by P. B. Ryan
“Well, I just wanted to say thanks. I’ve asked a lot of you and ... I have a feeling I’ll be asking more before this is over.”
“You mean this stuff with the murder?”
I nodded.
He forced a smile, but his eyes were still troubled.
For all I seemed to know about Sumner’s death, I was unable to read anything on my own brother. It was time to risk it all. “What’s going on with you and Brenda?”
Richard’s gaze remained fixed on the sidewalk ahead. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I wish I knew.”
How arrogant was it of me to think he’d be preoccupied by only me and my problems.
“Once my arm heals, I could be out of your hair in a month or so.”
He looked at me, his eyes pained. “Are you going to abandon me, too?”
“What do you mean?”
He looked away. “Brenda’s thinking of going back to LA. Something about the climate here not agreeing with her.” His voice sounded shaky.
Major guilt trip. “Oh, man, Rich.”
“It’s not your fault. This has been brewing for a while—ever since we came here.”
“I don’t understand. When we got off the plane, she seemed so glad to see you. I could feel she really loves you.”
“We’ve been together a long time,” he admitted. “She knows I love her. I know she loves me. But she says we don’t have a life here—that I’m ashamed of her. That’s bullshit.”
“Is it a race thing?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Well, do you ever take her out?”
“Where? This is Buffalo, for chrissakes.”
“There have to be some nice restaurants. Toronto’s only ninety minutes away. Go to a movie, join a country club, I don’t know.”
“It goes deeper than that. A lot deeper.”
“How?”
“She says I don’t trust her any more. That I used to ask for her opinions—that I trusted her judgment. She says I don’t any more.”
“Why?”
“Mainly because I haven’t been supportive of you and this psychic crap. She fell for it hook, line, and sinker.”
“These things are really happening to me.”
His voice was gentle. “I know you believe that. But things are different here. Buffalo’s a working class town. I’ve heard it called a city of no illusions.” He paused. “Maybe she’s right. I was open to more possibilities back in LA. We dabbled in so many things at the Foundation. Our team collaborated with Stanford on experiments with extrasensory perception. We studied a psychic with frightening psychokinetic powers. Things like that don’t exist in Buffalo—certainly not with my own brother.”
I wasn’t comfortable talking about that. “Maybe you’re going through a mid-life crisis. You could sell the house, go back to LA.”
“No, I belong here. I can’t explain why, but I can’t leave again. And because of that, I’m going to lose Brenda.”
“I think you need a job—both of you.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it? Here I am, wondering if I’ll ever work again. I’m thinking maybe I could tend bar—something part-time. Something where I won’t fail. Damn it, Richard, you’re a doctor. And you’re good.”
He shrugged. “I used to be. But I don’t want to start a practice at this stage of the game.”
“How about volunteering somewhere? There’s gotta be clinics just crying for someone with your talent to work gratis. You could probably name your hours, do as much or as little as you please. But you’ve got to do something. You’ve worked too hard to just let your skills—and Brenda—slip away.”
He nodded, but I could see he wasn’t convinced. We walked half a block in silence.
“Thanks,” Richard said finally.
“For what?”
“A different perspective. Maybe I do need to get back to work. And maybe I have been ignoring Brenda. Maybe if we did something together....” His words trailed off, but he seemed to warm to the idea.
An inch or more of snow had fallen in the short time we’d walked, covering the sidewalks, the wind whipping it into peaks. Fooled by the premature darkening of the sky, a few of the street lamps flickered to life. Lights were blazing in the house as we approached, welcoming us.
Once inside, Richard clapped me on the back before disappearing into his study.
After I showed Brenda the brace, I grabbed a cup of coffee and parked myself by the phone. Thanks to a helpful library aid and the city directory, I tracked down the employers of several of the three little Jackies’ parents and talked to the two fathers. Neither admitted knowing Matt Sumner, but then why would they? One hung up on me. I needed to talk to Maggie. Maybe she could check to see if any of the parents had accounts with Bison Bank. And it would give me an excuse to call her.
