Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(85)

There is another issue, a bigger issue, ablaze right now: Why has Leo Staunch decided to tell me this? Some may believe that this is a very bad sign for me, that now that I know the truth, Leo Staunch will have no choice but to kill me. I don’t believe that. Even if I was foolhardy enough to run to the feds, what could they do after all these years? What could they prove?

Moreover, if Leo Staunch’s plans include killing me, there would be no reason for the confession first.

“I assume,” I continue, “that you or your uncle asked Mr. Underwood about the whereabouts of the other Jane Street Six.”

He stares off behind me, unseeing. His eyes are shattered marbles. “We did more than ask.”

“And?”

“And he didn’t know.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

“By the end,” Leo Staunch says in a hollow voice, “Lionel Underwood told us everything.”

He is flashing back to that time in the now-muffler shop. His face is losing color.

“Like what?”

“He didn’t throw a Molotov cocktail.”

“You believe him?”

“I do. He broke. Entirely. By the second day, he begged for death.” His eyes have tears; he blinks them away. “You want to know why I’m telling you this.”

I wait.

“For a while, I convinced myself I was okay with it. I got revenge for my sister. Maybe Lionel Underwood didn’t throw this explosive, but as my uncle reminded me, he’s still guilty. But I couldn’t sleep. Even now, all these years later, I still hear Lionel’s screams at night. I see his contorted face.” His eyes find mine. “I’m not afraid of violence, Mr. Lockwood. But this kind of, I don’t know, vigilantism, I guess…” He wipes one eye with a forefinger. “You want to know why I’m telling you this? Because I don’t want the same thing to happen to Arlo Sugarman. Whatever his sins, I want him captured and brought to trial. I lost my taste for revenge.” He leans closer to me. “The reason why I am asking you to find Arlo Sugarman is, so I can protect him.”

Do I believe this?

I do.

“One problem,” I say.

“Oh, there are more than one,” Leo says with the sad chuckle.

“My bank robber source was adamant. He sold you the information on Ry Strauss’s whereabouts.”

“You believe him?”

“I do.”

Leo Staunch considers this. “Did your source say that he sold the information to me—or did he say he sold it to a Staunch?”

I am about to reply when my gaze gets snagged on those handicap railings. I stare at them a second before I turn back to Leo. “You think he sold it to Uncle Nero?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your uncle had a stroke. He’s in a wheelchair.”

“Yes.”

“But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t hire someone to do the job.”

“I don’t think he did.”

“Then what?” I ask.

“Just find Arlo Sugarman.”

“What about the others?”

“When you find Arlo Sugarman,” Leo Staunch says, heading toward the door, “you’ll find all the answers.”





CHAPTER 30



The Reverend Calvin Sinclair, graduate of Oral Roberts University and, if Elena Randolph is to be believed, onetime lover of Ralph Lewis aka Arlo Sugarman, exits the front door to St. Timothy’s Episcopal Church. He walks a British bulldog on a ropy leash. They say that pet owners oft look like their pets, and that seems to be the case here. Both Calvin Sinclair and his bulldog companion are squat, portly-yet-powerful, with a wrinkled face and a pushed-in nose.

St. Timothy’s Episcopal Church is located on a surprisingly large plot of land in Creve Coeur, Missouri, part of Greater St. Louis. The sign out front tells me that services are Saturday at 5:00 p.m., Sunday at 7:45—9:00—10:45 a.m. In smaller print, it notes that prayer services will be led by “Father Calvin” or “Mother Sally.”

The Reverend Sinclair spots me as I get out of the back of a black car. With his free hand, he shields his eyes. He looks to be his age—sixty-five—with thin wisps of hair on his scalp. When he’d opened the church door, he wore a practiced wide smile, the kind of thing you put on just in case someone is around and you want to appear kind and friendly, which—who am I to judge yet?—Calvin Sinclair may very well be. When he sees me, however, the smile crumbles to dust. He adjusts his wire spectacles.

I start toward him. “My name is—”

“I know who you are.”

I arch one eyebrow to register my surprise. Calvin Sinclair’s voice has a nice timbre to it. I am sure that it sounds celestial coming from a pulpit. I did not call beforehand or announce my arrival. Kabir had contacted a local private investigator who assured us that Sinclair was at the church. Had Sinclair traveled somewhere else whilst I was in the air, said private detective would have followed him so I could have confronted him wherever I saw fit.

The British bulldog waddles toward me.

“Who’s this?” I ask.

“Reginald.”

Reginald stops and regards me with suspicion. I bend down and scratch behind his ears. Reginald closes his eyes and takes it in.