a couple times and said it was done. I mean, it wasn't like he had time to check my work or anything."
"Yeah, but you didn't know he wouldn't check, and he had you at gunpoint."
"Still, if I had just been thinking clearly, I could've tried."
"If you hadn't done it, they would've found someone else."
"Why not just do it themselves?"
"To complicate things. To have someone from outside their crew to pin it on. To muddy up the investigation."
Kevin leans his head back, rests it against the wall. He looks almost relieved.
"We need to talk about Emma."
"What about her?"
"Where is she?"
"She had nothing to do with it."
"How do you know?"
"Because she wasn't there."
"I never said she was."
"So, why's it important to know where she is?"
"Because my feeling is that she wouldn't have gone into hiding if she didn't have something to hide."
"I don't think that's true. Not in this case. She was scared."
"Did she ask you to ID Crystal's burned body as her own? Or were you just freelancing at that point?"
"She did, but it was Ramey's idea."
"How do you know that?"
"Because that's what she told me."
"But, if she were so innocent, why would she go through the trouble of faking her own death?"
"You'd have to ask her that."
"And did she ask you to tell the police that you saw her leave Eddie's bar with Brett that night?"
"She did, but, again, all this was coming from Ramsey."
"Did you hear any of this from Ramsey personally?"
"No."
"But you're convinced that Ramsey was behind the whole thing, and that she had nothing to do with it?"
"I am."
"You know where she is now?"
"Los Angeles."
"And you're packing to go meet her?"
"That's right."
"And to take some of her stuff to her."
Kevin nods.
"And the money?"
"What money?"
"Come on, Kevin."
"It hasn't come in yet. It takes time to settle an estate."
"And how much of that money do you get to keep?"
"A couple thousand."
"When did you find out that you were the beneficiary in Brett's will?"
"The morning after the accident."
"The morning after? Who from?"
"Emma told me."
"You saw Emma the next morning?"
"Yeah, she came to see me at Ramsey's place, in the office. That's when she filled me in on everything that was going on."
"How in the world would she have known you were at Ramsey's?"
"I don't know. I didn't think about it," Kevin says. "All I know is she was there when I woke up the next morning. At some point during the night, I had finally gotten to sleep on the office couch, and, when I woke up, she was sitting on the arm of the couch talking to me as if I hadn't been sleeping at all."
"Anyone else there?"
"Nope. Just the two of us."
"And what'd she say?"
"She went over everything. Brett was dead. The police would think she was in the car with him. She told me she wanted them to continue believing she was in the car. She told me about how they wanted me to tell the police that I saw her leave Eddie's with Brett, and to identify the body if asked. Then she told me not to talk to anybody about the accident. She stressed that I shouldn't trust anyone. She told me about the will, about the money, and how she wanted me to handle the whole thing. She said she would be in contact, probably by mail, over the coming days to tell me how I could get in touch with her. Then she gave me a bus ticket back home. I haven't seen her since. She's sent me a couple letters to fill me in on some things, but, other than that, I haven't heard anything else from her."
"How'd she get to Ramsey's that night? Do you know?"
"I'm not sure," Kevin says. "But, listen, I'm sure she didn't have anything to do with the accident."
"What if I told you that she only had you added to the will two days before the accident?"
"I'd say it was a coincidence."
"That's one way of looking at it."
"She loved Brett. I don't want you to leave here thinking that she—"
"Don't worry about what I think. I haven't accused anybody of anything. I'm just asking questions, trying to get to the truth."
"Everything I've told you is as much of the truth as I know."
"I believe you."
"So, we're done then?"
"That's right," Clay says, but then he decides to throw Kevin a curveball just to keep him off his trail. It's better for both of them if Kevin goes to L.A. as planned. It keeps Kevin out of the area, and it gives Clay one less person to have to worry about getting in his way. "And, when you get to Los Angeles, tell your sister I need to talk to her. Make sure she knows that I'm not with the police."
"I will."