Donning a sweatshirt, I wandered out to the sun room—a misnomer on that chilly, dark day, but a great place to think. I borrowed Brenda’s portable radio, listening to mellow jazz while I froze my butt off watching the wind make snow sculptures. The winter storm watch had turned into a full-blown blizzard, and the snow began to drift out on the driveway. I was glad I didn’t have to drive in this weather, although I’d have to get the hang of it if I decided to stay in Buffalo.
The thought didn’t seem as appalling as it had just a week ago.
In addition to the weather, the hourly newscast reported that the police had found Sumner’s car in a mall parking lot in Erie, Pennsylvania—the same city where his youngest son went to school. Interesting. Seeing the car was a pipe dream. The cops would impound it, though they wouldn’t find much to further their investigation. It’s harder to get a decent fingerprint than most people think, and I suspected the murderer hadn’t been stupid enough to leave them.
Eventually Richard came out and hauled me in for dinner. He and Brenda were back on speaking terms, albeit extremely polite.
Afterwards, I volunteered to clean up the kitchen. Being one-armed, the job took longer than I thought. By the time I finished, every pan was clean, the table was wiped, and the floor had been swept. Maybe I could find employment as a domestic. Meanwhile, I must have glanced at the phone a hundred times, trying to work up the courage to call Maggie.
Finally, I punched in the seven-digit number I’d memorized the night before. It rang once. Twice. Three times. I was sure an answering machine would kick in when a breathless voice answered, “Hello?”
“Maggie? It’s Jeff Resnick. Is this a bad time?”
“No. I just came in from walking the dog.” She sounded pleased. She might not be after I begged my favor. “How are you? How’s your arm?”
“Better. Some snow, huh?” I wasn’t showing her my most articulate side.
“Yeah. But, it’s late in the season. It’ll probably melt in a day or two.”
“Yeah.” A lengthy silence followed. “Uh, I’m a little out of practice. You know, with this dating stuff.”
“Yeah?”
“So, you want to go out?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Well, that’s kind of a problem. See, I’m not working, and I might not be for a while. I don’t have a car, either.”
“Oh.”
“Did I just blow my chances?”
I envisioned her smiling. “Well, my mother wouldn’t say you were a hot prospect, but I’ve always rooted for the underdog, so you haven’t blown it. Yet.”
I might now. “Could you check on something for me at the bank?”
She hesitated. “Does this have anything to do with Matt Sumner’s death?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you using me? I mean, I could still do whatever it is you want, but do you really want to get to know me better, or are you just feeding me a line?”
“No. I think you’re nice. I’d like to get to know you better. I don’t have any friends in town.” My foot was jammed so far into my mouth it would take major surgery to remove it.
>
Silence, then she laughed. “Okay, what do you want?”
She listened patiently while I explained the situation.
“Because of privacy laws, I can’t give you specifics. I can let you know if they’ve got accounts or loans with us, but that’s it.”
“That’s all I need. Thanks.”
“Okay. What about going out? Can you swing lunch? Dutch treat?”
“Yeah. Where?”
She gave me the address of a place close to the bank and we agreed to meet the next day.
I found Richard and Brenda in the study. As usual, Richard sat behind his desk, his nose buried in a book. Brenda had parked on the leather couch by a lamp, doing some kind of needlework. They both looked up as I knocked on the door jamb.
“I need a favor tomorrow. A ride. I sort of have a date.”
Brenda’s eyebrows rose. “A date?”
“I met this lady at the bank the other day. We’re going to lunch tomorrow. I thought maybe you two could go out, drop me off, then pick me up later.”
“You mean you don’t want us to join you?” Richard asked. There was a lightness in his tone that had been absent for days.
“No!” This wasn’t my night for conversation. “I mean, sure, if you want. But—”
“No one’s taken me to lunch in ages. Richard?”
He smiled at her. “Sure.”
