“Was he involved with any particular woman after his divorce?”
“Not that lasted more than a few months.”
“So he never came close to marrying again?”
“Wanted nothing more to do with marriage. Divorce soured him on it.”
“His lady friends. I’d appreciate a name or two.”
“Can’t oblige you. Sleeping dogs.” The dry chuckle again. “Not that they were, any of ’em. Dogs. No, sir, he had good taste, Lloyd did.”
Runyon asked, “Did he brag about his conquests?”
“Some, but he wouldn’t give names or details. Gentleman about that.”
“Brag to his sons, too?”
“No, never to the boys. Strict with them, as I told you. Kept his private life and his kids’ lives separate.”
“He ever bring a woman along on one of the hunting trips?”
“No, sir. Men only. Only time a woman ever showed up at the cabin, he chased her off quick.”
“When did that happen?”
“Oh, a long time ago.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“My memory’s not so good anymore. Why?”
“I’d like to know who she was.”
“Woman from Harmony, nearest place to the camp where you could buy supplies. Worked at the general store there, if I remember right.”
“Can you recall her name?”
“No. Don’t think I ever knew it.”
“Why did she show up at the cabin?”
“Well, I’m not too sure about that,” Thanopolous said.
“Lloyd’s the one who went out and talked to her. Said something later about her being a nosy female.”
“Long conversation?”
“Not too long, no.”
“She leave right away?”
“Pretty quick. Lloyd could be forceful when he had cause.”
“How well do you think he knew the woman?”
“She worked at the general store, as I said.” Chuckle. “You mean in the biblical sense? I doubt it.”
“Why? Was she unattractive?”
“Just the opposite, as I remember. But much younger than Lloyd. He wasn’t a man to chase younger women.”
Runyon asked, “Did he go up to the camp alone very often?”
“Not often. Once in a while. Liked to get away by himself, same as we all do.” Thanopolous finished tacking fine wire mesh across the frame he’d constructed. “Why so interested in Lloyd’s private life and his hunting camp, young man?”
Runyon told him about the stolen photo album. “A lot of snapshots were taken on those trips, I understand.”
“Oh, sure. Lloyd was a camera bug.”
“Did he take any snapshots of the woman from the store?”
Thanopolous frowned. “Now why would he do that?”
“Just wondering.”
“Well, I never saw one if he did.”
“Showed them off, then, did he?”
“Sure. Just about every roll he developed. Camera bug. But there wasn’t anything special about any of them. Why anybody’d want to steal an album full of pictures of fish and dead deer…” Thanopolous sighed, wagged his head. “Pretty frightening, when you think about it.”
“What is?”
“All the crazies running around. Random violence. No wonder people are paranoid these days.” He sighed again. “No paranoia in this case, though, is there? Some loony really is after the Henderson boys.”
“So it would seem.”
“You strike me as a smart fellow. Find out who and why, put a stop to it before something even more terrible happens. The police in this town never will. Incompetent, the lot of them.”
Typical citizen’s complaint. Thanopolous didn’t expect a response and Runyon didn’t offer one.
As he was about to leave, the old man opened a cabinet above the workbench, took down one of the jars it contained, and handed it to him with the air of a man bestowing a prize.
“Clover honey,” he said, “best you ever tasted. No charge.”
10
Jeremy Cullrane was a hard man to track down. When I called the Pollexfen residence to confirm my lunch date with Angelina Pollexfen, Brenda Koehler said that Cullrane wasn’t there and she didn’t know where he could be reached. He wasn’t at the Bayview Club, or at least he didn’t answer the page I requested. He wasn’t at Nicole Coyne’s apartment; an answering machine picked up there. Another machine answered my call to his mail-drop business number. I left messages everywhere, but by the time I quit the agency to keep the lunch date I still hadn’t heard from him.
The restaurant one or the other of the Pollexfens had chosen was called L’Aubergine, a celebrated French bistro just off Union Square. Catered to the wealthy and to dealmakers with unlimited expense accounts-high prices, designer food. Not the kind of place I’d have chosen, but then I was not going to pay for the privilege of eating there. If I had to pick up the check, it would go straight onto my expense account and Barney Rivera had damned well better authorize reimbursement.
Angelina Pollexfen was already there when I walked in at five minutes to twelve, in a cozy little rear booth with a martini in front of her. She wasn’t alone. The man sitting with her wore a three-piece Armani suit and the kind of smooth, ultrawhite smile I distrust on sight. They made a nice pair. She was the blond, willowy type, gray eyes, creamy complexion, fashionably dressed; the diamond wedding ring on her left hand glittered and sparkled and had no doubt drawn envious looks from the other female diners. He was about her age, late thirties, his olive complexion darkened by heavy beard shadow, his black hair sprinkled with gray at the temples.
She gave me her hand, took it away again, and introduced her companion as “Paul DiSantis, our attorney.”
“Do you feel you need an attorney present, Mrs. Pollexfen?”
“It’s nothing like that,” DiSantis said. His handshake was firm without trying to prove anything. “I’m not here in a legal capacity.”
“Paul and I are old friends. We already had plans to have lunch today, so I asked him to join us.” She favored him with a brief, crooked smile as she spoke, got another look at his dental work in return-touching each other with their eyes. Uh-huh, I thought. Friends. Right. All those daylong “shopping” trips.
He made room in the booth, keeping himself between me and Mrs. Pollexfen, and I squeezed in next to him. His leather-scented cologne was noticable up close, but it didn’t stand a chance against the expensive French perfume that came drifting across the table from Angelina Pollexfen. I decided to breathe through my mouth. By the time the waiter came around, she’d finished her martini and was ready for another: “Double Bombay Sapphire, dirty, up, no olive.” Two doubles before lunch-the lady was a boozer, all right. DiSantis seemed content with his glass of Pellegrino. I settled for black coffee.
Nobody said much by tacit consent until the drinks were served and we’d made our lunch choices. Mrs. Pollexfen knocked back a third of martini number two, licked the residue off her pink mouth, and said to me, point blank, “Well, did my husband accuse me of stealing his precious books? Is that why we’re here?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Really? Then he must have accused my brother Jeremy.”
“Not exactly accused. Strongly implied.”
She said, “Greg is full of shit,” and knocked off another third of the gin and olive juice.
DiSantis laid a hand over one of hers, not being too familiar about it, and said, “Angelina,” in a tone of mild rebuke.
“Well, he is, and you know it. Brimful to the top of his head.”
I revised my estimate of how many doubles she’d had. What was left of the one in front of her was at least her third. No speech slur, but her eyes had a bright little glaze on them. Under the glaze, when she spoke her husband’s name, something much darker shone hard and feral.
“If you feel that way about him,” I said, “why stay married?”
“Why do you think?” She waggled the diamond for emphasis.
DiSantis said her name again, not quite so mildly.
“I’m just being honest,” she said. “Greg doesn’t love me and I don’t love him. All that’s holding us together is his money. What I can get of it, that is.”