by Carol Coffey
“Why come here? Surely there are retirement villages for members of their faith?” Locklear asked.
“I got the impression they wanted to go somewhere no one would think to look for them,” Sister Thomas replied. She moved forward and placed the letters in Locklear’s hands. “We wrote to their bank and told them to stop the payments. We had no other address for them and had no contact details for any next of kin.”
Locklear opened the first letter, a bank statement from Harrisonburg stating that the Yoders had €125, 561.00 in their bank account.
“They said they’d sold their farm and were looking for somewhere to retire,” Sister Thomas said.
“That amount wouldn’t have lasted them very long,” Mendoza said. “They were only in their sixties.”
“I knew something wasn’t right about it. I felt they were running from something.”
“It was clear that money wouldn’t last them long,” Sister Joseph added, “but they would have received care here even when the money ran out.”
“So, they never arrived.” Locklear ripped another envelope open, dated two years later. He clenched his jaw and shoved the bank statement into Mendoza’s hands.
“It’s empty!” she exclaimed.
“We sent so many of these back but they kept coming until a few years ago,” Sister Thomas said. “Eventually Mother Superior wrote to the bank and they replied saying that they had informed the Yoders’ lawyer and would pass on their mail to them. We only kept these because … well ... as I said, something didn’t seem quite right.”
“Did you ever hear from the lawyer?”
“Yes, she came here with a man.”
Locklear looked at Mendoza.
“Do you remember her name, Sister?” she asked.
Sister Joseph looked at Sister Thomas who shook her head.
“It was a long time ago.”
“Was it Stoll – Beth Stoll?”
“Yes, that was it! Stoll. That’s right,” she replied. “Ms Stoll said the Yoders were very ill and had decided to take up residential care nearer to their home. She told us that they were no longer able to advocate for themselves and all future correspondence should be directed to the legal firm.”
Locklear stood and thanked the women for their time.
As they passed the reception area two old ladies were fighting over a newspaper.
“I’d rather hang myself than end up in one of these places,” Locklear said as he and Mendoza exited the depressing building.
“If you wait long enough I’d say the Shanks will do that for you! Listen, we are getting nearer to the truth, Locklear. We’d better be careful. Very careful.”
As dusk fell, Locklear and Mendoza stopped for a coffee in a roadside diner about halfway through their journey back to Harrisonburg.
“So, you think the Shanks killed the Yoders?” Locklear asked.
Mendoza put down her coffee and looked out at the darkening sky. The midnight-blue canopy was streaked with long purple veins as the sun disappeared for another day. It was a beautiful sight.
“It’s hard to understand why there has to be so much cruelty in the world,” she said. “Shank forced the Yoders to sell the only thing they owned and probably loved, paid them a pittance for it and … I just don’t understand why he’d need to kill them.”
Locklear beckoned the waitress to fill his cup.
When she left, he said, “I reckon when the Shanks bought the Yoders’ farm, the fact that they had to leave meant no one would notice them disappearing. They had no other relatives so no one would be looking for them. It was a perfect crime.”
“I want to know what happened to their money. I want to find their will, see who the benefactors were.”
“You mean you want to confirm that it was the Shanks who’d inherit the money on the Yoders’ death?”
Mendoza nodded.
“OK,” he said. “Tell me about the last of the missing families.”
Mendoza told the story of pensioners David and Anna Ropp who eight years previously left their farm before dawn with only the most basic necessities and were never seen nor heard of again. Mendoza still wasn’t sure that the couple she’d located in New York were the right people and had only happened on them from a newspaper article reporting on an accident at a subway station where a man named David Ropp had slipped off the platform and had been seriously injured. She had arranged for Irene to book flights to New York to interview the couple but had not phoned ahead, hoping instead that surprising the couple might result in looser tongues than could be expected from those given prior notice.
“I’m coming with you,” Locklear said as the pair parted company outside their motel rooms. He could use the time to meet with the widow of the university professor who disappeared halfway into his research into John Grant’s time in Dayton.
And there was one other thing he needed to do in the city he used to call home. Something he wasn’t looking forward to.
Chapter 20
The exit from JFK airport onto the main highway was an assault on the senses that Locklear had almost forgotten about. It seemed like every vehicle on the packed highway was beeping its horn simultaneously.
“This place is nuts,” Mendoza said, as she waved yesterday’s newspaper in front of her face in the cab which appeared to have no air conditioning. Its driver, a Haitian man with a quick smile and loud laugh, sniggered when they asked him to open, then close, then reopen the electric windows – the controls for which had been ripped off the back-seat doors.
When they checked in, Locklear’s ire rose as Irene had forgotten to change the booking to two rooms in the fully booked hotel. Mendoza, unperturbed, slung her bag on the bed under the window and lay down, panting in the heat until the AC kicked in.
