Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(73)

She hands me a framed photograph. Sun and time have faded the colors, but there were college students Billy Rowan and Edie Parker, cheek to cheek. They were on a beach, the ocean behind them, their smiles as bright as the sun, the sweat leaving a sheen on their deliriously happy (or so it appeared) faces.

Mrs. Parker says, “They look so in love, don’t they?”

And the truth is, they do. They look young and in love and untroubled.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

I let myself nod.

“They were just dumb kids, Mr. Lockwood. That’s what William here always says, don’t you, William?”

William doesn’t blink.

“Idealistic, sure. Who isn’t when they’re young? Billy was a big lovable goofball, and my Edie wouldn’t hurt a fly. She just watched the news every night and saw those boys coming back in body bags. Her brother, my Aiden, served in Vietnam. Did you know that?”

“I did not, no.”

“No, they never talked about that on the news, did they?” Her tone is bitter now. “To them, my Edie was just a crazy terrorist, like one of those Manson girls.”

I try my best to look sympathetic, but this is where having “haughty resting face” becomes an issue. Myron is so good at this. He would put on a display of empathy that would make Pacino take notes.

“When was the last time you heard from Edie or Billy?”

Mrs. Parker seems taken aback by my query. “Why would you ask that?”

“I just—”

“Never. I mean, not since that night.”

“Not once?”

“Not once. I don’t understand. Why are you here, Mr. Lockwood? We were told you could help us.”

“Help you?”

“Find our children. You were the one who found Ry Strauss.”

I nod. It’s not true, but alas, I go with it.

“When William and I saw Ry’s picture on the news, I mean…do you want to hear something strange?”

I try to look open and accepting.

“When you found Ry Strauss…” Again she turns to look at Mr. Rowan. He doesn’t turn or even react. I don’t know whether he hears us or not. He may have aphasia, or he may be totally out of it, or he may have a great poker face. I simply don’t know. “Do you know what the weirdest part was?”

“Tell me,” I say.

“Ry was an old man now. Do you understand what I’m saying? Not old like William and me, of course. We are in our nineties, but for some reason, even though we knew better, of course, we still think of Edie and Billy as being young. Like time froze when they disappeared. Like they still look exactly like this.” Mrs. Parker takes the frame back from me. Her finger touches down on her daughter’s image, and her head tilts tenderly as it does so. “Do you think that’s strange, Mr. Lockwood?”

“No.”

She taps Mr. Rowan’s hand. “William here, he was a golfer. Do you play?” she asks me.

“I do, yes.”

“Then you’ll get this. William used to joke that he and I were on the ‘back nine’ of life—now he says the two of us are walking up the fairway on the eighteenth hole. See, we still call Edie and Billy ‘our children.’ But his Billy would have just turned sixty-five years old. My Edie would be sixty-four.”

She shakes her head in disbelief.

Normally I would find all of this tedious and beside the point, but in truth, this is why I am here. I don’t suspect that I will get any useful information from Mr. Rowan or Mrs. Parker. That’s not really the point. What I want to do is cause a stir and see what happens. Let me explain.

If Edie Parker and Billy Rowan have been alive this whole time, chances are they would have reached out to their families at some point. Perhaps not the first year or two when the heat was on them. But it has now been over forty-five years since the Jane Street Six went on the run. If “her” Edie and “his” Billy were alive, it is reasonable to assume that at some point they would have been in touch.

That doesn’t mean, of course, that Mrs. Parker (let’s leave the silent Mr. Rowan out of this for now) would tell me. Just the opposite. She would do all in her power to persuade me that she has not seen her daughter in all these years, even if she had. So—is Mrs. Parker telling me the truth or is she playing me?

That’s what I am trying to discern.

“How did you first hear about the”—what is the tactful word to use here?—“incident involving the Jane Street Six?”

“Do you mind if we don’t call them that?”

“Sorry?”

“The Jane Street Six,” Mrs. Parker says. “It makes them sound, well, like the Manson Family.”

“Yes, of course.” So much for my attempt at tact. “How did you hear about the incident?”

“A bunch of FBI agents crashed into my house. You’d have thought they were looking for Al Capone the way they busted in. Scared me and Barney half to death.”

I know this already. I’ve looked at the file. Again I’m not trying to gather information. I’m trying to gauge truthfulness and perhaps, as you’ll see in a bit, cause a reaction.

I try to make my voice properly solemn. “And you never saw your daughter again?”