each other's names. A woman walked by with a chocolate lab on leash. It was an active block, probably had its share of housebound watchers too. But I wasn't worried about it—if I got out of there without being arrested, the license plate would dead–end with the Stanley Weber ID.
I pulled around the corner and waited. It stayed quiet until evening dropped black–edged gray over the block. Lights snapped on in houses as kids went back inside. Suppertime. I dialed the number I had for Brother Jacob on the cellular phone I'd brought with me. If a housekeeper answered, I'd have to think of another way.
'Hello?' A man's voice. Middle–aged but vigorous without being aggressive.
'Could I speak to Brother Jacob, please?'
'Speaking.'
'My name is Weber, sir. Stanley Weber. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time. I—'
'I don't ever respond to telephone solicitations,' he said. 'If you'd like, you can mail—'
'This isn't a solicitation, sir. I'd like to talk to you about a matter of mutual interest. In a way, I guess you're right: I am a salesman. But what I have to sell isn't to the general public—you're the only one who would be interested, I think.'
'I don't understand.'
'I could explain better in person, sir. I have some documents you might be interested in purchasing.'
'Documents?'
'Yes. I'd rather not go into it on the phone, if you don't mind. I believe it's in your interest that we speak. Privately.'
'Look, I don't know who you—'
'It concerns a former…student of yours, Brother Jacob. A young lady. Miss Jennifer Dalton.'
The phone went silent, but he hadn't hung up. I listened to him breathing—I couldn't tell if the hook was set. Finally he said, 'I'm not sure what you're talking about, actually. But if you would like to—'
'Just a few minutes of your time, sir. At your convenience.'
'Yes. Very well. Do you know where I—?'
'I can be at your house in, say, fifteen minutes. Would that be convenient?'
He went back to breathing again. Then: 'All right. But I don't have a lot of time. I'm expecting—'
'I'll be right over,' I said, cutting the connection.
I gave it ten minutes. Then I locked up the car and walked around the corner to the white house. The door was painted a dull red, with a switch for the bell set into its center. I turned the switch to the right and heard the ding–dong sound inside.
A medium–height white man opened the door. He had thick dark hair set unnaturally low on his forehead. A toupee, and an expensive one. He was about my height, with a soft round jowly face, and he wore a red flannel shirt over a pair of old putty–colored corduroy pants, brown blunt–toed brogans on his feet. His eyes were pale blue, set deep into their sockets.
'Mr.…' he said.
'Weber,' I finished for him. 'May I come in?'
My midnight–blue suit and white silk shirt reassured him slightly, but he still looked spooked. Maybe because I wasn't wearing a tie.
'Uh…certainly,' he said, stepping aside.
The living room was just past the foyer, furnished in what I guessed were antiques: heavy, solid dark wood, light chintz upholstery. I took the couch. He thought about sitting next to me, then passed in favor of a straight chair with padded arms.
'You said…'
'Jennifer Dalton,' I told him again, looking at his mouth, avoiding his eyes. I was there as a salesman, not an interrogator. 'I have some…documents which I thought might be of interest to you.'
'Documents?'
'Letters,' I said gently. 'Your letters, I think.'
'Why would you…?'
'Miss Dalton has been seeing someone. A therapist. In the course of their…work together, she brought the letters in.'
'I don't understand,' he said, his voice fibrous with tension.
'It's quite a common thing,' I said smoothly. 'When a patient is trying to…recapture their past, a therapist often asks for…keepsakes. To reconstruct events.'
'But I don't—'
'I understand,' I told him. 'Maybe this was a bad idea. If I wasted your time, I apologize.'
'Well,' he said, clearing his throat, 'I don't know. I mean…I can't say.'
'You tell me,' I said, opening the black aluminum attache case and taking out one of the letters. I handed it over to him, then busied myself looking through some other papers, keeping my eyes down.
He took the letter. I could hear him turning the single page over in his hand. 'This is…this appears to be, something I…might have written a long time ago.'
'Yes.'
'A letter of encouragement. To a young woman with many personal problems.'
'Yes.'
'Why would you have this?' he asked, breathing through his mouth.
'I'm a businessman,' I said. 'I have my finger in a number of pies, so to speak. Therapists aren't very well paid. And this particular therapist happens to owe some money. Not to American Express…to some people who are very impatient.'
'I…see. Is this the only one you have?'
'No. I have them all,' I told him. 'There's eleven all told.'
He cleared his throat. Swallowed hard. Then: 'If I wanted these…letters, it would be to spare the possibility of….oh, I don't know, unnecessary embarrassment.'
'If you have the money, there doesn't have to be
'It's very easy to make copies—'
'They're no good,' I lied. 'Without the originals, they're meaningless. No professional document examiner would ever—'
'Document examiner?'
'Like they use in court,' I said, watching his face. 'The important thing about…some letters is the
'I understand what you mean now,' he interrupted.
'Do you want the letters?' I asked.
'I'm…concerned,' he said. 'A therapist shouldn't—'
'I agree with you, Brother Jacob. I make no apologies for my own position. Like I said, I'm a businessman. And the people I represent, they're business people. A therapist does have certain…obligations. Sometimes a person is obligated in more than one direction at the same time—I'm sure you understand. Let me see if I'm following your chain of thought,' I said, gentling my voice. 'You might be interested in buying back these letters so you can show them to Miss Dalton yourself. So you can prove this therapist to whom she entrusted her deepest secrets is actually not acting in her best interests. Is that about right?'
'Yes,' he said. 'That is right. Exactly right.'
'Good. I won't waste your time in meaningless bargaining, Brother Jacob. This isn't a question of whatever 'value' the letters may have. After all, it's a question only of what the therapist owes my…employers.'
'And that is?'
'Twenty thousand dollars.'
'That's impossible!' he blurted out. 'I don't have that kind of money.'
'Well, we would have no way of knowing that, would we?' I asked reasonably. 'Because you're the only… market for these particular items, it's not as though we could put them out for bids.'
'I understand. I mean…I know what you're saying. But I don't see how I could…'