“Will you not do that?” Locklear barked.
“Do what?”
“Breathe like that.”
Mendoza laughed and went to the bathroom for a shower. She pulled fresh underwear from her bag and waved it at Locklear who sat bolt upright on his bed, barking at Irene who Mendoza guessed was enjoying his annoyance.
When she returned to the bedroom her boss was quieter and his mood seemed to have improved. Mendoza sat at the edge of his bed, drying her hair with a towel and showed no reaction when he stood abruptly and moved to the window to look out on the busy street below.
“I’m going to see Jefferson’s widow,” he said quietly. “And then I’ve some other business to see to.”
Mendoza stood and went into the bathroom to change. When she returned five minutes later, Locklear was gone.
The 5th Avenue apartment of Mrs Norma Jefferson was the sort of place Locklear felt most ill at ease in. He realised that he could add a dislike of rich people to his list of personality traits. Mendoza was one thing he didn’t dislike. What he hated was the effect she had on him. The tough Latino made him feel protective, affectionate, vulnerable, old, but most of all she made him feel lonely. The pretty trooper reminded him of what he had lost out on in life, what he could have had but rejected time and time again so that he could be free.
As he stood in the apartment’s expansive entrance hall, he took in the oak-lined walls and gilded ceiling. The maid, who had left him standing in the impressive surroundings, returned and took him to a drawing room where he was again left to wait. He wandered around, lifting ornaments which probably cost a year of his pay. Two photos sat on top of an antique sideboard. One was of the couple on their wedding day. The African-American husband and wife made a handsome young couple. The second photo was taken at Christmas time with their three young sons. They looked happy, Locklear mused as he replaced the photo and took a seat on a crisp, white sofa. Another fifteen minutes passed and he had made a decision to leave when the door opened and Norma Jefferson entered. Locklear stood and tried not to show his disapproval of her show of wealth. Large gold rings fitted with gems of various colours adorned most of her fingers and a heavy gold chain hung from her wrinkled neck. He had
not expected the glamourous black woman in the photos to look so old.
She immediately noticed that the photo had been moved.
“Yes, I’ve changed, haven’t I?” she said, reading his mind.
Locklear searched for words. None came so he looked into the fireplace and waited for her to speak again.
“My husband’s disappearance changed everything – including me,” she added quietly.
Locklear returned to his seat and explained the purpose of his visit.
“Bill was everything to me.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
The maid knocked and brought in a tray with coffee. Norma Jefferson poured without asking and offered the coffee in a tiny, bone-china cup. Locklear tried to push his large fingers into the handle but gave up and lifted the cup by wrapping his large fingers around it.
Norma smiled. “You remind me of Bill.”
Locklear glanced back at the photo of the black man with a toothy smile and kind eyes. He saw no resemblance.
“Bill wasn’t born into wealth. We met at college and I fell madly in love with him. My parents weren’t happy of course, they thought Bill was interested in my inheritance but I never even told him about it until we were dating for about a year.”
“You never brought him home?”
“I didn’t want him to be put off by the money. I was afraid I’d lose him.”
Locklear grinned. He had never quite heard of things working that way before.
“We were both studying American history. I chose it because I didn’t know what else to do with myself but Bill chose it because he was passionate about history, especially Black history.”
“Why was he specifically interested in Grant?”
“Bill was on sabbatical from his position as Professor of Modern History at NYU and he was writing a book about black men who fought for the Union during the Civil War. He was an expert on the subject. He was particularity interested in the story of the Confederate gold that supposedly went missing in the aftermath of the war. He came upon a book by a writer named Hennessy about the experiences of soldiers during the Civil War. There was a letter in the book written by Grant. Among the many charges he faced, Grant had been accused of stealing Confederate gold. Bill became intrigued by the man’s life. He wanted to know more about him and to include a chapter on Grant in his book.”
“So that’s why he went to Dayton?”
Norma nodded. She walked to a bookcase and lifted an old, tattered book from the third shelf.
“This is the book. The letter written by Grant is marked. Please, take it. I hope it will be of some use to you. You can return it when the investigation is over.”
Locklear took the book and placed it on the sofa beside him.
“Thank you. You were saying ...”
“Yes. Bill was staying in a hotel in Harrisonburg. I never dreamed it would be the last time I’d ever see him.”
“Did he talk to you while he was there?”
“He called me every evening when he’d got back to his hotel.”
“The evening he went missing, did he say anything, did anything unusual happen?”
“I told the police all of this,” Norma said.
Locklear could hear the emotion in her voice.
“I understand that it’s hard but it might help shed some light on this case I’m working on.”
“Most days were the same. He’d spend the day in Harrisonburg library – he said they had an excellent reference section on the Civil War in the area.”
