So, with that rationale in my mind, I keep my sex app appointment with Username Helena. She is willing and enthusiastic, and I am disappointed and surprised that I do not respond in kind. I find myself distracted. I know it appears that I am casual with sex, but the truth is very much the opposite. Sex is sacred to me. It is the closest thing I will ever know to religious euphoria. Many people feel like this in church or on a runner’s high or, in Myron’s case, when Springsteen plays “Meeting Across the River” followed by “Jungleland” in concert. For me, it only happens during sex. Sex is the excellent adventure, the grand voyage from which we completely disembark the moment we slip out of this bed. For me, sex is best when you have a — to use a business phrase I absolutely detest — “shared vision.” Tonight, there was simply too much static for a connection; it was merely a release, not all that different from masturbation.
As we lie back in silence, catching our breaths, eyes on the ceiling, Username Helena says, “That was nice.”
I say nothing. I debate a Round Two — perhaps that will put me more in the zone — but I’m not as young as I used to be, and it is getting late. I am idly wondering how we two will transition to exiting when my phone rings.
It is Kabir. The time is two a.m.
This can’t be good news. “Articulate,” I say.
“We have a big problem.”
Chapter 33
You found Arlo Sugarman.”
It has been twelve hours since Kabir’s phone call. My adrenaline spike has subsided, the crash thus imminent. I have not slept, and I can feel myself fraying at the edges. Stamina is a large part of my training, but genetically I am not predisposed to it. I am also aging, which obviously hampers stamina, and I have very little real-world experience in needing it. I have rarely had to stay up all night on patrol, as one might in the military, or been forced to go days on end with no sleep. I do battle — and then I rest.
The old woman speaking to me now is Vanessa Hogan.
I am back at her house in Kings Point. We are alone. Jessica set this up for me. At first, Vanessa Hogan was reluctant to consent to a second meeting. The enticement that pushed her over the edge, as I suspected it would, was that she and I would meet alone, only the two of us, and I would tell her the whereabouts of Arlo Sugarman.
“Could we start with you?” I ask her.
Vanessa Hogan is propped up via pillows on the same couch. Her skin tone is rosier than at our last meeting. She appears less frail. A scarf still covers her head. The house is empty. She’d sent her son Stuart to the grocery store.
“I really don’t know what you mean.”
“I recently visited Billy Rowan’s father,” I say. “Do you know he and Edie Parker’s mother are something of an item?”
“I did not,” Vanessa says, her voice dripping something overly sticky. “How nice for them.”
“Yes. William Rowan is in assisted living. His room is filled with Christian imagery. There are framed Bible quotes on the wall. I found the contrast striking.”
“What contrast?”
“With your home,” I say, lifting both hands in the air. “I don’t even see a single cross.”
She shrugs. “That’s show religion,” Vanessa replies with a tinge of bitterness. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Alone, you’re correct, it wouldn’t. But I have done some digging. You’ve never been associated with a church, as far as I can see. You’ve never given money to any religious institution. In fact, before Frederick was killed—”
“Murdered,” Vanessa Hogan interrupts, a sticky-sweet smile plastered to her face. “My son wasn’t killed. He was murdered.”
I try to mirror the smile. “We are getting to it now, Ms. Hogan, aren’t we?”
“What does that mean?”
“My best friend was robbed of a pro basketball career because a man named Burt Wesson intentionally injured him. Destroyed his knee. One day, I paid Burt a visit. He hasn’t been the same since. There are men who have crossed my path who have done great wrongs. Over the years, I’ve conducted ‘night tours.’ Some survived, some didn’t, but none were ever the same. Most recently, right before Ry Strauss’s body was found, I made sure a bullying abuser would never harm anyone else again.”
Vanessa Hogan studies my face. “Do you have your phone with you, Mr. Lockwood?”
“I do.”
“Take it out and hand it to me.”
I do as she asks. She looks at the screen.
“Do you mind if I power it off?”
I signal for her to suit herself.
Vanessa Hogan presses the button on the side and holds it. The phone goes dark. She leaves it on the coffee table. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Lockwood?”
“You know,” I say. “We both felt it that first meeting. All of our talk about vengeance.”
“I told you that vengeance should be the Lord’s.”
“But you didn’t mean it. You were testing me, gauging my reaction. I could see it in your face. The bullying abuser I injured last week? He was an active danger. Now he isn’t. Simple. He was neutralized by me because the law wouldn’t stop him.”
She nods. “You said you wanted to do the same to the men who killed your uncle.”
“Yes.”
“And killed the poor girls.”
I nod. “You understood,” I say. “You sympathized.”
“Of course.”
“Because you’ve done the same.”
I lean back. I put a hand into my pocket.
“Where is Arlo Sugarman?” she asks.
“I could just turn him in,” I say.
“You could, yes.”
“But you’d rather I not.”
The room falls silent. We are right on that edge now.
I say, “You know what happened to Lionel Underwood, don’t you?”
She doesn’t reply.
“It was too much for Leo Staunch. He didn’t want anyone else to endure what Lionel Underwood had. So he asked me to help him protect Arlo Sugarman. I found that odd.”
“As do I,” she says.
“No, not that he didn’t want to hurt Arlo — I got that.” I lean closer and lower my voice. “But why did Leo only ask about Arlo?”
“I’m not following.”
“Why,” I continue, “didn’t he ask me about Billy Rowan and Edie Parker?” I sit back. “It kept nagging at me, but the answer was obvious.”
“What’s that?”
“Leo Staunch didn’t ask about Billy and Edie,” I say, “because he knew they were already dead.”
Silence again fills the room, pushes out, suffocates.
“It is funny how so many of the early theories ended up being the correct ones,” I say. “Take the Jane Street Six. After Lake Davies turned herself in, there were only five. How, everyone wondered, could the remaining members have managed to stay hidden all these years? One person? Okay. Two? Unlikely, but perhaps. But all five of them alive and unseen for all these years? Now we know the answer, don’t we? Lionel Underwood has been dead for more than forty years. Nero Staunch took care of that. And Billy and Edie have been dead even longer. You saw to that, Ms. Hogan.”
Vanessa doesn’t reply. She just sits there with the sickly-sweet smile.
“You are eighty-three years old,” I say. “You are ill. You want to tell someone the truth, and you see me as a kindred spirit. You have my phone — I would have no proof anyway. Do you fear I will report what you say to the FBI?”
Vanessa Hogan’s eyes lock hard on mine. “I don’t fear anything, Mr. Lockwood.”
Of this I have no doubt.
“They stole my life.” Her voice is a pained and harsh whisper. She takes in a deep breath. I watch her chest rise and fall, taking in oxygen, gaining strength. “My only son, my Frederick... When I first heard he was dead, it felt like somebody had whacked me with a baseball bat. I dropped to the floor. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. My life ended. Just like that. All that love I had for that boy, the precious beautiful boy, it didn’t die. It turned to rage. Right there.” She shakes her head, her eyes dry. “Without that rage, I don’t think I would have ever stood up.”