Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(63)

“That’s not why he transferred.”

I produce the honor code report as well as the covering letter signed by the Dean’s Disciplinary Panel. “These are dated January 16, 1972—the beginning of your father’s second semester of his freshman year.”

We are seated at the square table in the center of the room. Her purse is on the floor. Patricia reaches down and pulls out a pair of reading glasses. I wait for her to skim through the report.

“It’s pretty vague,” she says.

“Intentionally,” I say. “Apparently your father took inappropriate photographs of the underage daughter of his biology professor named Gary Roberts.” I hand her a canceled check. “On January 22, Professor Roberts deposited this check, made out from one of our shell companies, to his bank account.”

She reads it. “Ten grand?”

I say nothing.

“Pretty cheap.”

“It was the early seventies.”

“Still.”

“And I’m not sure he had a choice. Scandals like this never saw the light of day. If it did, Professor Roberts was probably convinced that his young daughter would be the one blamed and made worse for wear.”

Patricia reads the letter again. “Do you have a photograph of her?”

“Of the daughter?”

“Yes.”

“No. Why?”

“Dad liked young women,” she says. “Girls even.”

“Yes.”

“But there is a difference between a physically mature fifteen-year-old and, say, a seven-year-old.”

I stay silent. Patricia has asked me no question, so I see no reason to speak.

“I mean,” she continues, “sorry to sound anti-me-too and I’m not defending him, but have you seen photographs of my mother at their wedding?”

“I have.”

“She’s…my mother was curvy.”

I wait.

“She was built, right? What I’m saying is, I don’t think my father was a pedophiliac or anything.”

“You prefer ephebophilia,” I say.

“I’m not sure what that is.”

“Mid-to-late adolescents,” I say.

“Maybe.”

“Patricia?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s not get bogged down in definitions right now. It will only cloud the issue. He’s dead. I see no reason to pursue his punishment at this moment.”

She nods, sits back, and lets loose a deep breath. “Go on then.”

I look down at my notes. “There isn’t much mention of your father for the next few months in any of the diaries I’ve located so far, but my grandfather kept all of his scorecards from his rounds of golf.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“He saved scorecards?”

“He did.”

“So I assume my father’s name is on some?”

“Yes. He played quite a bit starting in April. With my father, our grandfather, family members. I’m sure he played with his friends too, but of course, I wouldn’t have those cards.”

“What was his handicap?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m trying to lighten the mood, Win. What does that prove?”

“That he was in Philadelphia throughout the summer. Or at least, he golfed here. Then according to the calendar, a Lockwood staff member drove Aldrich to Lipton Hall, his residence housing on Washington Square, on September 3, 1972.”

“Where he started at NYU.”

“Yes.”

“So then what?”

“For the most part, it seems everything is calm for a while. I need to go through the files more thoroughly, but as of now, nothing major pops out until your father arrives in S?o Paolo on April 14, 1973.”

I show her the relevant stamp from Brazil in his old passport.

“Wait. Grandmama kept his old passport?”

“All of our old passports, yes.”

Patricia shakes her head in disbelief. She turns to the photograph in the front and stares down at the image of her father. The passport was issued in 1971, when her father was nineteen years old. Her head tilts to the side as she stares at the black-and-white headshot. Her fingertip gently brushes her father’s face. Aldrich was a handsome man. Most Lockwood men are.

“Dad told me he stayed in South America for three years,” she says in a wistful voice.

“That seems right,” I say. “If you page through the passport, you’ll see that he traveled to Bolivia, Peru, Chile, Venezuela.”

“It changed him,” she says.

This too is not a question, so I see no reason to comment.

“He did good work down there. He founded a school.”

“Seems he did, yes. According to the passport, he didn’t return to the United States until December 18, 1976.”

“December?”

“Yes.”

“I was told earlier.”

“Of course you were.”

“So my mother was pregnant with me,” Patricia says.

“You didn’t know?”

“I didn’t. But it doesn’t make a difference.” Patricia sighs and leans back in her chair. “Is there a point to all this, Win?”