Locklear nodded. He didn’t bother telling her that the library was burned to the ground, its excellent references along with it and its librarian missing, most likely dead.
“Some days he’d meet people who had local knowledge of the war. He said it was the sort of place that had a long memory – a stable population whose history went back generations in the area.”
“That’s true.”
“Well, the night Bill went missing was unusual. Bill never drove at night because he had dreadful night blindness. He was due to meet a man who knew a lot about Grant. He said his ancestor had known Grant personally. He’d come into the library one day and they struck up a conversation. He offered to pick Bill up that evening and drive him to the spot where Grant had lived. Bill had hoped that he could see it by day to take photos for the book but the man said he was going out of town and wouldn’t be back before Bill left town.”
“So your husband agreed to meet him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything about the man, his name, age, anything?” Locklear was beginning to sweat. He was afraid that she would name Luke Fehr. Deep down he knew Luke Fehr was an innocent man and he was never wrong. Mendoza was getting under his skin.
“I don’t remember Bill ever telling me his name but he said the man was of the Mennonite faith.”
“Old? Young?”
Norma moved her dark-brown eyes upward as she tried to recall the last time she had heard her treasured husband’s voice.
“It’s been more than ten years, Mr Locklear, but I can still remember him saying that he loved me and to kiss the boys. The boys! They were all at college then!”
Locklear waited.
“Yes, he was an older man and I remember that he owned a milk company or something to do with milk, Bill said.”
“Did the police interview the man after your husband disappeared?”
“As far as I know they did but he said he’d never heard of Bill – never met him. It seems he was a local priest or a holy man of some sort so I doubt he’d lie about it. Bill left his hotel that evening and was never seen again. I know he’s dead. I can feel it. I just want to know what happened and to give him a decent funeral. He deserves that.”
Locklear put the precious china cup carefully down on the saucer.
Norma watched the large man’s hand’s shake around the antique cup.
“They were my grandmother’s. They’re invaluable, I’m told,” she said.
Locklear stood and offered the woman his hand. He took one last look around the extravagant room. She followed his eyes.
“I’d give all this up in an instant to have Bill back. It’s a lonely life without him and priceless china doesn’t talk to you in the evening.”
Locklear walked down the hallway until he reached the front door to the apartment. The maid opened it and stood to one side.
“There’s a descendant of Grant that my husband was trying to get hold of, a young woman – Letitia Grant I think her name was. He wrote to her a few times but she was always moving. I think she had some social problems – well, drugs. You might like to try track her down. Perhaps she can help you.”
Locklear thanked the woman and waited while the portly doorman hailed him a cab.
“East Harlem – Corner of Lexington and 119th,” he said, and the driver swung around and headed for the darker side of town.
Chapter 21
As Locklear’s cab passed the edge of the park, he could feel his heart start to quicken. He was not afraid of the Lombardis but he knew they were capable of anything. Why he was even making this trip he didn’t know. Perhaps it was for Rosa. The woman’s quiet resilience spoke to him and when they were both younger he sometimes wondered whether, if their meetings had not been across courtroom halls, if they had both been born into different lives in different places, he might have loved her.
Bile bubbled up his throat as the cab came to an abrupt stop outside the yard. He got out and scanned the rundown shop which had served as a front for Lombardi Senior’s car-theft business for decades. Now, the shop looked abandoned. The trademark Italian flag painted on the outside wall was cracked and faded and the metal shutters were covered in soot and litter from the busy city street. He looked down the laneway that ran along the east side of the shop. There were no cars parked there.
Locklear knocked on the door of the small house that Nick Lombardi and his brothers had been born in. Without warning the do
or opened and a short, skinny youth reached out and punched Locklear in the jaw. Locklear lunged into the hallway and grabbed the teenager, tying him in a headlock and punching him twice in the stomach until, winded, he cried out in pain and fell to the floor, gasping.
“Hey, Running Bear – go smoke a fucking peace pipe!” the kid hissed.
Locklear punched him one more time for good measure.
A door at the end of the long, curved hallway opened. Locklear pulled his gun and flattened his back to the wall and waited. Thirty seconds passed and he heard nothing. A minute. Two. Locklear took a deep breath and wondered would this, an act of kindness, be the reason he would lose his life.
The boy tried to stand and Locklear kicked him in the ribs.
“Stay down.”
“Who’s there?” a weak voice finally said.
“Go back inside, Grandpa!” the boy cried.
“Nicky?” the old man said. “Are you OK?”
Locklear pointed the gun at the boy’s head. Nicky did not answer.
He listened as the old man made his way down the long narrow hallway. Short shuffling steps and hands rubbing their way along roughly painted walls. When Lombardi arrived, Locklear could see that the old man was no threat as two cloudy hazel eyes greeted him.