I figured I’d better make a fast escape before my foot became permanently lodged in my mouth. “Thanks.”
o0o
Richard dropped me at Ted’s Place, a little diner across the street from the main branch of Bison Bank in downtown Buffalo. He and Brenda were headed to a much more upscale restaurant down the street, where linen napkins and salad forks were standard at every place setting.
I stood in the cafe’s crowded entryway, waiting for a table to open. The place smelled of bacon, coffee, and greasy fries, and was an obvious favorite with downtown office workers who’d donned heavy coats and boots to trudge past thigh-high snow banks to get there.
A waitress seated me in the last booth. As I perused the menu, Maggie flopped down across from me.
“Hi! Sorry I’m late. Did you order yet?”
I shook my head. “Good to see you.”
She struggled out of her bulky down coat and set it beside her on the bench seat. She wore a navy knit sweater over a dark wool skirt. The thin gold chain around her neck made her look dressy yet casual.
She glanced over the menu. “I’m starved. I had to shovel the driveway, so I didn’t have time for breakfast, and nobody brought in doughnuts. God, I hate winter.”
“I guess I shouldn’t mention that some guy in a pickup with a plow did our drive about six this morning.”
She stuck out her tongue at me, then went back to the menu. The waitress showed up with steaming coffee pots—regular and decaf—in each hand. We ordered, Maggie settling for chicken salad, and I asked for beef on weck—rare roast beef, piled high on a salty, caraway seeded kimmelweck roll, served with a Kosher dill, sinus-clearing horseradish, and au jus. For me a New Orleans po boy or a Philly cheese steak sandwich would never beat Buffalo’s beef on weck.
After the waitress had gone, Maggie opened her purse and took out a sheaf of folded papers. She looked around, decided it was safe to speak, and motioned me closer. “I could get fired if anyone found out about this.” She handed me the pages.
“I won’t say a word.”
The first was a typed list of the three names I’d given her. The Ryans had a VISA account with the bank, the Prystowskis had none. Under the third name was a lengthy paragraph, which I skimmed.
Sharon Walker had no current accounts with the bank, but her father’s construction business had many loans with Bison Bank over the previous two decades. The text concluded with a terse statement: Walker Construction had gone bankrupt three years before. At that time, Sharon Walker headed the company. Matt Sumner was the executive in charge of those loans. I wondered if that alone could get Maggie fired, and swallowed a pang of guilt. As I stared at the Walker woman’s name, something in my gut twisted.
I shuffled through the next several sheets, photocopies of Sumner’s appointment calendar the week of his death. Interesting.
“I had to do some digging on that third name. I threw in the calendar as a bonus. Hope it helps.”
I folded the papers and put them into my coat pocket. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” she said, but sounded nervous and quickly changed the subject. “Hey, your cast is gone.”
“The brace is better. And I only have to wear it another twenty-seven days.” I took a sip of my coffee. “You never told me exactly what you do at the bank.”
“I’m an administrative assistant—a glorified title for secretary, except that I have a secretary. She does all the piddly work, I deal with the directors and handle the more complicated assignments—like coordinating this conference, which is driving me nuts.” She paused to sip her decaf coffee. “I’ve been there fourteen years. The way things are going, with so many banks consolidating, you never know how long you’ll last.”
“A familiar story. I worked my way up to supervisor, only to be busted back to field investigator, then out the door, after a major re-engineering at Travelers. Thinking about it depresses the hell out of me.”
The sandwiches came, but I was more interested in listening to Maggie than eating. She seemed nervous and began to chatter.
“If you need a dentist, my brother-in-law has a practice in Tonawanda. He’s wonderful. Totally painless.”
“Totally?”
“Well, it depends on how well you take care of your teeth.”
“Do you live in Tonawanda?”
She shook her head. “Out in Clarence. Me and my dog, Holly, a golden retriever. I got her for Christmas a couple of years ago. She’s a big dog and needs to be walked at least once a day. Then there’s the yard work.” She rolled her eyes, making me laugh.
