“Do you have any other thoughts that might help us?” Young asks.
I don’t bother with the obvious theory: The hermit was an art thief. He liquidated most of what he pilfered, used the profits to hide his identity, set up an anonymous shell company, purchased the apartment. For some reason—most likely because he either loved it or it was too hot to unload—he kept the Vermeer for himself.
“So,” Young continues, “you’ve never been here before, right?”
Her tone is too casual.
“Mr. Lockwood?”
Interesting. They clearly believe they have evidence that I have been in this turret. I haven’t been. It is also clear that they took the unusual step of bringing me to the murder scene to knock me off my game. If they had followed the normal protocol of a murder investigation and taken me to an interrogation room, I would be on my guard and defensive. I might have brought a criminal attorney.
What, pray tell, do they think they have on me?
“On behalf of my family, I’m grateful the Vermeer has been found. I hope this leads to the speedy recovery of the Picasso. I’m now ready to return to my office.”
Young and Lopez don’t like this. Young looks at Lopez and nods. Lopez slips into the other room.
“One moment,” Young says. She reaches into her binder and pulls out another photograph. When she shows it to me, I am yet again puzzled.
“Do you recognize this, Mr. Lockwood?”
To buy time, I say, “Call me Win.”
“Do you recognize this, Win?”
“You know that I do.”
“It’s your family crest, is that correct?”
“It is, yes.”
“It will obviously take us a long time to go through the victim’s apartment,” Young continues.
“So you said.”
“But we found one item in the closet of this bedroom.” Young smiles. She has, I notice, a nice smile. “Only one.”
I wait.
Lopez reenters the room. Behind him, a crime scene technician carries an alligator-leather suitcase with burnished metal hardware. I recognize the piece, but I can’t believe it. It makes no sense.
“Do you recognize this suitcase?” Young asks.
“Should I?”
But of course, I do. Years ago, Aunt Plum had one made up for every male member of the family. They are all adorned with the family crest and our initials. When she gave it to me—I was fourteen at the time—I tried very hard not to frown. I don’t mind expensive and luxurious. I do mind vulgar and wasteful.
“The bag has your initials on it.”
The technician tipped the luggage so I could see the tacky baroque monogram:
WHL3.
“That’s you, right? WHL3—Windsor Horne Lockwood the Third?”
I don’t move, don’t speak, don’t give anything away. But, without sounding overly melodramatic, this discovery has given my world a shove off its axis.
“So, Mr. Lockwood, do you want to tell us why your luggage is here?”
CHAPTER 3
Young and Lopez want an explanation. I start with the complete truth: I had not seen the suitcase in many years. How many years? Here my memory becomes foggier. Many, I say. More than ten? Yes. More than twenty? I shrug. Could I at least confirm that the suitcase had belonged to me? No, I would need a closer look, to be able to open it and look at its contents. Young doesn’t like that. I didn’t think she would. But can’t I at least confirm the suitcase is mine just by looking at it? I couldn’t for certain, sorry, I tell them. But those are your initials and your family crest, Lopez reminds me. They are, I say, but that doesn’t mean someone didn’t make up a duplicate suitcase. Why would someone do that? I have no idea.
And so it goes.
I make my way down the spiral staircase and move into a corner. I text Kabir, my assistant, to send a car right away to the Beresford—no need to get a return ride from my federal escorts. I also have him prepare the helicopter for an immediate trip to Lockwood, the family estate on the Main Line in Philadelphia. Traffic between Manhattan and Philadelphia is unpredictable. It would probably be a two-and-a-half-hour car ride at this hour. The helicopter takes forty-five minutes.
I am in a rush.
The black car is waiting for me on Eighty-First Street. As we head toward the helipad on Thirtieth Street and the Hudson River, I call Cousin Patricia’s mobile.
“Articulate,” she says when she answers.
I can’t help but smile. “Wiseass.”
“Sorry, Cuz. All okay?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t heard from you in a while.”
“And I you.”
“So to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’m about to take a copter into Lockwood.”
Patricia doesn’t reply.
“Could you meet me there?”
“At Lockwood?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“In an hour.”
She hesitates, which is understandable. “I haven’t been to Lockwood in…”
“I know,” I say.
“I have an important meeting.”
“Cancel it.”
“Just like that?”
I wait.
“What’s going on, Win?”
I wait some more.
“Right,” she says. “If you wanted to tell me on the phone, you’d do so.”
“See you in an hour,” I say, and disconnect the call.
We fly over the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, which traverses the Delaware River separating New Jersey from Pennsylvania. Three minutes later, Lockwood Manor rises into view, as though it deserves a soundtrack. The copter, an AgustaWestland AW169, passes over the old stone walls, hovers in the clearing, and lands in the lawns by what we still call the “new stables.” It is coming on a quarter century since I razed the original stable, a building dating back to the nineteenth century. The symbolic move was uncharacteristically mawkish on my part. I had convinced myself that a tear-down-and-rebuild might hurl the memory in the mind’s debris.
It did not.
When I first brought my friend Myron to Lockwood—we were college freshmen on a midterm break—he shook his head and said, “It looks like Wayne Manor.” He was referencing Batman, of course—the original television show starring Adam West and Burt Ward, the only Batman that counted to us. I understood his point. The manor has an aura, a magnificence, a boldness, but “stately Wayne Manor” is reddish brick while Lockwood is made of gray stone. There have been additions over the years, two tasteful albeit huge renovations on either side. These new wings are comfortable and air-conditioned, brighter and airier, yet they try too hard. They are facsimiles. I need to be in the original stone of Lockwood. I need to experience the damp, the must, the drafts.
But then again, I only visit nowadays.
Nigel Duncan, the longtime family butler/attorney—yes, it’s a bizarre mix—is there to greet me. Nigel is bald with a three-wisps comb-over and double chin. He sports gray-on-gray sweats—gray sweatpants with a Villanova logo and a tie-string waist around the protruding gut, and an equally gray hoodie with the word “Penn” across the front.
I frown at him. “Nice groufit.”