Gromyko shook his head. “I am not here to ask anything, but simply to remind you of the premium that I place on discretion. It is something you should keep in mind if you find yourself talking to the press or to the authorities. You should make no mention of Gilpin… or of me.”
I laughed. “My brother gave me similar advice.”
“A sensible man.”
“Terminally. But don’t worry. I have nothing to say to the press and no reason to mention Gilpin or you to the police.”
Gromyko nodded. “Then I will leave you to your rest,” he said. He turned toward his car and turned back when I spoke.
“How is Gilpin doing?” I asked.
Gromyko gave me a long speculative look. “Sad,” he said finally. “And angry. And guilty- though I doubt he knows it, or knows why. He is drinking heavily, and it will be some time before he is of any use.” He looked at me some more and shrugged. “Families are complex,” he said, and he got into his shiny car and drove away.
I went upstairs and opened my windows wide and let the day in. I drank from a carton of orange juice and turned the pages of one of Jane’s travel magazines while I listened to my messages. There were four of them. The first three were from Marcus Hauck, and each was more urgent than the one before.
“Mr. March, please call. I’d like to discuss your recent trip to the Berkshires and what you discovered there. I will of course compensate you for your time and expertise.
“Mr. March, please call as soon as possible. I wish to engage your services on an immediate basis, and I will wire a retainer to whatever account you name by close of business today. Please call me.
“March, it is imperative that I speak to you regarding Gregory, and what, if anything, you might have seen among his personal effects. Call me. I assure you, I will make it worth your while.”
I shook my head. The stakes were very high for Hauck, and I wondered how desperate he was, and how stupid and reckless he would get. He was already desperate enough to call me and stupid enough to leave messages. But would he be reckless enough to send Pflug on a hunting expedition up north- a mission, perhaps, to creep the evidence lockup at the Lee barracks? I certainly hoped so. Because after our conversations last night, Louis Barrento would be waiting, and the red accordion file was already on its way to the Feds. I saved all three messages.
The last call was from Jane. There was a lot of noise in the background, and her voice was tired and sometimes lost in the din, but I got the message.
“The buyer’s board met this morning and approved the deal, and we signed everything before noon. So I’m done. And I’m done with these guys for good; they decided not to make an offer to keep me around. Apparently some of their board members saw me on TV yesterday- that clip of us driving from the farm- and had second thoughts. Talk about a silver lining.” There was a pause, and for a long minute I heard nothing but distorted announcements and Jane’s breathing.
“I can’t do this, John. I thought I could, but I was wrong. I tried to keep things at arm’s length- tell myself you were like Nick Charles or something, and your work was clever and glamorous, and somehow separate from you. But that’s bullshit, and I can’t pretend otherwise.
“There’s nothing amusing about being followed. There’s nothing witty about beatings and guns and emergency rooms. There’s nothing funny about getting shot. I don’t know why you want that in your life, John, but I know I don’t.
“Maybe it would be different, easier, if I knew what you were looking for from this- from us. Or maybe there’s no mystery to it. Maybe you’re not looking for anything at all. Maybe your life is already just the way you want it, and I-” A garbled announcement went off somewhere near Jane, followed by a storm of static. When her voice returned it was clear and sad and full of conclusion.
“They’re calling my flight again. I’m sorry.”
I drank my orange juice and looked at my watch and played the message through twice more. It was hours since she’d left it, hours since her plane had pulled back from the gate and sped down the tarmac and climbed into the air, hours since it had wheeled above Jamaica Bay and found its heading and dwindled over some horizon. I looked out the window and up at the sky. I don’t know what I expected to see, so many hours later, besides impossible blue and spun-sugar clouds and no sign at all of her passage.