“Vlodek spotted the reference in the second letter.”
Stanley nodded. “As you expected,” he said, looking at the Bohemian.
The Bohemian turned to me. “In April of 1970, just a few weeks before the first Members were scheduled to move in, the developers received a note demanding ten thousand dollars. It did not make a specific threat and said nothing about where to drop the money. We took it to be a prank because it was so vague-some Maple Hills resident, perhaps, upset about the development.”
“What did the letter look like?”
The Bohemian glanced at Stanley. “From what I remember, exactly like the two we’ve received this summer: double-lined child’s paper, block printing, capital letters in pencil.”
Stanley nodded in agreement.
“And the envelope? Was it white like the ones you received this summer?”
“Yes…” The Bohemiam hesitated, looked to Stanley.
“Except it was addressed in pencil, block lettered like the note. Obviously not ink-jet computer printed, not back then,” Stanley said.
The Bohemian went on. “A week later, there was an explosion at the back of the guardhouse. It wasn’t a big explosion, nothing like the Farraday house, but it did enough damage to require rebuilding the rear wall. We assumed it to have been set off by the person sending the letter.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“We did, Vlodek.”
“Mr. Chernek came to me,” Stanley said. “I was a patrol officer on the Maple Hills force, moonlighting at night as security on the construction site, but my hat was in the ring for the security chief’s job at Crystal Waters. After the guard shack blew, Mr. Chernek called me in and showed me the note they received.”
“And you did what?”
“I told him hundreds of construction workers had access to the development, as did truckers delivering materials, utility company people, even Maple Hills cops, for that matter. Cops are like everybody else. Some of them get resentful at all the money in a place like Crystal Waters.”
“So there were lots of potentials. What did you recommend?”
“That he contact the sheriff’s police.”
I looked at the Bohemian. “You didn’t do that.”
The Bohemian met my gaze, said nothing.
“Let me guess,” I said. “If word got out, nobody would move in, and the developers would be out millions.”
“Tens of millions,” the Bohemian said.
“So you did nothing until the bomber sent you another letter, telling you where to leave the ten thousand.”
Stanley took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth again. “The second letter said, ‘Put the money in a plastic garbage bag. Drop it in the Dumpster behind Ann Sather’s restaurant after dark on Sunday night.’”
“Where was that?”
“On Belmont, in Chicago.”
“Same pencil printing, same double-lined kid’s paper, same postmark as the first?”
Stanley nodded. “Like the two we’ve received this summer.”
“You delivered the ten thousand?”
“That next Sunday night.”
“And you never heard from him again?”
The Bohemian spoke. “That ended it.”
“Until now,” I said.
The Bohemian tapped his forehead with his forefinger in a vague salute. “Until now.”
“So you think that by paying him, you’ll get him to leave you alone for another few decades?”
The Bohemian stood up and went to the window. The sun was getting higher, wiping away the morning shadows on the surrounding rooftops. “The objective was then, and is now, money, not murder,” he said, looking out. “Our bomber is a professional. He does his research. He knows when the houses will be empty. He knows the places outside the wall where no one will be standing. And, being a professional, he knows our resources are not limitless. He knows we can raise five hundred thousand; it’s less than twenty thousand dollars per house. He also must know he can’t keep coming back, that if he presses for more, we will be forced to consult the authorities. I think he’ll leave us alone when he gets his money.”
“You speak of him respectfully,” I said to the Bohemian’s back. “You might be giving him credit he doesn’t deserve. The mailman and the paperboy could have known when the Farradays would be gone, too.”
The Bohemian turned from the window, the trace of a smile on his face. “You’ve forgotten. No paperboys, no mailmen. Everything gets left at the guardhouse. I’ll say it again: This man is a businessman.”
“Like most of the men who live in Crystal Waters,” I said.
The half-smile on the Bohemian’s face didn’t flicker.
I went on. “As I told you before, this could be an inside operation.”
“I can’t see how any Member would benefit as much as he would lose. The current demand is for a half million. That’s onesixth of what the typical house in Crystal Waters is worth.”
“Another insider, then: a contractor, a landscaper, a housepainter.” I looked at Stanley. “A guard.”
“Vlodek, please-”
“I don’t understand either of you.” I said to the Bohemian. “Why go through the charade of having me look at the second note? Obviously, it’s the same as the earlier one this summer.”
Stanley answered. “We needed to be double sure it’s the sameperson. We knew you’d pick up on the reference to our 1970 payment, but we also knew we could trust you to keep this matter private. We have to be sure it’s the same man.”
“The man who, if given what he wants, can be relied upon to stay away for years and years?”
“Exactly, Mr. Elstrom.” Stanley looked at the Bohemian. “We will proceed with payment, Mr. Chernek?”
The Bohemian turned to me. “Will you allow us to continue without the authorities, Vlodek?”
I didn’t need much convincing, which was the shame of it. Playing it out, seeing if the half million would be enough to make the guy go away again, got me off my little moral hook. I wouldn’t have to choose between what was left of my career and going to the cops, at least for a while.
“Fair enough.” I stood up. Suddenly, I was anxious to get out of there, away from both of them. I wanted to think. I told them I’d call Monday morning to find out how the drop went and left.
On the way back to Rivertown, I kept hearing the admiring tone in the Bohemian’s voice when he talked about the man targeting Gateville. Professional, he’d called him. A businessman. A careful man, who does his research.
It sounded like he was describing himself.
Seven
Saturday morning, early, I drove to Ann Sather’s restaurant on the north side of Chicago. I wanted to check out the place where Stanley Novak was going to leave half a million dollars on Sunday night.
Ann Sather’s neighborhood was in the first grunts of going upscale. At nine o’clock in the morning, the parking places along Belmont were already taken, the sidewalks already teeming with pairs of slim young men and clusters of black-haired teenaged girls wearing resale-shop clothes. They are the forward guard, the anointers who can declare an area worthy. They have no money; they come for weak tea and candles and used compact discs. But from their terra-cotta perches downtown, the big-money urban developers watch them, and when the anointers come in sufficient numbers, the developers strike with the sureness of hawks-optioning, demolishing, rehabbing, and sending the prices of real estate to the moon. The grungy, curtained incense shops and tiny, linoleum-floored groceries get pushed out by rents gone exponential, to make way for upscale boutiques and bakeries. And then the commodities traders, lawyer couples, and professional urbantrendies come to smile and pirouette on the sidewalks, and there are lattes and grandes and little square dessert items for everyone.
I turned off of Belmont into the narrow side alley next to Ann Sather’s. It led back to a parking lot. All the spaces were taken, and several cars filled with spaghetti-string tops, purple makeup, and hormones were circling, so I threaded past them and out the main alley that ran parallel behind the restaurant. I had to drive a mile west before I found a spot in front of a used furniture store. The proprietor, no fool he, had put a hand-lettered sign on an aluminum lawn chair in the window: AND ANTIQUES. I walked back east into the crowds tightening along the sidewalks.