“You know about me and Louis. We were made for each other, truly we were. I love him. He loves me in a way he can’t love anything or anyone else. You’ll never know how good that feels.” Conchita Crystal was crying again. This time Walter didn’t give a flying fuck.
“He knew Lacey’s instructions were to open his will four days after he died,” Chita said. “It never mattered what day it was-when the old man died. The fourth day was a Saturday, but it could have been any day. Louis could have made it happen anytime. But we got lucky, with Harry.”
“But that was the American Embassy. What did that have to do with Lacey’s will?”
“Don’t you see? Come on, you’re the fucking Locator! And you still don’t see it.”
“See what?”
“Louis knew-all along. He not only knew Frederick Lacey was behind the assassination of President Kennedy. He knew about Lacey’s confession. His dear friend, Abby O’Malley, kept him up to speed on everything she did. You know, Walter, Louis had a way of finding things even you couldn’t match. What do you find? You find people. He found knowledge. He found out things no one else could. And he was always right. Always.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you? That’s such crap.”
“No, no, my dear man. Louis knew things nobody else knew, and now never will. The assassination was just one, one among many. He knew about Lacey’s private journal and he guessed Lacey’s confession was in it. He was right, wasn’t he? See what I mean? You won’t see another like him. He figured that when the will was opened the confession would be there. And in it, the location of the gold. Everybody looking for it assumed the lawyer had it, probably in a safe somewhere. Louis went with his gut. The lawyer would see the document, he told me, discover that his old friend had murdered John Kennedy, and offer the whole thing, on a silver platter, to the Americans to do with as they wished.”
“How long have you…?”
“How long? Years. Years,” she laughed at him. “Fifteen years ago,” she said. “He told me about Lacey at least fifteen years ago.”
“And you?”
“Me? You were right. The pureist, dumbest of luck. I had this nephew, a kid I’d only met a few times, whose mother was my sister, but I never met her at all. Harry Levine. He worked at the London Embassy. He wanted to stay there. Louis made sure he did. Louis said it was a piece of cake. He could have arranged for anyone he wanted to be the senior official on duty, on any day. Louis could do things others couldn’t dream of. When the old man died on a Tuesday, Harry was a natural. Open the will Saturday-have Harry be the senior official on premises. Bingo! The lawyer gives him Lacey’s confession. An act of incredible coincidence.”
“And you’re only interested in the gold. You don’t give a shit about Kennedy.”
“Oh, no, Walter. You underestimate Louis Devereaux. He was a very loyal man. He would do anything for me. Abby O’Malley too. She was a great friend to him. Of course, he was going to destroy the confession. Once he got the location of the gold, that is. Once I had-once we had the gold, he would give Abby what she wanted-the entire document, up in smoke. I’m sure you didn’t find it, did you?” Again, she laughed. “No se puede.”
“Lo halle,” said Walter. “No problema. Facil.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“There’s a bar in his living room-a small wet bar-do you know it?” Walter asked. “I’m sure you do. Underneath, where the plumbing for the sink is, on the right-hand side, high up, anchored against the sink itself, is a button. Press it and you open the false front, the cabinet facing on the bar that appears to be solid. It isn’t. When it opens, it reveals a small safe, a sort of mini-vault. You don’t even need a key or a combination to get in. He never thought anyone could or would find it. Just open the front. Press the button. Took me less than thirty minutes to find it. That’s where it was.”
“You’re lying.”
“Roosevelt shit in his pants at Yalta. Did you know that? No, of course you didn’t. How could you. How could anyone. The smell made Churchill sick, but apparently, Stalin didn’t even notice it.”
“What?”
“It’s in the Lacey journal, his confession. There’s a lot more in it besides the Kennedy killings. But there’s no gold, Chita.”
“You have it!” she said. “Where is the gold?”
“Sir Anthony Wells?” said Walter ignoring her question. “The American Ambassador? What about them?”
“Overzealous associates.”
“Overzealous associates!” cried Walter. “That’s it? Just like that.” Conchita Crystal shrugged her shoulders.
“So, then you decided to hire me. Harry was hiding and wouldn’t even tell you where he was.”
“Not me, Walter. I never heard of you. Louis. Louis told me not to worry. He knew someone who could find Harry no matter where he had gone. Louis sent me to you. He said you weren’t working anymore, you had retired. But he was sure you would work for me.” The gleam in her eye, the smile on her lips, said it all-“Facil? You don’t know what easy is.”
Walter rubbed the back of his neck, shook his head and breathed slowly, deeply through his nose. He felt himself getting lightheaded. “I know,” he said. “You set me up real good. I found Harry for you and as soon as I did, you had someone on me. That we got away-me and Harry-was just a mistake. It didn’t matter, though. You figured out where I would hide him. ‘Someplace no one else could find him,’ isn’t that what you said? But you knew how to find that too. Devereaux found Harry through Isobel Gitlin. But it was you who went to New Mexico. It was you who killed him. It was you who took the document.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” she said. “And Louis never told me there would be any killing, not in London, not in New Mexico. Whoever he sent overdid it. There was no reason to kill Harry. It hurt me. I’m sorry. I’m deeply sorry-for Sadie Fagan too-but I can’t turn back the clock. I can’t make it unhappen.”
“You have anything to drink?” said Walter. “Something cold.”
“Sure. I’m sure I have some Coke.”
“Diet?”
“Walter, what other kind?” She patted her flat belly, inviting and secure within those skin-hugging jeans and a green silk blouse that also fit like it had been made just for her. She saw the look in his eyes. She smiled at him. One of those smiles again. A smile that never quit, equal parts magic and desire. Probably enough right there to melt the Czar’s gold, Walter thought. They walked into the kitchen. Walter was surprised to find it much smaller than he would have guessed.
“Why did you kill Harry?” he asked, as she poured the drink into a glass filled with crushed ice.
“I didn’t kill Harry. I told you. Things got out of hand. I don’t know how. I wasn’t there.”
“Sure you were, Chita. You were there. You were the only one there. You’re the one who shot him. You killed Harry.”
“Come on, Walter,” she said, throwing off his accusation as lightly as she might discard a sweater on a warm day. “What do you think I did? Go busting into his cabin, guns blazing, firing away? Shoot him down-grab Lacey’s papers and drive off? Is that how it happened?”
“No, that’s not how it happened.”
“Then what makes you think I had anything to do with it? How could I have been there?” Walter took the glass she offered, took a long sip and put it down on the kitchen counter.
“I knew it anyway,” Walter said. “But if there was any question, any doubt at all, you just told me you were there.” Chita looked at him, half a grin, half a rebuke written on her beautiful face. “Cabin?” Walter continued. “You said cabin. How would you know it was a cabin? And, Lacey’s papers. You called them papers. Not a journal, not a notebook, not a diary, not even a document-papers. How would you know that, if you hadn’t pushed them all together in a stack, packaged them and took them, leaving Harry dead on the floor.” Conchita Crystal had nothing to say. She’d run out of script. “And you weren’t even careful. The Russian cigarettes-‘papiroses,’ they call them. Just like the one you smoked the day you came to St. John, the one you lit up so dramatically at the bar. You probably have a pack in your purse right now-a couple of cartons in the pantry. Hard to find. Can’t get them at your neighborhood supermarket. Devereaux got them for you. You threw the butt on the floor and stepped on it, but the holder, the cardboard part, didn’t get squashed. If a man steps on one of those things, the whole thing gets flattened. A woman, however, a woman with high heels-she uses only the front of her shoe. You didn’t get the whole thing. You only stepped on the front of the butt.”