Харлан Кобен - Win

“Your father matriculated to Haverford College in September of 1971.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re using the word ‘matriculated’ in casual conversation?”

I have to smile. “My most heartfelt apologies,” I say. “Do you know your father originally attended Haverford?”

“I do. Like your father and their father and their father before them for however far we go back. So what? My father didn’t want to go, but he didn’t feel as though he had a choice. That’s why he transferred.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“That’s not why he transferred.”

I produce the honor code report as well as the covering letter signed by the Dean’s Disciplinary Panel. “These are dated January 16, 1972 — the beginning of your father’s second semester of his freshman year.”

We are seated at the square table in the center of the room. Her purse is on the floor. Patricia reaches down and pulls out a pair of reading glasses. I wait for her to skim through the report.

“It’s pretty vague,” she says.

“Intentionally,” I say. “Apparently your father took inappropriate photographs of the underage daughter of his biology professor named Gary Roberts.” I hand her a canceled check. “On January 22, Professor Roberts deposited this check, made out from one of our shell companies, to his bank account.”

She reads it. “Ten grand?”

I say nothing.

“Pretty cheap.”

“It was the early seventies.”

“Still.”

“And I’m not sure he had a choice. Scandals like this never saw the light of day. If it did, Professor Roberts was probably convinced that his young daughter would be the one blamed and made worse for wear.”

Patricia reads the letter again. “Do you have a photograph of her?”

“Of the daughter?”

“Yes.”

“No. Why?”

“Dad liked young women,” she says. “Girls even.”

“Yes.”

“But there is a difference between a physically mature fifteen-year-old and, say, a seven-year-old.”

I stay silent. Patricia has asked me no question, so I see no reason to speak.

“I mean,” she continues, “sorry to sound anti-me-too and I’m not defending him, but have you seen photographs of my mother at their wedding?”

“I have.”

“She’s... my mother was curvy.”

I wait.

“She was built, right? What I’m saying is, I don’t think my father was a pedophiliac or anything.”

“You prefer ephebophilia,” I say.

“I’m not sure what that is.”

“Mid-to-late adolescents,” I say.

“Maybe.”

“Patricia?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s not get bogged down in definitions right now. It will only cloud the issue. He’s dead. I see no reason to pursue his punishment at this moment.”

She nods, sits back, and lets loose a deep breath. “Go on then.”

I look down at my notes. “There isn’t much mention of your father for the next few months in any of the diaries I’ve located so far, but my grandfather kept all of his scorecards from his rounds of golf.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“He saved scorecards?”

“He did.”

“So I assume my father’s name is on some?”

“Yes. He played quite a bit starting in April. With my father, our grandfather, family members. I’m sure he played with his friends too, but of course, I wouldn’t have those cards.”

“What was his handicap?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m trying to lighten the mood, Win. What does that prove?”

“That he was in Philadelphia throughout the summer. Or at least, he golfed here. Then according to the calendar, a Lockwood staff member drove Aldrich to Lipton Hall, his residence housing on Washington Square, on September 3, 1972.”

“Where he started at NYU.”

“Yes.”

“So then what?”

“For the most part, it seems everything is calm for a while. I need to go through the files more thoroughly, but as of now, nothing major pops out until your father arrives in São Paolo on April 14, 1973.”

I show her the relevant stamp from Brazil in his old passport.

“Wait. Grandmama kept his old passport?”

“All of our old passports, yes.”

Patricia shakes her head in disbelief. She turns to the photograph in the front and stares down at the image of her father. The passport was issued in 1971, when her father was nineteen years old. Her head tilts to the side as she stares at the black-and-white headshot. Her fingertip gently brushes her father’s face. Aldrich was a handsome man. Most Lockwood men are.

“Dad told me he stayed in South America for three years,” she says in a wistful voice.

“That seems right,” I say. “If you page through the passport, you’ll see that he traveled to Bolivia, Peru, Chile, Venezuela.”

“It changed him,” she says.

This too is not a question, so I see no reason to comment.

“He did good work down there. He founded a school.”

“Seems he did, yes. According to the passport, he didn’t return to the United States until December 18, 1976.”

“December?”

“Yes.”

“I was told earlier.”

“Of course you were.”

“So my mother was pregnant with me,” Patricia says.

“You didn’t know?”

“I didn’t. But it doesn’t make a difference.” Patricia sighs and leans back in her chair. “Is there a point to all this, Win?”

“There is.”

“Because we are now up to 1976. The paintings were stolen from Haverford in, what, the mid-1990s? I still don’t see any connection here.”

“I do.”

“Tell me.”

“The key is your father’s departure from New York City to São Paolo.”

“What about it?”

“Your father was still a student at New York University. He hadn’t graduated. He seemed to be doing well enough. But suddenly, in April of that year, with the end of the semester less than two months away, he chose to travel on his overseas mission. I find that odd, don’t you?”

She shrugs. “Dad was rich, impulsive. Maybe he wasn’t doing great that semester. Maybe he just wanted out.”

“Perhaps,” I say.

“But?”

“But he departed April 14, 1973.”

“So?”

I have the old newspaper article on my phone. Even I feel a chill when I bring it up to show her. “So the Jane Street Six murders occurred two days earlier, on April 12, 1973.”

Patricia is up and pacing. “I don’t get what you’re saying here, Win.”

She does. I wait.

“It could be a coincidence.”

I don’t make a face. I don’t frown. I just wait.

“Say something, Win.”

“It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Your father runs off to Brazil almost immediately after the Jane Street Six murders go down. Twenty years later, valuable paintings of ours are stolen and end up in the hands of the leader of the Jane Street Six. Care for more? Fine. At Ry Strauss’s murder scene, we find the suitcase you were made to pack when you were kidnapped after your father’s murder. Oh, the icing: Nigel set up a shell account to purchase Ry Strauss’s apartment — the murder scene — and to take care of his maintenance payments. Enough?”

Patricia stands and crosses the room. “So what are you saying? My father was part of the Jane Street Six?”

“I don’t know. Right now, I’m still presenting the facts.”

“Like what else?”

“I met a barmaid who works in a place called Malachy’s. She had a relationship with Ry Strauss. She told me that Ry would often visit Philadelphia.”

“So if I’m reading you right, you think my father was part of the Jane Street Six. He escaped. Our family paid off Ry Strauss to keep quiet, I guess, about his role. Did we pay off the others?”