Харлан Кобен - Win

“The girls all got undressed in the gazebo,” Patricia continues. She lowers her head. “And your father... he was wrong, Win. I need you to know that. But your father accused my father of watching us through a window.”

I freeze, having trouble believing what I’m hearing. “Say that again?”

Patricia almost smiles. “Now who’s stalling?”

“You mean, as in my father accusing your father of being a Peeping Tom?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“My father wouldn’t make that up,” I say.

“No, to be fair, he wouldn’t. Do you remember Ashley Wright?”

I have a vague recollection. “She was on your field hockey team?”

Patricia nods. “Ashley was the one who got upset. She wouldn’t say why. She started crying that she wanted to leave. It was all pretty weird. Anyway, her parents picked her up. When she got home, Ashley told her father that she saw my father peeking in the window when she was naked. Ashley’s father went to your father. When your father confronted mine, well, fireworks. My dad denied it. Your dad pressed him. It just escalated from there. It opened up a lot of old wounds.”

I mull this all over for a moment. “Ashley Wright,” I say.

“What about her?”

“Was she lying?”

Patricia opens her mouth, closes it, tries again. “What difference does it make now, Win?”

She has a point.

“Do you know where she lives now?”

“Ashley Wright?” Her face blanches. “Jeez, I don’t know. What, you want to talk to her? Seriously, Win? Suppose my dad was... worst-case scenario... a pervert who peeped on sixteen-year-old girls. What difference would that make now?”

Another good point. Where am I going with this? His murder and Patricia’s abduction took place two years after this. I could see zero connection.

And yet.

“Win?”

I look at her. Patricia’s eyes are on that wall — on that camera, on the photographs.

“I miss my father like hell. I want justice. And the fact that the man who hurt me, who did that to all those girls, could still be doing this... that’s haunted me for over twenty years.”

I wait.

“But it now seems pretty clear that Ry Strauss did both, right? And if that’s the case, maybe we don’t want this dug up.”

Again she sounds like my father. I nod at her.

“What?”

“You want this to go away,” I say.

“Of course I do.”

“It won’t.”

I remind her that in a few hours, the world will know about Ry Strauss’s death and the Jane Street Six and their link to the stolen Vermeer. It is only a question of time before the connection to that suitcase gets figured out by the FBI — or her connection in this is outed in some other way. I watch her deflate as I tell her all of this.

Patricia moves toward me and sits hard on the couch. I know how this is going to go. She just needs to process. Finally, she says, “I got to come home. I can never forget that.”

Patricia starts to chew her thumbnail, a move I remember from our childhood.

“I got to come home,” she says again. “Those other girls never did. Some... we still haven’t found their bodies.”

She looks up at me, but what can I add to that?

“I’ve made it my life mission to rescue kids in need — and here I am, cowering in the dark.”

I realize that I’ve been cued up to say something comforting here, such as, “I understand” or “It’s okay.” Instead I check my watch, do a quick calculation of how long it will take me to get to Haverford College, and say, “I have to go.”

As she walks me to the Jag, I see her working the thumbnail again.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I never thought it mattered. I still don’t.”

“But?” I prompt, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“But you kept harping on about our fathers’ rift.”

“What about it?”

“You think it’s relevant.”

“Correction: I don’t know whether it’s relevant. I don’t know what, if anything we are looking into, is relevant. This is how I was taught to investigate. You ask questions. You poke around and perhaps you jar something loose.”

“They spoke one last time.”

“Who spoke one last time?”

“Your dad and mine. Here. At the house.”

“When?”

Patricia wills her hand to her side, so she won’t bite the thumbnail again. “The night before my father was murdered.”

Founded in 1833, Haverford College is a small, elite undergraduate institution located along the tony Main Line of Philadelphia, adjacent to my two favorite exclusive clubs, the Merion Golf Club (I play a lot of golf) and Merion Cricket Club (I play no cricket but very few members do — don’t ask). Fewer than 1,400 students matriculate to Haverford, yet there are over fifty buildings, most made of stone, strewn over 200 manicured acres so glorious that it is technically classified as an arboretum. The Lockwoods have been woven into the rich tapestry that is Haverford College since its conception. Windsor I and II both graduated from Haverford, both remained active, both served as chairman of the board of trustees. All of my male relatives attended (women were not admitted until the 1970s) until — hmm, now that I think of it — Uncle Aldrich was the first to break ranks by choosing New York University in the seventies. I was the second when I elected to go to Duke University in North Carolina. I loved and continue to love Haverford, but for me, it was simply too close to home, too much a known entity for what my eighteen-year-old self craved.

Professor Ian Cornwell’s office in Roberts Hall faces Founders Green and, beyond that, Founders Hall, where the Vermeer and Picasso had been taking up temporary residence when they were stolen. I wonder about that, about Cornwell’s office view of the building where he’d been tied up whilst the two robbers went to work. Does he think about it often or, after a while, does the view simply become the view?

Ian Cornwell tries too hard to look professorial — unruly hair, unkempt beard, tweed jacket, mustard-hued corduroy pants. His office contains half-crumbling stacks of papers on the shelves and floor. In lieu of a proper desk, Cornwell has a large square table that seats twelve, so that he can hold student seminars in an intimate setting.

“So glad you could visit,” Cornwell says to me.

He has me sit in front of brochures related to the political science department. I look up at him. His face is eager, ready to pitch me to support financially some sort of study or class. Kabir has no doubt hinted that I would be interested in funding so as to expedite this appointment. Now that I’m here, I nip this hint in the bud.

“I’m here about the stolen paintings.”

His smile drops from his face like a cartoon anvil. “I was under the impression you’re interested—”

“I might be later,” I say, cutting him off. “But right now, I have some questions about the art heist. You were the night watchman on duty.”

He doesn’t like my abruptness. Few people do.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Yes,” I reply, “I’m well versed in how time works, thank you.”

“I don’t see—”

“You know, of course, that one of the two paintings has been found, correct?”

“I read that in the news.”

“Terrific, so there’s no need to play catch-up. I’ve combed through the FBI file on the heist extensively. As you might imagine, I have a personal interest in this too.”

Cornwell blinks as though dazed, so I continue.

“You were the only security guard on duty that night. According to your testimony, two men disguised as police officers knocked on the door to Founders Hall. They claimed there was a disturbance that needed to be investigated and so you buzzed them in. Once inside, they subdued you. They took you to the basement level, duct-taped your eyes and mouth, and handcuffed you to a radiator. They rummaged through your pockets, pulled out your wallet, checked your ID, and told you that they now know where you live and how to find you. A threat, I assume. Have I got all this correct?”