Dirty Money

as ever, though Mrs. Bartlett could never quite get over her feeling that an attractive young woman like Gwen was never supposed to be a policeman. Still, here she was, carrying yet another of those wanted posters. Mrs. Bartlett frankly didn’t like the look of those things, and felt they did nothing for the decor and atmosphere of Bosky Rounds, but there was apparently to be no choice in the matter. Her front room was a public space, and the public spaces must willy-nilly be filled up with these dreadful-looking gangsters.

Still, she couldn’t help saying, “Another one, Gwen? I’m not going to have much wall left.”

“No, it’s a replacement,” Gwen told her, going over to where the two drawings and one photograph were already tacked to the wall. “You know that Captain Modale who was here.”

“A charming man.”

“Well, he and I both encountered the same one of the suspects. This one,” she said, taking the latest poster from its manila folder and holding it up for Mrs. Bartlett to see. “We worked together with the artist,” she said, “and we think this picture is much closer to the real man. See it?”

Mrs. Bartlett didn’t want to see it. Squinting, nodding, she said, “Yes, I see it. It takes the place of one of the others, does it?”

“Yes, this one. Here, I’ll take the old one with me.” While she was tacking the new poster in the old one’s place, she said, “Did a reporter named Terry Mulcany talk to you?”

“Oh, the true-crime person.” she said. “Yes, he was all right. He seemed awfully rushed, though.”

Gwen turned away from the wall, folding the old poster and putting it into her coat pocket as she said, “He thought he possibly saw that man somewhere around this house.”

“In this house? Gwen!”

“Not in the house, near it. Outside. With a woman.”

“Gwen,” Mrs. Bartlett said, and pointed toward the row of posters, “not one of those people has ever set foot in Bosky Rounds. Can you imagine? What on earth would they ever do here?”

“Well, they have to sleep somewhere.”

Frosty, Mrs. Bartlett said, “Those are not my customers, Gwen.”

Laughing, Gwen said, “No, I suppose not. Still, if you see anybody who looks like that,” and pointed again at the new poster, “be sure to call me.”

“Of course. Of course I will.”

Gwen left, and Mrs. Bartlett spent the next few minutes sending out e-mails to her waiting list, telling them an unexpected five-day vacancy had just come up. As she was finishing that, Ms. Loscalzo, from number two upstairs at the back, came through, heading out, carrying her usual big ungraceful black leather shoulder bag. “Off for more scenery,” she said, as though it were a joke, or a difficult chore of some kind.

“Enjoy the day, dear,” Mrs. Bartlett said.

“That’s a good idea,” Ms. Loscalzo said, waved, and marched off.

Mrs. Bartlett couldn’t help but wonder about Sandra Loscalzo. Most tourists this time of year were couples or groups, almost never singles. You’d go to the movies or a museum by yourself, but you wouldn’t drive around the countryside looking at the changing leaves all on your own in your car. Anyway, most people wouldn’t.

Also, Ms. Loscalzo seemed a little coarser, a little more— Mrs. Bartlett was almost ashamed of herself, thinking such a thing— working-class than most of the leaf peepers she’d seen over the years. And she didn’t wear a wedding ring, though that didn’t necessarily mean anything. It could be she was recovering from having been recently divorced, and needed a change to get her just for a little while out of her regular life. That might be it.

As she thought about Sandra Loscalzo, Mrs. Bartlett found herself unwillingly gazing at the posters of the wanted robbers, diagonally across the room from her desk, and especially that new one, nearest her along the wall.

Oh, my goodness. She stared at the poster, then rose and walked over to frown at it from a foot away.

It couldn’t be. Could it? Could that nice Claire Willis be married to that? It was impossible.

But it was true. The more she stared at that cold face, the more she saw him standing there, just behind his wife, saying little, showing almost no emotion, certainly no enthusiasm for looking at leaves.

But why would Claire Willis be married to a bank robber? It was ridiculous. Mrs. Bartlett would be more willing to believe Sandra Loscalzo was married to such a man; not Claire Willis.

There had to be an explanation. Maybe the police had their eye on the wrong man all along, or maybe this was just as inaccurate a sketch as the first one. They got it wrong before, maybe they got it wrong again.

Should she phone Gwen, let the police detective sort it out? Mrs. Bartlett had the uneasy feeling that was exactly what she should do now, but she didn’t want to. It wasn’t Henry Willis she was thinking of, it was Claire. She didn’t want Gwen glaring down her nose at Claire Willis. Whatever was in the woman’s life, Mrs. Bartlett certainly didn’t want to be the one who made things worse. She couldn’t call Gwen because she couldn’t make trouble for that nice Claire Willis.

And there was a second reason as well, even stronger than that, though she barely acknowledged it to herself. But the fact is, she had been very remiss. Oh, yes, she’d assured Gwen, over and over, she had studied those posters, she was ready to do her civic duty if any of those robbers happened to wander into Bosky Rounds.

But had she studied? Had she paid attention? The man had been right here, in this house, in this room, and she had never noticed. How could she possibly make that phone call now and say, “Oh, Gwen, I just happened to notice . . .”

No. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t phone Gwen, not now, not ever, and the reason was, she was just too embarrassed.

9

Sandra drove south and east out of town, headed for the Mass Pike. When McWhitney had phoned her this morning from Long Island he’d told her their new truck was an Econoline van, dark green, not black, and he expected to get to her around five. She hadn’t told him she’d bird-dog him the last part of the trip, but that’s what she intended to do. Always err on the side of caution, that was her belief.

She’d expected two or three roadblock stops along the way, but yesterday’s heavy police presence had suddenly evaporated. Where had they gone? Had they caught Nick again? If so, she and McWhitney were going to have to rethink their approach to the money in the church, and Parker might already be in trouble over there. She turned on the car radio, looking for all-news stations, but heard about no developments in the search for the robbers.

So where were all the cops? Sandra didn’t like questions without answers. She had half a mind to just keep driving south, and let this whole business alone.

Well, she could still bird-dog McWhitney. If something seemed weird with him, or if he got nabbed by the cops, she’d be long gone.

There were two gas stations near the turnpike exit he’d be taking. She chose the one in the direction he would go, parked among a few other cars along the side perimeter, and used her hands-free cell to call him in the truck.

“Yeah?”