were doing on May 27, 1996?”
“The day of his stroke. When you found him—that day, was he about to make a large cash delivery to someone?”
She looked away slowly now, but not evasively, as far as he could tell. She appeared to be searching her memory. A long moment went by.
Finally she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember. It’s possible.”
Rick waited. The mantel clock ticked.
She scratched an itch on her left shoulder. “I have some of the old office files in the basement. The old datebooks and such. Do you think those might help?”
15
H er basement was neat and precise and orderly, more like a laboratory’s supply room than the sprawling junk heap that was the basement of the Clayton Street house. Gleaming stainless steel shelving units held blue plastic storage bins and immaculate rows of white cardboard banker’s boxes, everything neatly labeled in black Magic Marker, in architect’s lettering. There was a faint bleach smell.
“You saved all the office files?” Rick asked.
“Just the financial records. In case he got audited. The client files I shredded.”
“Shredded?”
“I asked you guys, don’t you remember? You and your sister? You said you didn’t want them.”
“So how would I find out who he met with on a particular day . . . ?”
“The red book, I’d say. It’s like a client diary.” She pointed to a cardboard box, and he took it off the shelf—unexpectedly heavy—and set it on the high-gloss-painted cement floor. She bent over carefully, one hand splayed on her lower back, and lifted the box’s lid.
Inside were thick red hardcover books, each the size of the Manhattan phone book.
Each red book was titled
Massachusetts Lawyers Diary and Manual
. It was like a desk diary combined with reference book: municipal directories, statutes, directory of judges, all that kind of thing. Kind of like a farmer’s almanac for lawyers, only more boring. He picked one up for the year 1989, flipped through it. The parts that interested him were the daily diary and monthly planner. A page for each day. Clients’ names and times of meetings, written in what he assumed was Joan’s neat handwriting.
In another box he found the book for 1996. He turned to the page for May 27. A fairly light schedule, it appeared. Only three appointments for the day. One in the morning, one at noon, one late in the afternoon. He didn’t make the afternoon one, of course, since he had his stroke right after lunch. But the twelve noon appointment he presumably did. On the line for 12:00 it had no name, only an initial: “P—.”
Rick pointed at the entry, his eyebrows questioning. “That was his last appointment before his stroke. Who’s ‘P’?”
Joan took a pair of reading glasses hanging on a chain around her neck, put them on slowly, peered at the page. “Oh, I don’t know who that was, ‘P.’ That’s all he told me—someone he met with once in a while.” She pushed the glasses down her nose and turned to him. Stiffly she added: “I hope you don’t mind my saying, I always assumed it was a girlfriend.”
Rick smiled. “Did he always meet with ‘P’ at lunchtime?” A midday assignation at a cheap hotel—that sounded like Len. Patty, Penelope, Priscilla, Pam. He wouldn’t have been cheating on his wife, Rick’s mother: She’d died three years earlier, when Rick was fifteen and his father was forty-four. Not exactly an old man, and the guy had a sex drive, much as Rick didn’t like to think about it. There’d been a few girlfriends, but no one for very long. His parents’ marriage had always seemed contentious. Maybe being married once was enough for Len.
“Sometimes after work. But never at the office. That’s why I assumed . . .”
“He never asked you to order flowers for ‘P,’ did he?” He said it jokingly, but she took it seriously, frowning and shaking her head.
“But if ‘P’ was a client, there’d be bills and files and such,
“The day of his stroke. When you found him—that day, was he about to make a large cash delivery to someone?”
She looked away slowly now, but not evasively, as far as he could tell. She appeared to be searching her memory. A long moment went by.
Finally she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember. It’s possible.”
Rick waited. The mantel clock ticked.
She scratched an itch on her left shoulder. “I have some of the old office files in the basement. The old datebooks and such. Do you think those might help?”
15
H er basement was neat and precise and orderly, more like a laboratory’s supply room than the sprawling junk heap that was the basement of the Clayton Street house. Gleaming stainless steel shelving units held blue plastic storage bins and immaculate rows of white cardboard banker’s boxes, everything neatly labeled in black Magic Marker, in architect’s lettering. There was a faint bleach smell.
“You saved all the office files?” Rick asked.
“Just the financial records. In case he got audited. The client files I shredded.”
“Shredded?”
“I asked you guys, don’t you remember? You and your sister? You said you didn’t want them.”
“So how would I find out who he met with on a particular day . . . ?”
“The red book, I’d say. It’s like a client diary.” She pointed to a cardboard box, and he took it off the shelf—unexpectedly heavy—and set it on the high-gloss-painted cement floor. She bent over carefully, one hand splayed on her lower back, and lifted the box’s lid.
Inside were thick red hardcover books, each the size of the Manhattan phone book.
Each red book was titled
Massachusetts Lawyers Diary and Manual
. It was like a desk diary combined with reference book: municipal directories, statutes, directory of judges, all that kind of thing. Kind of like a farmer’s almanac for lawyers, only more boring. He picked one up for the year 1989, flipped through it. The parts that interested him were the daily diary and monthly planner. A page for each day. Clients’ names and times of meetings, written in what he assumed was Joan’s neat handwriting.
In another box he found the book for 1996. He turned to the page for May 27. A fairly light schedule, it appeared. Only three appointments for the day. One in the morning, one at noon, one late in the afternoon. He didn’t make the afternoon one, of course, since he had his stroke right after lunch. But the twelve noon appointment he presumably did. On the line for 12:00 it had no name, only an initial: “P—.”
Rick pointed at the entry, his eyebrows questioning. “That was his last appointment before his stroke. Who’s ‘P’?”
Joan took a pair of reading glasses hanging on a chain around her neck, put them on slowly, peered at the page. “Oh, I don’t know who that was, ‘P.’ That’s all he told me—someone he met with once in a while.” She pushed the glasses down her nose and turned to him. Stiffly she added: “I hope you don’t mind my saying, I always assumed it was a girlfriend.”
Rick smiled. “Did he always meet with ‘P’ at lunchtime?” A midday assignation at a cheap hotel—that sounded like Len. Patty, Penelope, Priscilla, Pam. He wouldn’t have been cheating on his wife, Rick’s mother: She’d died three years earlier, when Rick was fifteen and his father was forty-four. Not exactly an old man, and the guy had a sex drive, much as Rick didn’t like to think about it. There’d been a few girlfriends, but no one for very long. His parents’ marriage had always seemed contentious. Maybe being married once was enough for Len.
“Sometimes after work. But never at the office. That’s why I assumed . . .”
“He never asked you to order flowers for ‘P,’ did he?” He said it jokingly, but she took it seriously, frowning and shaking her head.
“But if ‘P’ was a client, there’d be bills and files and such,
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