even knocks on the door of something Frank shouldn’t be saying, I’ll cut you both off. I’ll ask you not to question that decision until after we are out of the prison.”
Gail agreed. The lawyer was impressive, she thought. It wasn’t everybody who could rattle off instructions like that and not seem patronizing or haughty.
Within a minute or two, a door opened on the opposite side of the room from where they’d entered, and a different guard escorted Frank Schuler into the room in a full shackle rig. He looked twenty years older than his eight-year-old induction photo. Thin to the point of appearing frail, he sported a pate of sparse gray hair. He moved with the institutional shuffle of a lifer. He needed no instruction as he turned to make his wrists more accessible to the correctional officer’s key.
With his hands free, and clearly resigned to his ankles remaining restrained, he shuffled to the table and accepted Brady’s warm embrace. “They said something about Jeremy,” he said in a rush. “Do you know something? Tell me it’s good news.”
“Frank, this is Gail Bonneville, a private investigator from Fisherman’s Cove.”
Recognition came instantly. “That’s the town where the school is,” he said.
Gail offered her hand, and he eagerly shook it. “It is the same town, but I’m afraid I have no news for you,” she said. The lie tasted especially foul under these circumstances.
The prisoner’s face fell. “Then why are you here?”
Gail indicated the chairs. “Let’s sit.”
“Let’s stand,” Schuler countered. “Why are you here?” Desperate fear emanated from him like a hot flash.
“I’ve been hired by the school to do an independent investigation.”
“How could something like this happen?” Schuler said, his institutional pallor reddening along his jawline. “They’re children, for God’s sake! Why isn’t there security?”
Gail again swallowed the temptation to set his mind at ease. “I’m working for Resurrection House, Mr. Schuler. I don’t work at Resurrection House. I’m trying to get a handle on who might have taken your son, and why they would have done it.”
“How about finding where they took him?”
Gail paused before answering, a tactic used in interviews to take some of the wind out of angry people’s sails. “It’s all part of the same packet, sir. We’re hoping that the who and the why will lead us to the where. I know you’re upset-”
“You think?”
“-but ranting about what is past does nothing to advance the future.” Gail tuned her voice to being the ultimate in reasonableness.
The redness deepened in Schuler’s face, but something changed behind his eyes. He shot a look to his lawyer.
“She’s the real deal,” Marie said. “I think you should talk to her.”
A moment passed in which no one moved.
“Let’s sit,” Brady said, pulling a chair out for herself. With that, it was done. She’d let him vent a little, let Gail respond, and now it was time to get on with the business at hand.
Frank Schuler turned awkwardly to lower his butt into his chair. “I’m sorry for that outburst,” he said. “But I don’t know if you can imagine what it’s like to be where I am and hear that your child has been taken.”
“I’m sure that the worst I could imagine wouldn’t even come close to the reality,” Gail said.
Schuler relaxed a little. “Why a private dick and not a cop?”
“The police haven’t already talked to you?” Gail didn’t try to mask her surprise.
Brady answered for her client. “Remember the rules, Ms. Bonneville.”
“Please call me Gail.”
“And I’m Marie. This is Frank. Formality seems a little silly under the circumstances. But to answer your question, I’m sure that the police will get around to us sooner or later. I don’t think they consider us to be a priority at the moment. In fact, I’m a little surprised that you do.”
Gail chose not to offer a theory of her own, or to address the open question. She opened her speckled notebook and dug right in. “Do the names Evan Guinn or Arthur Guinn mean anything to your client?”
Marie nodded her approval to Frank. Clearly, this hands-off interview style was a common occurrence for them.
“Who are they?”
Gail started to answer, but stopped herself. “Can I answer him?” she asked Marie.
The attorney smiled. “Your questions and his answers are the only concern,” she said. “Not the other way around. Trust me, you’ll get used to it after a while.”
It sure felt weird now, Gail thought. “Evan is the other boy who was taken from the school,” she explained. “Arthur is his father. Do you know who they are?”
Frank Schuler looked off the side and scowled. When his gaze returned, the regret was obvious. “Nothing,” he said. “I mean, the name might be familiar, but how would I know? I’ve met a lot of people over the years. Are those the only names you’ve got?”
Gail invoked the name of the only shooter they’d been able to identify. “What about Sean O’Brian?”
Another moment of intense reflection, begun even before the nod from Marie. “Another common name. Who is he?”
Gail found herself on the precipice of the proverbial slippery slope. They had no legitimate trail to these identities. By answering the question, she’d be showing a card in her hand. To be evasive, though, would shove Frank into anger or insolent silence; neither of which would advance their case a bit. She decided to take a chance.
“We think he might have a connection to Sammy Bell. Does that-”
Marie’s hand shot up. “Stop. Move to your next question.”
“The mobster?” Frank asked.
“Frank, no.”
Gail moved quickly. “Yes, the mobster.”
Marie’s raised hand became a pointed finger. “Gail, you promised me.”
“He asked me,” Gail said, her palms upturned in a gesture of innocence.
“Do you think that Sammy Bell had something to do with this?” Frank pressed.
Marie slammed her hand on the metal table. “Damn it, Frank, stop it.”
He turned angry. “Stop what, Marie? This is my son we’re talking about. My only child. What would you have me stop doing?”
“I would have you stop talking!” she snapped. “Sammy Bell is a known mobster. Anything you say-”
“What?” Frank interrupted. “What could I possibly say that would turn my situation into anything shittier than it already is?”
“We still have an appeal left,” Marie said. “Anything and everything you say-”
“Fuck the appeal, Marie.”
The attorney looked like she’d been slapped.
“They’re not going to grant me a stay. In nine days, they’re going to tie me to a bench, put needles in both my arms, and they’re going to kill me. If I can die knowing that I’ve done everything I can to help Jeremy, then that’s a hell of a lot better than dying without knowing where he’s been taken.” Frank turned to Gail. “Ask your questions.”
“Goddammit, Frank-”
“Do I have to fire you, Marie?” he shouted. “I don’t want to, but I will, if that’s what it takes. The decision’s yours, but make it now.”
Gail realized that she hadn’t taken a breath in a while. For her part, Marie Brady looked injured, on the verge of tears. “It’s only over if we give up,” she said, but the words trembled.
Frank Shuler’s eyes burned hot. “You were talking about Sammy Bell,” he prompted Gail.
She swallowed hard. “Um, well…Marie?”
“He’s the client,” she said with an angry flick of her hand. Even though it looked petulant, Gail recognized it as resignation.
