Across the room, convict Will Toth was sitting with his girlfriend, but he gave most of his attention to the group with Skip Reardon. He had seen Skip’s mother, the lawyer and the girlfriend here any number of times. Then last week he had recognized Kerry McGrath when she visited Skip. He would know her anywhere-McGrath was the reason he would spend the next fifteen years in this hellhole. She had been the prosecutor at his trial. It was clear that today she was being very cozy with Reardon; he had noticed that she spent the whole time writing down what he was telling her.
Will and his girlfriend stood up when the signal came that visiting hours were over. As he kissed her good-bye, he whispered, “Call your brother as soon as you get home and tell him to pass the word that McGrath was down here again today and taking lots and lots of notes.”
74
Si Morgan, senior FBI agent in charge of investigating the Hamilton theft, was in his office at Quantico on Saturday afternoon, going over computer printouts concerning that case and the others believed to be related.
They had asked the Hamiltons, along with burglary victims in similar cases, to furnish names of all guests who attended any gathering or party at their homes during the several months before they were victimized. The computer had created a master file and then a separate list of the names that appeared frequently.
The trouble, Si thought, is that so many of these people travel in the same circles that it’s not uncommon to see certain people included regularly, especially at the big functions.
Nevertheless there were about a dozen names that turned up consistently. Si studied that alphabetized list.
The first one was Arnott, Jason.
Nothing there, Si thought. Arnott had been quietly investigated a couple of years ago and passed as clean. He had a healthy stock portfolio, and his personal accounts didn’t show the sudden infusions of cash associated with burglary. His interest income was also consistent with his lifestyle. His income tax statement accurately reflected his stock market transactions. He was well respected as an art and antiques expert. He entertained frequently and was well liked.
If there was a red flag in his profile, it was that Arnott was perhaps a little too perfect. That and the fact that his in-depth knowledge of antiques and fine art was consistent with the selective first-rate-only approach the thief took to the victims’ possessions. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to run a check on him again if nothing else shows up, Si thought. But he was much more interested in another name on the frequent list, Sheldon Landi, a man who had his own public relations firm.
Landi certainly seems to rub shoulders with the beautiful people, Si mused. He doesn’t make much money, yet he lives high. Landi also fit the general profile of the man the computer told them to look for: middle-aged; unmarried; college educated; self-employed.
They had sent out six hundred flyers with the security-camera photo to the names culled from the guest lists. So far they had received thirty tips. One of them came from a woman who had phoned to say she thought the culprit might be her ex-husband. “He robbed me blind the whole time we were married and lied his way into a big settlement when we were divorced, and he has that kind of pointy chin I see in the picture,” she’d explained eagerly. “I’d check on him if I were you.”
Now, as he leaned back in his desk chair, Si thought about that call and smiled. The ex-husband the woman was talking about was a United States senator.
75 Sunday, November 5th
Jonathan and Grace Hoover were expecting Kerry and Robin round one o’clock. They both believed that a leisurely Sunday afternoon meal was a civilized and restful custom.
Unfortunately, the brightness of Saturday had not lasted. Sunday had dawned gray and chilly, but by noon the house was pleasantly filled with the succulent aroma of roasting lamb. The fire was blazing in their favorite room, the library, and they were contentedly settled there as they awaited their guests.
Grace was absorbed in the Times crossword puzzle, and Jonathan was deep in the paper’s “Arts and Leisure” section. He looked up when he heard Grace murmur in annoyance and saw that the pen had slipped from her fingers onto the carpet. He watched her laboriously begin the process of bending over to retrieve it.
“Grace,” he said reprovingly, as he sprang up to get it for her.
She sighed as she accepted the pen from him. “Honestly, Jonathan, what would I ever do without you?”
“You’ll never have to try, dear. And may I say that the sentiment is mutual.”
For a moment she held his hand to her face. “I know it is, dear. And believe me, it is one of the things that gives me the strength to carry on.”
On the way over to the Hoovers ’, Kerry and Robin talked about the previous evening. “It was much more fun staying at the Dorsos’ house for dinner than going to a restaurant,” Robin exulted. “Mom,! like them.”
“I do too,” Kerry admitted without reluctance.
“Mrs. Dorso told me that it isn’t that hard to be a good cook.”
“I agree. I’m afraid I let you down.”
“Oh, Mom.” Robin’s tone was reproachful. She folded her arms and stared straight ahead at the narrowing road that indicated they were approaching Riverdale. “You make good pasta,” she said defensively.
“I do, but that’s about it.”
Robin changed the subject. “Mom, Geoff’s mother thinks he likes you. So do I. We talked about it.”
“You what?”
“Mrs. Dorso said that Geoff never, ever brings a date home. She told me you’re the first since his prom days. She said that was because his little sisters used to play tricks on his dates and that now he’s gun shy.”
“Probably,” Kerry said offhandedly. She turned her mind from the realization that coming back from the prison, she had been so weary that she had closed her eyes for just a minute awakened later, resting against Geoff’s shoulder. And that it had felt so natural, so right.
The visit with Grace and Jonathan Hoover was, as expected, thoroughly agreeable. Kerry did know that at some point would get around to discussing the Reardon case, but it wouldn’t be before coffee was served. That was when Robin was free to leave the table to read or try one of the new computer games Jonathan always had waiting for her.
As they ate, Jonathan entertained them with talk about the legislative sessions and the budget the governor was trying to get through. “You see, Robin,” he explained, “politics is like a football game. The governor is the coach who sends in the plays, and the leaders of his party in the senate and the assembly are the quarterbacks.”
“That’s you, isn’t it?” Robin interrupted.
“In the senate, yes, I guess you could call me that,” Jonathan agreed. “The rest of our team protects whoever is carrying the ball.”
“And the others?”
“Those from the other team do their damnedest to break up the game.”
“Jonathan,” Grace said quietly.
“Sorry, my dear. But there have been more attempts at pork-barreling this week than I’ve seen in many years.”
“What’s that?” Robin asked.
“Pork-barreling is an ancient but not necessarily honorable custom wherein legislators add unnecessary expenses to the budget in order to win favor with the voters in their district. Some people carry it to a fine