We talked while we ate: the Buffalo Bills, the weather, how she dabbled in interior decoration as a hobby. Occasionally she’d look down at her plate, bite her lip like something bothered her. Then she’d find another safe topic and start again.
The check arrived and I grabbed it. Brenda, bless her heart, had slipped me a twenty.
Maggie donned her jacket and pulled a white knit beret over her hair. I stood to follow her and pay the check at the register.
“Bye. Thanks for lunch,” she said, took a few steps, and turned back. She gave me a quick hug before hurrying out the door.
People crowded past me on their way in or out, but I hardly noticed. I just stood there and smiled.
o0o
I wasted the rest of the day with mundane tasks—namely laundry. After dinner, I returned to my cramped room. I needed a desk. I needed more space. I needed my own space.
I studied the copy of Sumner’s calendar Maggie had given me. The daily register was broken down into half-hour increments. Most of the entries were downright cryptic. Maggie had included a Rosetta-stone-like key for me. Merrill, R1010C translated as a meeting with Bob Merrill in Conference Room 1010. Most of Sumner’s appointments had been right at the bank, the entries made in neat, fat, girlish script—the secretary’s, no doubt. The last entry for Thursday, four thirty, was made in a messy scrawl, which I assumed to be Sumner’s own hand. According to the newspaper, he left the bank about four o’clock and was never seen again.
I stared at the entry: Ron. Ron Myers? He was a colleague on the same floor. Surely the cops had talked to him—and every other Ron in the building. I’d have to ask Maggie.
My mind wandered to thoughts of Sumner’s remains ... or lack thereof. According to the deer hunting book, the internal organs were usually left in the field. Hunting season in western New York State occurs in the fall, when only a deep frost is expected. It had snowed less than an inch in Amherst the night of the murder; it may have snowed more than that on the outskirts of town, and since then
we’d had a major snowstorm. I couldn’t remember the weather patterns in and around Lake Erie to know just where the snow belt lay. Instead, I thought about the steaming pile of organs left in the cold night air. What if the raccoons hadn’t gotten them? What if ... ?
Richard didn’t have a map of western New York, but he said Brenda had one on the back seat of her car—a Buffalo atlas, which included all of Erie county. My shoes were snow-caked from trudging through the ever-forming drifts to retrieve it. I sat at the kitchen table and flipped through the atlas pages, with no idea where to start looking.
Brenda shuffled into the kitchen on slippered feet. Although it wasn’t late, she was dressed in a blue quilted bathrobe. “Is that from my car?”
“Yeah. Rich said I could—”
“Okay, but I want it put back where it belongs. You want some hot chocolate?”
“Sure.”
She got the milk out of the refrigerator and heated it in a saucepan on the stove. No instant stuff for Brenda. She had a cylinder of Ghirardelli sweet ground chocolate and cocoa, and scooped teaspoons of the stuff into large mugs.
I turned my attention back to the atlas, still with no clear idea of what to look for. The pages flipped past. Whole sections of the book were devoted to the outskirts of Buffalo. I ran my hands over the paper, hoping for some kind of impression.
Brenda plunked a steaming mug, heaped with fluffy clouds of Reddi-Wip, in front of me, taking the adjacent seat. I took a sip. Better than the cheap stuff, for sure.
“What’re you doing?” she asked, took a sip, and ended up with a whipped cream mustache.
I kept fanning through pages, running my hand over the type—waiting for ... something. “I’m looking for Sumner’s guts.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not.”
She wiped her lip with a paper napkin. “What will you do if you find them?”
“I have no idea.”
She took another sip, watching me as I continued to run my hands over the pages. “What are you hoping to come up with?”
“I’m not sure. But as far as I know, the cops haven’t found his insides. What do you know about DNA testing?”
She looked thoughtful. “I’m sure they took tissue samples during the autopsy. It would be easy to match them.” She glanced down at the page in front of me. “If you find them.”