"And, kid, I'm going to give you my number," Clay says, getting up from the chair, and sitting his bat on the seat. He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a little notebook, grabs a pen from his shirt pocket, jots down Maggie's number, rips the page out, and sits it on Kevin's table. "You call me if you get any news from your sister. My secretary might answer the phone, but you can leave any information you have with her. She'll pass it along."
"Okay."
"And call me before you try coming back to town. Things might be getting pretty messy here in a day or so, and you might want to keep clear of the place altogether for a bit."
"Am I in trouble, you think?"
"Honestly, kid, I don't know who's in trouble and who's not anymore."
Nine
Clay parks in front of the Santa Clara County Savings and Loan. He looks around at the cars parked nearby, searching for watchers. He checks all the mirrors, waits for a car to drive by to see if anyone in the car seems preoccupied with him.
Nope. No blue Ford, and nobody even remotely suspicious. Everything looks clear.
He gets out of the car and spots Robert sitting at his desk inside the bank. Robert is Santa Clara County S&L's manager for San Jose's regional branch. Clay waves to him, gets his attention.
Clay's known Robert since he first moved here to play ball in '46. The S&L has always been a major corporate sponsor of the Braves, and Robert was always around the ballpark back in Clay's playing days. He still sees him around the park a lot, though they don't seem to run into each other as much since Clay stopped playing.
Robert always made a point of being friendly with the players. Clay always got the impression that he was a man frustrated with his station in life—a failed athlete in a banker's suit. He always gave off the idea that he liked to be as close to the action as possible.
Clay did some work for Robert about a year ago. He had asked Clay to tail his daughter and her new boyfriend. It was really nothing more than a classic overreach by an overprotective father, but Clay humored him. And, other than the normal heavy petting of sexually repressed teenagers, they were tame. Clay passed along the news to him at no charge, and Robert was grateful, if not a little embarrassed about his suspicions.
Either way, Clay felt like he had a favor he could cash in.
"Clay, it's good to see you. It's been a long time," Robert says, greeting Clay at the door.
"It has been."
"Is that Maggie's car you're driving?"
"Yeah, she let me borrow it for the day. Mine needed a little work."
"That was good of her," Robert says as they move inside the bank's lobby area. "What is it I can do for you?"
"I need to ask you a favor."
"Anything. What do you need?"
"It's a bit delicate," Clay whispers, trying to exploit Robert's desire to be a part of some action.
"Is it about a case you're working?" Robert whispers.
"Sure
is."
"Come on over to my desk," Robert says, a little too loudly.
As they move toward his desk, Robert looks around as if someone might suspect something strange about a customer joining the bank manager at his customer service desk.
"Have a seat," Robert says.
Clay sits in one of the two chairs in front of Robert's desk. He puts his hand on his sore ribs, and then feels something in his inside pocket. For a second, muscle memory tells him it's a pack of cigarettes, but then he remembers that its Emma's letter to Kevin. He looks at the ashtray on Robert's desk, and he bites his sore lip a little out of frustration when he thinks of having a smoke.
"What's going on?" Robert whispers, leaning over his desk, trying painfully hard to look casual, but instead coming off as tense and secretive.
"I'd like to see someone's account information."
"Oh, boy," Robert says, and leans back from his desk. "I don't know if I can do that."
"I hate to put you in an awkward position, and you know I wouldn't ask you if I didn't really need it."
"I could get into big trouble for that."
"You know me, Robert. I'm a discrete man. If someone were ever to hear about it, it wouldn't be from me."
"Oh, sure. I don't doubt that."
"If you need some convincing," Clay says, sitting a folded twenty dollar bill on the desk.
"No, of course not," Robert says, waving him off, and then looking at the tellers across the room as if they might have seen something as scandalous as money changing hands at a bank.
"Sorry I even have to ask."
"Whose account are we talking about?"
"Brett Lattimore's."
"Oh, my. Really?"
"Is that a problem?"
"No. No, it's just… I wasn't expecting a name quite so… That's interesting," Robert says, and then gets up from his desk.
He walks over to the large filing cabinets lined up behind the tellers. It's clear from Robert's behavior that he's an honest man. In fact, he's so clearly self-conscious about being dishonest, he can't help but give himself away. As he reaches