raising the possibility of blackmail with her—not until I
came across solid proof. But it had also occurred to me that finding
a money trail might tell me where Greenleaf had spent the last four
days of his life. Anyway, that was the excuse I was going to use.
A man answered Cindy’s phone on the second ring.
"Yello," he said. "Cindy Dorn’s residence."
There was enough Tennessee in the guy’s voice to
make me guess he was Greenleaf’s brother.
"Can I speak to Cindy?"
"Sure can."
He went off the line and Cindy came on. "I’ll
handle it, Sam," I \
heard her say off
the line before she said, "Hello."
"Cindy, it’s Harry. You’ve got company,
huh?"
I could hear her cup her hand over the receiver. "You
don’t know the half of it."
"I may need to get into Mason’s condo again."
"Why?"
"Nothing important," I said. "Just a
routine check of his bank statements—see if he had any unusual
expenses before he died. Something I should have done a long time
ago."
"All right. If you pick me up, I’ll go with
you over to Mason’s. Maybe we can get Mason’s car, too, on the
way back. Anything to get the hell out of this house for as long as
possible," she said, dropping her voice to a whisper.
"I’ll be out there in about thirty minutes."
After finishing with Cindy, I went through the
messages on the answering machine. Ron Sabato had called to tell me
that he’d located Greenleaf’s jacket and that I could pick it up
at Vice after eleven that evening. Someone else had called but hadn’t
left a name or a message. There was no word from Ira Sullivan.
I took the elevator down to the street and headed
west up Sixth to the Parkade. Although I was hungry again, I could
wait until after I checked Greenleaf’s condo before eating. Later
in the night I’d stop at Stacie’s and try to get a name.
I caught the expressway on Sixth Street and pulled up
in front of Cindy Dorn’s house a little past nine. There was still
enough light in the sky to fill the yard with the barbed shadow of
the hawthorn tree, twisting across the grass and walk.
A car was parked in Cindy’s driveway, a red Seville
burnished cinnamon in the sunset. A tall gray-haired man was bent
behind it, shifting luggage around in the trunk. As I pulled in, he
turned around and stared. He was wearing yellow hunting glasses, with
the sunset reflected in each lens.
When I got out of the Pinto, he strode down the
driveway to greet me. His loud voice and long shadow got to me before
he did.
"Hey, there!" he said. "I guess you
must be Harry Stoner." He held out his hand. "Sam Greenleaf
Mace’s older brother."
I shook with him.
In the face he looked a little like his brother, only
more robust and less bedeviled by life. He was taller than Greenleaf
had been, judging from the one photo I’d seen of Mason. Hair cut
short at the sides, military-style. There was a good deal of barracks
in the way he held himself too, ramrod straight with his feet a pace
apart and his hand folded at ease behind his back. He was dressed as
if he’d just stepped off the links—checked pants, white belt,
white shoes, golf shirt.
"Been wanting to meet you," he said in his
hale, too-loud voice. "I hear you’ve done a fine job for
Cindy."
"I haven’t done anything yet," I said,
wondering where the hell he’d gotten that notion—or whether he
was just blowing hard. He had that air about him.
"We stopped in to say good-bye to Cindy. Firm up
a few things about Mason’s estate. Terrible thing, this thing about
Mace. Terrible." He cast his burning yellow eyes down to his
white leather shoes. "I guess Cindy’s told you we weren’t a
particularly close family. Maybe we haven’t seen as much of each
other as we should’ve done, living in different cities like we all
do. But as you get older, you drift apart. Life just works out that
way. Nobody’s to blame."
It occurred to me that that had been the point of his
foray: that nobody was to blame. But I was wrong.
"Look, I
came across solid proof. But it had also occurred to me that finding
a money trail might tell me where Greenleaf had spent the last four
days of his life. Anyway, that was the excuse I was going to use.
A man answered Cindy’s phone on the second ring.
"Yello," he said. "Cindy Dorn’s residence."
There was enough Tennessee in the guy’s voice to
make me guess he was Greenleaf’s brother.
"Can I speak to Cindy?"
"Sure can."
He went off the line and Cindy came on. "I’ll
handle it, Sam," I \
heard her say off
the line before she said, "Hello."
"Cindy, it’s Harry. You’ve got company,
huh?"
I could hear her cup her hand over the receiver. "You
don’t know the half of it."
"I may need to get into Mason’s condo again."
"Why?"
"Nothing important," I said. "Just a
routine check of his bank statements—see if he had any unusual
expenses before he died. Something I should have done a long time
ago."
"All right. If you pick me up, I’ll go with
you over to Mason’s. Maybe we can get Mason’s car, too, on the
way back. Anything to get the hell out of this house for as long as
possible," she said, dropping her voice to a whisper.
"I’ll be out there in about thirty minutes."
After finishing with Cindy, I went through the
messages on the answering machine. Ron Sabato had called to tell me
that he’d located Greenleaf’s jacket and that I could pick it up
at Vice after eleven that evening. Someone else had called but hadn’t
left a name or a message. There was no word from Ira Sullivan.
I took the elevator down to the street and headed
west up Sixth to the Parkade. Although I was hungry again, I could
wait until after I checked Greenleaf’s condo before eating. Later
in the night I’d stop at Stacie’s and try to get a name.
I caught the expressway on Sixth Street and pulled up
in front of Cindy Dorn’s house a little past nine. There was still
enough light in the sky to fill the yard with the barbed shadow of
the hawthorn tree, twisting across the grass and walk.
A car was parked in Cindy’s driveway, a red Seville
burnished cinnamon in the sunset. A tall gray-haired man was bent
behind it, shifting luggage around in the trunk. As I pulled in, he
turned around and stared. He was wearing yellow hunting glasses, with
the sunset reflected in each lens.
When I got out of the Pinto, he strode down the
driveway to greet me. His loud voice and long shadow got to me before
he did.
"Hey, there!" he said. "I guess you
must be Harry Stoner." He held out his hand. "Sam Greenleaf
Mace’s older brother."
I shook with him.
In the face he looked a little like his brother, only
more robust and less bedeviled by life. He was taller than Greenleaf
had been, judging from the one photo I’d seen of Mason. Hair cut
short at the sides, military-style. There was a good deal of barracks
in the way he held himself too, ramrod straight with his feet a pace
apart and his hand folded at ease behind his back. He was dressed as
if he’d just stepped off the links—checked pants, white belt,
white shoes, golf shirt.
"Been wanting to meet you," he said in his
hale, too-loud voice. "I hear you’ve done a fine job for
Cindy."
"I haven’t done anything yet," I said,
wondering where the hell he’d gotten that notion—or whether he
was just blowing hard. He had that air about him.
"We stopped in to say good-bye to Cindy. Firm up
a few things about Mason’s estate. Terrible thing, this thing about
Mace. Terrible." He cast his burning yellow eyes down to his
white leather shoes. "I guess Cindy’s told you we weren’t a
particularly close family. Maybe we haven’t seen as much of each
other as we should’ve done, living in different cities like we all
do. But as you get older, you drift apart. Life just works out that
way. Nobody’s to blame."
It occurred to me that that had been the point of his
foray: that nobody was to blame. But I was wrong.
"Look, I
Similar Books
