innocent conversation?
—Anything is possible, sir.
—Sounds like a yes to me. And the man who came to my front door was checking out my resemblance to the sketch made from that woman’s description?
—I cannot really tell you that, sir.
—This man came accompanied by someone else. If I am not mistaken, the gentleman accompanying him was Mr. Thomas Pasmore.
—You are not mistaken, Pohlhaus said.
—I
That was it for the rest of the evening. Ronald Lloyd-Jones was granted his single-occupancy cell, a dinner he declined to eat, and writing implements. The following morning the sergeant once again met Lloyd-Jones in an interrogation room. Lloyd-Jones complained of being unable to bathe himself, and Pohlhaus explained that he would not be able to shower until the initial proceedings had been completed. Unless he wanted to give a full confession at that moment, his shower would have to be delayed until the arrival of his attorney.
—If that’s how you want to play it, Lloyd-Jones said. But in your position, I would do everything in my power to make me a comfortable prisoner.
—You seem pretty comfortable to me, Mr. Lloyd-Jones, Pohlhaus said.
Lloyd-Jones said he had been doing some thinking, primarily about Thomas Pasmore. —I read the papers like everyone else, you know, and I have some idea how Mr. Pasmore works his miracles. Uses public documents and public records a good deal, doesn’t he?
—That is well known, Pohlhaus said.
—Sounds to me like a fellow who’s good with computers and codes and passwords could get into a lot of trouble that way. If he were to step outside of the legal limits, all sorts of evidence would be inadmissible, wouldn’t it?
This gave Sergeant Pohlhaus an uneasy moment. He had no idea how many legal boundaries Tom Pasmore might have stepped over.
—Would you be willing to tell me who the other man was, the one I actually spoke to?
—You’re going to find that out anyhow, as soon as your lawyer shows up, so I might as well tell you. His name is Timothy Underhill.
—Timothy Underhill the writer?
—That’s right, yes.
—You’re kidding me.
Pohlhaus gave him a glare that would have burned the eyelashes off an ordinary man.
—Forget everything I told you, Lloyd-Jones said. Get Tim Underhill to come down here, because I want to talk to him. I want to talk to him now. I’m not talking to anyone else until that happens.
“I think he knows you,” Pohlhaus told Tim as the three of them went through the maze of corridors. “Your books, I mean.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“His reaction to your name.”
Tim was a little winded from their race through the hallways. In the rush, he had been able to take in only Pohlhaus’s excitement and, pinned to the message boards they passed, the usual business cards offering the services of lawyers specializing in divorce. Pohlhaus came to a stop in front of a green door marked B.
“He wants to talk to you alone,” he said. “Your brother and I, along with the lieutenant from the Homicide Squad, will be watching through a one-way mirror. A voice-activated machine will record everything the two of you say.”
“What do you want me to do?” Tim asked.
“Let him talk. See if you can get him to say anything about your nephew. You could ask him about Joseph Kalendar. With luck, maybe he’ll divulge where he hid the bodies. What can I tell you? The more he says, the better.”
“Is he in there now?” Tim felt a moment of irrational terror. Despite his curiosity, walking into that room was the last thing he wanted to do.
Pohlhaus nodded. “Let me give you a proper introduction.”
He opened the door, and for a second Tim thought he smelled something acrid, smoky, and bitter. Then Pohlhaus walked into the room, and the odor disappeared. Fighting the impulse to turn around and walk away, Tim followed the sergeant’s tall, slender back, straight as a plumb line, into the interrogation room. The man at the far side of a wide green metal table had already risen to his feet, and was staring at him with an expectant smile. Apart from the light in his eyes and his expression of comic chagrin, he could have been a fan waiting in an autograph line.
“You two have met before,” Pohlhaus said. “Tim Underhill, Ronald Lloyd-Jones.”
Lloyd-Jones grinned and held out a firm, pink hand, which Tim reluctantly shook.
“Mr. Lloyd-Jones, you may wish to remember that you are being observed, and that your conversation will be recorded. Once again, anything you say may be used against you. And I would like you to verify that you have declined to have your attorney present for this interview.”
“Bobby will get his turn later,” Lloyd-Jones said.
“Then I will leave you to it.”
As soon as Pohlhaus had left, Lloyd-Jones gestured to the chair on the other side of the table and said, “We might as well make ourselves comfortable.”
Unwilling to surrender control so quickly, Tim said, “Satisfy my curiosity. Why did you ask to see me?”
“I like your books—what other reason could I have? You’re one of my favorite writers. Have a seat, please.”
They lowered themselves to their chairs.
“My friend, you need a new author photo,” Lloyd-Jones said. “If the sergeant hadn’t told me who you were, I’d never had recognized you. How old is that picture, anyhow?”
“Too old, I gather.”
“Make your publisher pay for someone good, someone with style. You have a nice face, you know, you should make the most of it.”
Which was exactly what Lloyd-Jones wanted him to think, he realized. He had no real interest in Timothy Underhill; he wanted to amuse himself. No mere incarceration could keep him from playing his games.
“I’m sorry I failed to recognize Tom Pasmore before you drove away. One of Millhaven’s most famous residents, wouldn’t you say?”
Tim nodded. This encounter was beginning to make him feel as though soon he would have to lie down.
“I suppose Mr. Pasmore was the one who thought I was worth a visit. To compare with the sketch, I mean.”
“Yes,” Tim said.
“What exactly was his basis for focusing on me?”
“Your name came up.”
Lloyd-Jones gave him a smile of pure sympathy. Light danced in his slightly close-set eyes. “Let’s think about that a little more. I understand from reading about your friend that he gets many of his—shall we say, inspirations?—from public records. So clever, I’ve always thought. If you can remember, I’d be very interested to know if it was something in the public records that brought my name to Mr. Pasmore’s attention. And to yours, of course.”
“It was, yes.”
“Tom Pasmore, true to form. And what sort of records were they, Tim? Tax records, something of that sort?”
“We wanted to find out who owned Joseph Kalendar’s old house,” Tim said. “And there you were.”
Lloyd-Jones blinked, and some of the suppressed glee drained from his face. He recovered almost instantaneously. “Oh, yes, of course. I bought that little place as an investment, then never did anything with it.
