Page 76 of A River Red With Blood
“I might ask Santopietro about that,” I said.“By the way, did you know Santopietro had been at Élan when you asked me to get involved?”
“He doesn’t hide it.”
“You might have told me.”
“I didn’t want you making judgments about him based on it.It’s not as if you don’t have enough judgments to be getting along with.”
The next time I billed Moxie for work, I’d be upping my rates.
“And Mallory Norton?”asked Alcock.
“It’s Ward Vose who reckons she could have been the girl his son was seeing,” I said, “but the police have flown that kite with no result.I can’t see where her disappearance fits, other than as part of a pattern of Kennebec Valley oddness.”
“So where does that leave us?”Moxie asked.
“I’ll drive up to The Plains tomorrow or the next day, and base myself in Bingham or Madison.”I gave Alcock a meaningful look.“It’ll involve a motel bill, but I’ll try to keep room service to a minimum.”
“As long as you provide receipts,” said Alcock, “and restrict yourself to two drinks.”
Which concluded our meeting.Alcock headed off to make somewhere else look drab, while Moxie ran a couple of jobs by me, both of which could wait a week or so.He then folded his hands over his enviable belly and said, “What is it?”
“What’s what?”
“Whatever’s bothering you.”
I could have shrugged it off and told him it was nothing, but he’d only have worried.For all his bluster, Moxie maintained a sensitivity and solicitude toward others.It made him a better lawyer, but also helped explain why a long line of ex-wives and former girlfriends retained affection for him.You might not have wanted to be married to Moxie for long, or even at all, but you still wanted him in your life.
“A conversation with Angel,” I told him, “on the day I visited Ward Vose.It’s hard to explain the substance of it.”
“Try.”
“I may have buried memories.They’re starting to resurface.”
“What kind of memories?Childhood?”
“No,” I said.“Other lives.”
Moxie’s expression did not alter, but neither did he speak.
“Is this the point where you tell me you’re going to have to hire another investigator?”I asked.
Moxie checked his watch, removed his jacket from the closet, and put it on.Immediately, wrinkles appeared in the material, like magic.
“That explains a lot,” he said, and his eyes were sad and serious.“Who else have you told about this?”
“No one.”
“Keep it that way.”
“Because they’ll think I’m crazy?”
“No,” said Moxie.“Because some of them may think you’re not.”
Chapter 74
Louis arrived in Boston, availed of an early check-in at the Four Seasons, and ordered lunch from room service: steak, medium, accompanied by a bottle of Prunotto Barolo.(Had Allen Atwood Alcock been presented with that bill, he might have suffered a coronary.) He showered while he waited for the food to arrive, drank one small glass of the Barolo with his steak, and saved the rest for later.He then took the T to the Wellesley Square station, where he enjoyed a stroll in the afternoon air, pausing by Fuller Brook Park to take in the birdsong.He returned to the T station, went back to the Four Seasons, and poured himself another glass of Barolo.
Louis had now seen for himself the Wellesley colonial home of D.Francis Sturgis, which was modest compared with some of its neighbors.On Grove Street, a buyer could drop $7–8 million on a family home with nine bedrooms and ten bathrooms, if they were so minded, but Sturgis was satisfied with four beds, three baths, and just under three thousand square feet—ample, and more, for a man who lived alone.When Louis passed the house, lamps were lit in the topmost rooms against the fall gloom.The specifics Louis had acquired for the property included details of a security company, with cameras and alarm monitoring.They would have to be dealt with before Louis could think about confronting Sturgis.
