The Dead Man

Chapter Fifty-five

The weatherman was right. The sleet turned to ice and the ice to snow and there was nothing to be done except to watch it come down. Ice slapped against the windows, encased tree limbs, and carpeted the ground, the perfect undercoat for the snow-fat, wet, lazy flakes tossed on the wind, piling, drifting, and blowing. The storm blanketed the region, branches and power lines snapping north and south of the Missouri River; roads and schools closed east and west of the state line. Local television gave wall-to-wall coverage with live reports from all the places we were warned not to go, headlights streaming in the background proof that some people couldn't take a hint.

I was one of them. Not that I left the house. Lucy and I were sitting on the sofa in the living den. She grinned and stuck the car key in her jean pocket, daring me to try getting it out. It was Quincy Carter's hint that I couldn't take, the weather and Lucy's protective instincts keeping me homebound for the night.

In that moment, she reminded me of Joy, not Wendy, and of a time when going after the key would have been worth the effort. I hadn't thought of Joy like that for quite a while, flashes of our early years welling up when she had shown more spunk and steel than any woman I had ever known, filling me with longing for past lives. I didn't know what triggered those memories, whether it was Joy's phone call or Lucy's mischievous smile or Kate telling me she was leaving, but they blossomed into a fleeting daydream that I was standing in a circular room surrounded by closed doors uncertain what was behind each: happiness or sorrow, the future or the past, the lady or the tiger.

"Hey," Lucy said, waving her hands a few inches from my face. "Anybody home?"

I blinked and laughed. "Just me."

"Well, don't even think about going out in this weather."

"Not a problem. I'm all in and all done."

"For tonight. Tomorrow will be a better day. You know what I think," she said, taking my hand. "I think our timing is good."

"Me too."

Her cell phone rang, her face lighting up at the name on caller ID. She jumped off the sofa, turning her back to me.

"Hey, you," she said, walking toward the kitchen.

"Tell lover boy I said hello."

She gave me the finger over her shoulder and kept walking as my cell phone rang.

"Jack, it's me," Joy said. "Is this a bad time? You were right about the weather."

I leaned into the soft cushions of the sofa, surprised at how glad I was to hear her voice. "No, this is a good time. We're really getting hammered."

"Every flight to Kansas City has been canceled. At this point, I don't know if the airline can even get me on a flight tomorrow. I may not make it back until Friday. I hope you don't mind keeping Roxy," she said, the strain in her voice apparent.

"Don't worry about it. Are you okay?"

She hesitated. "Yeah, it's just that I'd really like to get out of here. I'll tell you about it when I get home. Give the dogs a hug for me," she said and hung up.

I didn't believe her but the right to pry and push was one of the things I gave up in our divorce settlement. Lucy came out of the kitchen, took the stairs two at a time, and was back down a few moments later, wearing a parka with her backpack on her shoulder.

"Don't tell me you're going out in this weather?"

"Simon says it's not that bad and he doesn't live far from here. Besides, you aren't going anywhere."

She opened the front door, a mini-snow flurry whistling inside.

"I'll need the car in the morning."

"Sure, sure," she said, shoving the door closed behind her.

Roxy and Ruby were curled back-to-back on an easy chair. They lifted their heads, stretched, and yawned, jumping to the floor and trotting into the kitchen. I followed them. They ignored me, marching single file out the doggie door.

I made a pot of decaf and sat at the kitchen table. Simon's banker box was on the floor. I pulled his file on Anthony Corliss, poured a cup, and broke my promise to Quincy Carter.

Simon had found newspaper coverage about the girl at the University of Wisconsin. Her name was Kimberly Stevens. The article matched the details Janet Casey and Gary Kaufman had given me. Kimberly had been a sophomore. She volunteered for the dream project to get extra credit in her introductory psychology class. She drowned in Lake Mendota. Her parents sued the university and Corliss. The university settled the case, emphasizing that it was not admitting liability. The family's attorney, Eric Abelson, said the family was satisfied with the outcome of the case, though no amount of money could compensate them for their loss.

Kate had criticized Harper's lawyers for only talking with the lawyers for the university and for Corliss and not talking to the family's lawyer. I searched Abelson's name on Google, finding his Web site which boasted that he was available 24-7. It was almost ten o'clock. He answered on the third ring and listened while I explained that I was calling because of the similarity between his case and the one Jason Bolt was going to file.

"You know I've already spoken to Bolt," he said.

"Bolt told me he knows about your case so I assumed he'd talked to you."

"And you should also know that I sent him a copy of my file and I told him I'd do anything I could to help him."

"I know whose side you're on."

"Then why do you think I'm going to help you?"

"Because I'm trying to figure out whose side I'm on."

I listened to dead air while Abelson calculated his response. "You said you were working for Milo Harper. Are you still on his payroll?"

"I am."

"And Bolt is getting ready to sue your boss?"

"I know that."

"And you don't know whose side you're on?"

"It's complicated."

Another pause. "Are you recording this conversation?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Because I don't know what kind of crap you're trying to pull but this smells like a setup."

"It isn't."

"If you're lying to me and a tape of this call just happens to turn up, you and I are going to have some serious shit to sort out, you got that?"

"Understood. I'm not recording our conversation."

"I'll tell you what. How about I record it?"

"Fine by me."

"You're serious?"

"It's late, I'm beat, and I'd like to get past this bullshit so if it will make you feel better to record the call, hook us up," I said, my last words coming out in a tumble.

"What's the matter with your voice?"

"I have a movement disorder that makes me stutter sometimes and, like I said, it's late and I'm beat."

Another pause. "I just ran your name through Google. Are you the Jack Davis who used to be with the FBI?"

He'd been stalling while he ran a background check on me. "Yeah."

"Damn. Hang on. I'm reading the article in the Kansas City Star about the woman who was murdered at the Harper Institute. Is that what this is about?"

"Yes."

"The newspaper says this guy Leonard Nagel, the one who was hit by a car and killed when he ran from the scene, did it. What's all that got to do with Corliss?"

"The newspaper got it wrong."

"Where's Corliss?"

"I don't know. The police are looking for him. So am I."

"You think he may be the killer?"

"Right now, he's the leader in the clubhouse."

"In that case, how can I help you nail the son of a bitch?"