As if seeing things for the first time, Hearne looked around the room he was in. It was a magnificent living room, with high ceilings, slate tile floors covered with expensive rugs, an entertainment center so advanced that he had no idea what it was capable of. Through the huge picture window was a long, sloping lawn that led down to a small tree-bordered lake, his wooden fishing boat turned upside down on the bank. He could hear Laura in the kitchen, cooking and talking to her mother, who was in a controlled-living complex in Spokane. The aroma of Sunday dinner filled his home. She was frying chicken, his favorite, doing it the old-fashioned Southern way by soaking the pieces in buttermilk first, then coating them, then chilling them in the buttermilk again. It took all afternoon. He wished he could get excited about it, but eating was the last thing on his mind.
Hearne felt like an imposter in his own home. A real businessman should live there, he thought, not him. Someone who would not feel the conflict he felt about what was happening in the valley, someone who could justify his participation in it. Hearne, despite the home, the lake, the property, and his status, felt like a piss-poor rodeo cowboy who had made a pact with the Devil. He needed to stop fretting, and do something about it.
He stood up and stretched, heard his back pop like a string of muffled firecrackers. The old injuries set in when he remained still for too long, as he had today, and it took a moment of painful stretching to loosen up. There were three telephones in the house: one in the kitchen where Laura was, one in the bedroom, and one in his home office. Tucking the folded newspaper under his arm, he leaned into the kitchen and breathed in the full brunt of the meal in progress until Laura turned from the stove and saw him. She had the telephone clamped between her shoulder and jaw so that her hands were free. She raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Yes?”
“Will you be much longer?”
“My mother,” she mouthed.
“Tell her hello from me,” he said. “Will you be on the line much longer?”
Laura shot an impatient look at him and covered the receiver.
“She’s on a roll about a dance they had at the center last night,” she said. “We talk every Sunday afternoon, as you know. What’s the crisis?”
“No crisis,” he said, lying. “Don’t worry about it.”
He heard her call after him as he walked back through the living room, grabbed his cell from where he’d left it on the bookcase, and went outside.
Afternoon rain clouds were moving across the sky, blocking out the sun, and he could sense the moisture coming. The pine trees smelled especially sharp, as if their bite was being held close to the ground by the low pressure.
The article in the newspaper listed a telephone number to reach the task force to report any information regarding the Taylor children. Hearne had nothing to report, but he assumed it would be the best way to reach who he needed to talk with. He punched the numbers into his cell phone, and the call was answered after three rings by a female receptionist.
“I’d like to speak to Lieutenant Singer, please.”
“Please hold while I put you through.”
Hearne was placed on hold for a moment, listened to a scratchy rendition of “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” then: “This is Singer.” The man’s voice was flat and businesslike.
“Lieutenant Singer, this is Jim Hearne,” he said.
No response.
“Your banker,” he reminded, after a beat.
“I know who you are.” Deadpan, slightly annoyed.
“I was hoping we could have a few minutes to talk.”
“Why? I’m busy right now, as you can imagine.”
“It’s about a retired detective from California. From Arcadia, wherever that is. He was in my office asking about cash deposits and certain bills that have surfaced that apparently were marked. The bills were traced back to my bank.”
The cold silence on the other end of the call unnerved Hearne. “Lieutenant Singer?”
“I’m here.”
“I think we should get together and talk about this situation.”
“Why?” Singer said quickly, his voice dropping.
“Well…” Hearne wasn’t sure what to say.
“Well what?”
“I’m sure he’ll be back. It won’t take him long to identify certain accounts, and he’ll want to know about them.” Hearne didn’t like how he sounded, like a weak coconspirator. He wanted Singer to say something to assure him there was nothing to worry about.
Finally: “Listen to me carefully, Mr. Banker,” Singer said, almost whispering. Hearne found himself clicking the volume button on his cell phone so he could hear. “Do not say a thing to that man right now. Not a thing.”
“But…”
“But nothing, Mr. Banker. As far as you’re concerned, you don’t have any idea what he’s talking about. Or better yet, you’re simply unavailable for a meeting. He can’t hang around here forever. He’ll go away.”
Hearne couldn’t get past the words, He’ll go away.
“We’ll talk when this is over,” Singer said. “We’ll get everything straightened out. Is that a deal?”
Hearne looked at his cell phone as if it had switched sides and turned against him. Then he closed it, ending the call.
WHEN HE turned back to the house, Laura was standing in the doorway.
“Since when do you make calls out on the lawn?” she asked.
He shrugged and tried to shoulder past her, but she stepped in his way. “Jim?”
Enough, he thought. Enough holding things in. He reached up and grasped her gently by the shoulders, looked straight into her eyes. He could see that she was prepared for anything but scared at the same time.
“I’ve put us in a situation,” he said. “At the bank. Now it’s coming back to kick me in the ass. I may be in a lot of trouble.”
She searched his face for more.
“Actually,” he said, sweeping a hand around the grounds, “I may have put us both and all we have in trouble.”
“What did you do, Jim?” she asked.
“It’s not what I did,” he said. “It’s what I didn’t do. I looked the other way when I knew better, which is just as bad. I let something happen without stopping it, without asking the right questions. I did it because I knew if I looked away, deliberately, it would lead to a lot more business, and that’s what happened. But I knew better. I knew something wasn’t right.”
She slowly shook her head. Would she press him for details?
“Jim,” she said, “that’s not like you.” It hurt more than anything else she could have said.
He dropped his head, couldn’t look into her eyes. “Laura, I need your permission to try and square this, knowing that I might not be able to do it. What’s at risk is my job and our reputation.”
She sighed, which surprised him. “You’ve always cared a lot more about our status than I have,” she said. “I’d be just as happy in our old house, with the valley more like the way it was when we grew up. I know I can’t turn the clock back, and neither can you. But I wouldn’t mind if we weren’t always in the middle of making it grow bigger and inviting everyone in. I’m not sure it’s worth it. It doesn’t matter how nice our house is in order to cook Sunday dinner.”
He slowly raised his head, amazed at her, in love with her.
“Do what you need to do to make things right,” she said.
“Then I’m going to miss dinner,” he said.
“It’ll keep ’til you get back.”
Sunday, 5:15 P.M.
WHILE ANNIE AND WILLIAM ate at the table, Jess thumbed through the phone book in the Federal Government listings and found the number for the FBI office in Boise. He looked at his watch. Five-fifteen on Sunday night. Would anyone even be there? Turning his back on the Taylor kids, he dialed and got a recorded message: