“I was hoping you’d know,” I said. “His father?”
She snorted, in a gentle ladylike way.
“You’ve talked to his father.”
“Yes. I withdraw the question.”
I picked up the envelope. It was addressed to both Prentice and Patsy at Patsy’s address.
“Envelopes like this come here before?”
“Yes. Every month. I just gave them to him.”
“He wasn’t living here.”
“No, he lived in that apartment where they had the newspaper.”
But he had the statements sent here.
“What should I do?” Mrs. Lamont said.
“With the money?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need it?”
“Need it?”
“It’s yours,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How do I get it?”
“Somewhere in Prentice’s effects there’s probably a checkbook.”
“He showed me one once.”
“What’d he say?”
“I don’t recall exactly, just something about see this checkbook.”
“If you had it you could simply write a check on this account when you needed to.”
“Maybe in his room,” she said. “It’s not the room he grew up in. We lived in Hingham until the divorce. It’s just the room he used when he came to see me. A child always needs to have a home to come to.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I haven’t been in his room since the funeral.”
“Would you like me to look?”
She was silent, looking into her teacup, then she nodded.
“Yes,” she said very softly.
It was a small room behind the kitchen. Single bed with a maple frame and flame shapes carved on the tops of the bedposts. A braided rag rug, mostly blue and red, that was a little raveled at one edge. A patchwork quilt, again mostly blue and red, covering the bed, some jeans and sport shirts and a pair of dark brown penny loafers in the closet. A maple bureau with an assortment of school pictures on top of it. Prentice Lamont when he was in first grade, looking stiff and a little scared in a neat plaid shirt, and in most of the grades between. His high school graduation picture dominated the collection, a round-faced kid with dark hair and pink cheeks, wearing a mortarboard. His bachelor’s degree was framed on the wall, but no college graduation picture. In the top drawer of the bureau was a checkbook and a box of spare checks and deposit slips and mailing envelopes. Apparently Prentice did his financial planning in Somerville.
There was nothing else of interest in the room. It wasn’t a room that spoke of him, of his sexuality, his fears, why he was dead, or who killed him. It was an anonymous child’s room, maintained by a mother, for an adult to come and sleep in once in a while. I brought the checkbook and the spare checks out to his mother.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hawk and I were sparring in the boxing room at the Harbor Health Club. There was no ring, just an open space to the left of the body bag and speed bag and the skitter bag that was so hard to nail that even Hawk missed it now and then. We had on the big fat pillow gloves that even if you got nailed wouldn’t hurt much, and we were floating like a couple of butterflies and pretending to sting like a couple of bees.
“So, Lamont is outing people,” Hawk said.
I put a left jab out and Hawk picked it off with his right glove.
“Un huh.”
I turned my head, and rolled back from a right cross and felt the big soft glove just brush past my cheekbone.
“And he got two hundred fifty thousand in his money management account at Hall, Peary.”
I tried a flurry of body punches which Hawk took mostly on his elbows, and then closed up on me and clinched.
“Un huh.”
