Win (Windsor Horne Lockwood III #1)(92)

“Yes. William Rowan is in assisted living. His room is filled with Christian imagery. There are framed Bible quotes on the wall. I found the contrast striking.”

“What contrast?”

“With your home,” I say, lifting both hands in the air. “I don’t even see a single cross.”

She shrugs. “That’s show religion,” Vanessa replies with a tinge of bitterness. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Alone, you’re correct, it wouldn’t. But I have done some digging. You’ve never been associated with a church, as far as I can see. You’ve never given money to any religious institution. In fact, before Frederick was killed—”

“Murdered,” Vanessa Hogan interrupts, a sticky-sweet smile plastered to her face. “My son wasn’t killed. He was murdered.”

I try to mirror the smile. “We are getting to it now, Ms. Hogan, aren’t we?”

“What does that mean?”

“My best friend was robbed of a pro basketball career because a man named Burt Wesson intentionally injured him. Destroyed his knee. One day, I paid Burt a visit. He hasn’t been the same since. There are men who have crossed my path who have done great wrongs. Over the years, I’ve conducted ‘night tours.’ Some survived, some didn’t, but none were ever the same. Most recently, right before Ry Strauss’s body was found, I made sure a bullying abuser would never harm anyone else again.”

Vanessa Hogan studies my face. “Do you have your phone with you, Mr. Lockwood?”

“I do.”

“Take it out and hand it to me.”

I do as she asks. She looks at the screen.

“Do you mind if I power it off?”

I signal for her to suit herself.

Vanessa Hogan presses the button on the side and holds it. The phone goes dark. She leaves it on the coffee table. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Lockwood?”

“You know,” I say. “We both felt it that first meeting. All of our talk about vengeance.”

“I told you that vengeance should be the Lord’s.”

“But you didn’t mean it. You were testing me, gauging my reaction. I could see it in your face. The bullying abuser I injured last week? He was an active danger. Now he isn’t. Simple. He was neutralized by me because the law wouldn’t stop him.”

She nods. “You said you wanted to do the same to the men who killed your uncle.”

“Yes.”

“And killed the poor girls.”

I nod. “You understood,” I say. “You sympathized.”

“Of course.”

“Because you’ve done the same.”

I lean back. I put a hand into my pocket.

“Where is Arlo Sugarman?” she asks.

“I could just turn him in,” I say.

“You could, yes.”

“But you’d rather I not.”

The room falls silent. We are right on that edge now.

I say, “You know what happened to Lionel Underwood, don’t you?”

She doesn’t reply.

“It was too much for Leo Staunch. He didn’t want anyone else to endure what Lionel Underwood had. So he asked me to help him protect Arlo Sugarman. I found that odd.”

“As do I,” she says.

“No, not that he didn’t want to hurt Arlo—I got that.” I lean closer and lower my voice. “But why did Leo only ask about Arlo?”

“I’m not following.”

“Why,” I continue, “didn’t he ask me about Billy Rowan and Edie Parker?” I sit back. “It kept nagging at me, but the answer was obvious.”

“What’s that?”

“Leo Staunch didn’t ask about Billy and Edie,” I say, “because he knew they were already dead.”

Silence again fills the room, pushes out, suffocates.

“It is funny how so many of the early theories ended up being the correct ones,” I say. “Take the Jane Street Six. After Lake Davies turned herself in, there were only five. How, everyone wondered, could the remaining members have managed to stay hidden all these years? One person? Okay. Two? Unlikely, but perhaps. But all five of them alive and unseen for all these years? Now we know the answer, don’t we? Lionel Underwood has been dead for more than forty years. Nero Staunch took care of that. And Billy and Edie have been dead even longer. You saw to that, Ms. Hogan.”

Vanessa doesn’t reply. She just sits there with the sickly-sweet smile.

“You are eighty-three years old,” I say. “You are ill. You want to tell someone the truth, and you see me as a kindred spirit. You have my phone—I would have no proof anyway. Do you fear I will report what you say to the FBI?”

Vanessa Hogan’s eyes lock hard on mine. “I don’t fear anything, Mr. Lockwood.”

Of this I have no doubt.

“They stole my life.” Her voice is a pained and harsh whisper. She takes in a deep breath. I watch her chest rise and fall, taking in oxygen, gaining strength. “My only son, my Frederick…When I first heard he was dead, it felt like somebody had whacked me with a baseball bat. I dropped to the floor. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. My life ended. Just like that. All that love I had for that boy, the precious beautiful boy, it didn’t die. It turned to rage. Right there.” She shakes her head, her eyes dry. “Without that rage, I don’t think I would have ever stood up.”