn’t said it the moment she did. Behind her with a pitchfork, maybe. Walter certainly knew that.

But he played it like a gentleman, just as her father would. “My guess is that that anyone who knows you finds it impossible to believe that you were dishonest or sloppy. I’m sure that many colleagues believe you, but I do not believe you. I know for a fact that you are right. And you know that I’m the only one who does.”

They both knew the deal was done.

And so was dinner. He suggested dessert and coffee and cognac. She signaled that she needed a rest by saying she’d never been inside the Mayflower before. He said that he based himself here when he stayed in New York. She thought to say that the senior contingent probably made him feel very young indeed, but she sipped her coffee instead.

Walter said, “When I was a kid in Rhinebeck, it took a couple of hours to drive down here. In high school we’d do it sometimes, get drunk, and drive home. It was a change of pace. At the time there was a notorious call girl ring in this building. It was all very high class and got some play in the papers when they busted the ring. I told my friends to drive by. We went around the block half a dozen times. After that I used to imagine walking down the street right out there, and one of these girls comes out looking like a movie star, and she wiggles her finger and there I go. And I’m sitting around in this penthouse with dozens of girls, drinking scotch and all the rest of it. The thing was, I’d seen an actual place that was in the news. I felt a connection. The first time I had to stay in the city for business, I came right here. I’ve done it ever since. I’ve sat at this table more times than I can count. As you can see, I’m a very popular figure here.”

“And the girls…?”

“Long gone by the time I landed.”

She was greatly encouraged by her meeting and ongoing work with Walter. It helped her keep her chin up during the next couple of days, as the criticism continued. She spent the next day at home, working with him. She went to the office the following morning, more than a little bucked up. On top of the pile of her morning mail was an envelope bearing no postmark, no stamp, and no return address. The computer-generated label showed only her name. Whoever sent it had gotten it into the Times ’ internal system. It contained a single sheet, unsigned. The following words in 16 pt. bold were printed across the center:

I killed Floyd Ochs.

It was not Harlan Jennings.

Details to follow.

Very carefully, holding it by a single edge, she placed the envelope between two sheets of paper and stapled them top and bottom. Later, she learned there were no fingerprints on either the envelope or the note. Then she placed the evidence in her top drawer and sat back to focus on her breathing, trying to get her heart under control.

St. John

“Best towel I ever used was in Aruba,” said Walter, wiping his face with the relatively clean specimen Billy had produced from behind the bar. “Big orange ones. They handed them out when you got to the beach. Real thick, but not too heavy. They smelled good too. You’d come out of the water and wrap one around you. It was just about perfect.”

“When was that?” Billy said.

Walter shrugged. “A while ago.”

“You wasn’t alone. I can sure see that.” Ike tilted his head sympathetically. Respect for Walter’s privacy forbade him from speaking his thoughts: “Everything comes back when you see that orange towel. The good and the bad. It all comes back. I can see it in your face right now.”

Instead, he looked at the ceiling and said, “Best one I can remember was New Orleans, summer of ’49. She was a whore, you know, but she was a high-class woman. Told me she was twenty-four. Come to find out she wasn’t but seventeen. No matter. Woman like that make an old man young and a young man feel a lot older.”

“Lucky she didn’t kill you,” Billy said, heavy lids showing more of his sad brown eyes than usual.

“Man, she made me feel like I never did before and have not since,” said Ike.

“I thought this was about towels,” Billy said.

“I’m getting to the towels. When I was done, which was none too quick, I was soaking wet. I was covered with my sweat and hers. And we’re in this hotel room with a big open window and doors leading out to a little terrace. Had a fan, but damn sure no air conditioning. It was hot and sticky too. She stood there by that open window and the moonlight shined off her in a way that made her look like, I don’t know what-an angel, a statue like you see in a museum-except I knew she was never no statue. Never seen a woman beautiful as that. Next thing I know, she had a towel and sat down beside me on the bed and went to wiping me off. That’s the best towel I ever had.”

Walter said, “Hell of a way to get old.”

Ike nodded. “I was half your age at the time, but I growed up a lot that night.”

Billy suddenly stood up straight behind the bar, surprising Walter and Ike with his height. Unslouched, he was a different man. “My mother used to put a clean towel on the bathroom door every time I took a bath.”

“Your mother?” said Walter.

“What’s wrong with that? She took a towel out of the closet and hung it up on the bathroom door. It was clean and it smelled good. Every time I took a bath. Anything wrong with that?”

Walter’s eyebrows jumped.

Billy bent toward him: “You want to hear about towels? Wrapped around people’s heads after they got their brains beat out behind some warehouse? Towels all covered with blood so you didn’t know what color they were? Believe me, Walter, I seen plenty of towels.”

“I like your momma’s towel fine,” said Ike.

“Write it up, Billy,” said Walter.

“What?”

“New Orleans, Aruba, mom.” And to the general satisfaction, that’s what he wrote on the rimless blackboard leaning against the mirror.

Walter was happiest on St. John, with the heat and the quiet, the privacy, and the pace. He was at his best on his deck, looking out at the rock. Whenever he came back, Clara said, “Walter? You have a good trip?” If he had, he’d tell her so. If not, he said, “Good to be back.” That was enough for her. She lived in his house and she felt that she knew the man. She was old enough to be his mama.

He was glad to be home, but he couldn’t get Isobel out of his mind. Three days in her apartment had yielded Walter a dozen names. He’d taken them from the pictures obscuring her kitchen walls. Each picture was tagged with a name, one or more street and e-mail addresses, and cell and landline numbers. He had their stories in his head. He worked without notes. He kept no records.

Isobel lived on West End Avenue, in an elegant building with a full-time, uniformed staff. Her sixth-floor apartment overlooked 84th Street. It opened into a short foyer with the kitchen on the left, the living room straight ahead, and a hallway ending at two bedrooms side by side, each with a full bathroom. The wall between the kitchen and living room had a chunk taken out and an archway constructed. Two large, potted trees guarded the archway. The kitchen floor was dark red tile. The rest of the floors were parquet. Her furniture was costly but thrown-together, comfortable everywhere. Live plants in all rooms. Piles of books, periodicals. Two very large living room paintings filled with big, colorful, abstract shapes faced each other across the room, the 84th street windows between them. Her bedroom was the place for family photos and personal displays: intricate seashell designs arranged in frames, a child’s Tower of London.