"Sure, sure." Her companion's tone was soothing, and he made sideways brushing motions with his large, capable-looking hands. "No, no, I'm not trying to push you into doing anything like that." The way Kaiser made it sound now, that he might talk Angie into sneaking or smuggling him in must have been really the furthest idea from his thoughts. "But let me say this. If you, after having actually been in the apartment, would consent to talk with me once more, very briefly, just to verify that these terrible rumors are all so much crap, excuse me, I'd be very pleased. See, believe it or not, I am very conscientious about what I do. And to kill these rumors I'd like to have the direct testimony of a reliable witness. I'll never quote you directly without your permission, I'll never use your name."
Later, Angie was to wonder what might have happened if she had simply got up at that point, or some point earlier, and walked out. But it didn't matter, because that was not what she did.
She did slide out of the booth and stand up, but she wasn't angry. There was something almost irresistibly attractive about the man, and his story sounded just wild enough to have the possibility of truth.
"You already have my phone number at work, Mr. Kaiser," she said. "However you got it. If you want to call me again, in a few days, I'll tell you then whether I want to talk to you again or not. If my answer is no, then I expect you not to—"
"Great. Excellent." It seemed that the young man was genuinely pleased. He stood up gracefully now to shake her hand. "That's all that I can ask of you now. And when you get into that apartment, just look around. Keep your eyes and your mind open. That's all I ask."
Angie spent most of the next two hours at the Museum of Contemporary Art, which was only a few blocks from the coffee shop, over on Ontario east of Michigan. On her way over to the museum, where she was to meet John Southerland, she several times slowed her walking pace to look up thoughtfully at the gigantic multi-use building in which John's mysterious Uncle Matthew lived—where he maintained a condominium, at least, and spent some of his time. Immensely tall, formed gracefully of bronzed steel and glass, it stood among its twenty-, thirty-, forty-story neighbors like an adult among small children. The Southerlands had plenty of money, and evidently this kinsman, old friend, or whatever he was, did too.
She wondered which of the Southerlands, if any, had really called in a Celebrity Publicist and had given him her phone number at the hospital. John's mother, most likely, if anyone… well, she, Angie, wasn't going to say anything about Valentine Kaiser to John just yet. It wouldn't hurt just to wait until she'd seen what Uncle Matthew's apartment really looked like.
She was in the museum, in front of an Andy Warhol, wondering if there might be some deep meaning that she was missing, when her fiance caught up with her. John was twenty-seven, four or five years older than Angie. They'd met several months ago, at a party, a fundraising kind of thing really, given by some of John's friends. Angie had been present as an administrator, attractive and knowledgeable, if somewhat junior, of St. Thomas More's, the hospital which stood to collect most of the raised funds.
John was a little under six feet, half a foot taller than Angie, strong-jawed, and sturdy, as befitted a former amateur wrestler who'd once made it to the state finals. His light brown hair, cut fairly short, still retained a tendency to curl.
They kissed. The embrace was a bit on the casual side, appropriate for a couple who'd already been sharing an apartment and a bedroom for a month. He asked her: "How was your day?"
"Interesting, so far." She didn't tell the most interesting part, not yet, but mentioned a couple of incidents having to do with her job. "I'm looking forward to the evening."
John grunted something. It was not precisely an agreement.
Twice, as they walked back toward the looming tower that housed Maule's condominium, it was on the tip of Angie's tongue to tell her fiance about her encounter with Valentine Kaiser. But each time she bit the impulse back. Later, of course, she'd tell him—and tell Uncle Matthew, too, most likely. Most likely the three of them would have a good laugh about it. That is, they would provided that Uncle Matthew didn't turn out really to be the kind to put up photographs of—but of course he wouldn't. No one who Johnny felt so close to could turn out to be like that. And in any case, Angie wanted to handle the matter of Valentine Kaiser herself, not simply turn him over to the menfolk.
"So," she said instead. "Uncle Matthew is taking us out to dinner?"
"Yeah." John, walking beside her, sounded preoccupied, almost as if he might be developing belated doubts about the evening's plan. "He's not actually my uncle, you know," he added, almost absently.
"Yes, I know that." Angie felt vaguely troubled. "Because you've told me about half a dozen times over the past month."
"I have?"
"Yes. Every time you say he's not really your uncle, and then you get stuck, as if you don't know how to continue. So what is it about Uncle Matthew? Obviously he's important to you, if you're bringing me to meet him."
"Well, he is," said John, and then appeared to get stuck again.
"Do you want to invite him to our wedding?" It was the first time she'd raised the point.
"I do," he said at once, then waffled. "But there's some question…"
"Yes, there seems to be. He's some old friend of your father's?"
"Well. Actually, no, he isn't. Dad's met him, but he doesn't even… he's an old friend of the family." John seemed pleased at having found that way to express it. "He was a good friend of my grandmother, who died during that episode when I was kidnapped. When I was sixteen."
So then, thought Angie, we are making progress. Non-Uncle Matthew must be quite elderly. She was growing increasingly curious about, and anxious to meet, this man who was not quite an uncle, who had known John's family for many years, but whom nobody in John's family liked to talk to her about, even when it was certain that she and John were getting married.
Matthew Maule. And now, not for the first time, she had the feeling that somewhere, before ever meeting John, she had heard that name, or read it… that could easily have happened, she supposed, in the case of a man of wealth and power, no matter how reclusive he tried to be.
The building in which the mystery lived admitted Angie and John somewhat awkwardly at street level. Feet thumping on a temporary wooden sidewalk, they skirted the barricades of a construction area before arriving in a small retail mall of shops. Next came a busy lobby. Presently the two of them were alone in one of the express elevators, beginning a long ascent.
John suddenly raised his hands, drawing her attention to them. On the night they had first met, Angie—feeling then, at the discovery, more than pity, a vague thrill of mystery and romance—had realized that both of John's little fingers were missing. His hands had only three fingers and a thumb apiece, almost as if they might belong to some character in an animated cartoon, where economy in the number of digits to be drawn was of some importance. But it was obvious as soon as you looked closely at John's hands that he hadn't been born that way; dots of old scar tissue, the tidy residue of surgical repair following some much cruder damage, marked each knuckle where a finger should have been.
"I've already told you something about how I lost the fingers," John said, with the air of someone about to take a plunge.
"About how you were kidnapped when you were sixteen. Yes, that must have been so horrible. My poor darling! I was too young then to pay much attention to stories in the news." And since they were alone, Angie reached for his hands, one after the other, and impulsively kissed the scarred knuckles.