Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(76)

“Of course, I can.”

I don’t enjoy this, but I don’t mind much either. People used to buy the “everyone is equal” rationale we Americans brilliantly sold throughout our esteemed history, though lately more and more get what has always been obvious: Money tilts all scales. Money is power. This isn’t a John Grisham man-against-the-system novel—in reality, the little man can’t stand up to it. As I warned Elena Randolph at the get-go, she will eventually cave.

I’m not sounding like the hero of this story, am I?

Is it right that the wealthy can wield this power over you? Of course not. The system isn’t fair. Reality is a bothersome thing. I have no interest in hurting Elena Randolph, but I won’t lose sleep over this either. She may be harboring a fugitive. At the very least, she has information that I require. The sooner I get it, the sooner she goes back to her own life.

“You won’t quit, will you?” she says.

My disarming smile returns.

“Let’s go sit in the Subway.”

“Subway?” I am appropriately aghast. “I’d rather have my kidney removed with a grapefruit spoon. We can talk here, so let’s get to it, shall we? You knew Ralph Lewis at Oral Roberts University, correct?”

Elena wipes her eyes and nods.

“When did you last see him?”

“More than forty years ago.”

“If we skip the lies—”

“I’m not lying. Let me ask you something before we get into this.”

I don’t like it, but it may take longer to express that point. “Go on.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“We’ve already established that.”

“So why are you after Ralph?”

Sometimes you play vague. Sometimes you go right for the throat. Right now, I choose the throat. “You mean Arlo Sugarman, don’t you?”

The remark draws blood. Conclusion: Elena Randolph knew that Ralph Lewis was really Arlo Sugarman.

“How did you—?” She stops, sees that there’s no point, shakes her head. “Never mind. He didn’t do anything, you know.”

I wait.

“Why are you after him? After all these years.”

“You heard about Ry Strauss being found.”

“Of course.” She narrows her eyes. “Wait, I saw your picture on the news. You owned that painting.”

“Own,” I correct. “Present tense.”

“I don’t get why you’d be looking for Arlo.”

“The art heist was not a solo job,” I say.

“And you think, what, that Arlo has your other missing painting?”

“Perhaps.”

“He doesn’t.”

“You haven’t seen him in over forty years.”

“Still. Arlo would not be involved in something like that.”

I try dropping the bomb: “Would he be involved in the abduction and murder of young girls?”

Her mouth drops open.

“In all likelihood,” I say, “Ry Strauss and an accomplice murdered my uncle and kidnapped my cousin.”

“You can’t think—”

“Did you meet Ry Strauss when he came to campus?”

“Listen to me,” Elena says. “Arlo was a good man. He was the best man I ever knew.”

“Cool,” I say. “So where is he?”

“I told you. I don’t know. Look, Ralph…I mean Arlo…we dated for two years at Oral Roberts. I came from a rough background. As a child, I was…” The tears start coming to her eyes, but she works hard to shake them off. “You don’t want to hear my whole life story.”

“Heavens, no.”

She manages a chuckle at that, though I hadn’t meant to be funny. “Ralph—that’s what I always called him—Ralph was kind.”

“When did you learn his real identity?”

“Before we dated.”

That surprises me. “He confided in you?”

“I was his campus contact in the underground. I helped him get settled, found the pseudonym, whatever he needed.”

“And, what, you two grew close?”

She moves close to me. “Arlo wasn’t there that night.”

“When you say ‘that night’—”

“The night with the Molotov cocktails and all those deaths.”

“Arlo Sugarman told you that?” I give her my best skeptical eyebrow arch, which is, modesty aside, a work of art. “You’ve seen the photograph of the Jane Street Six?”

“The famous one in the basement? Sure. But that was his last time with them. He thought it was just a prank, that they’d never really fill the bottles with kerosene. When he saw they were serious, he backed out.”

“Arlo told you this?”

“He told me Ry had turned crazy. He didn’t go that night.”

“There are photographs from that night.”

“None of him. There are six people, yes. But you don’t see his face, do you?”

I give this a moment. “So how come Arlo Sugarman never told the police?” I ask.

“He did. Do you think anyone believed him?”