“Goodbye.” Sadie hung the phone up thinking about her brother David. Missing, what a terrible word. It had no ending. David would always be missing. It broke Sadie’s heart, all these years later. He had never seen his son. Never held him as a baby. Never rocked him to sleep when his belly hurt. Never… She started crying all over her vegetables.
Earlier in the day, a few minutes after nine that morning, a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged man walked into the lobby of building number two at Atlanta’s Colony Square complex on Peachtree at 14th Street. He rode an elevator to the seventh floor, where he made his way to the reception area at the Center for Consumer Concerns. He smiled at the receptionist and said, “Isobel Gitlin, please. Christopher Hopman to see her.” A moment later the girl at the front desk looked up, with concern written all over her face, and asked, “Mr. Hopman? Mr. Christopher Hopman, is that right?”
“Yes, it is,” the man answered, still smiling and keeping a respectful distance from the reception desk, allowing the girl to talk into her phone with some assurance of privacy. She did just that, then took the phone, and pressing her other hand over the mouthpiece, said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Gitlin has no Christopher Hopman on her schedule.”
“Please tell Ms. Gitlin I’m here because of Walter Sherman.” The smile was still there, warm, friendly, engaging. He was a handsome man, the receptionist thought. Finally, after one last whispered phone conversation, she said, “Someone will be right out to show you in.”
Isobel had no idea what this could be about. In her years as a reporter with The New York Times, she had fine-tuned an attention to words, a deep respect for language. “Words have meaning, don’t they?” a Times editor once said to her. “There’s no need for you to answer that, is there?” he immediately added. “Or, for that matter, that question either. Why? Because my words meant something and you understood their meaning as soon as I said them. That should be your goal for everything you write. Your reader should never wonder ‘what did she mean.’” The man calling himself Christopher Hopman-that absolutely could not be his name-said he was here because of Walter Sherman. He did not say Walter had sent him. For just a second she wondered if she should have alerted Security.
“Ms. Gitlin, pleased to meet you,” the man said. Apparently the smile had been pasted on with epoxy. He extended his hand. Isobel stood; they shook hands. It started like any normal business meeting.
“What’s your name?” Isobel asked. The man’s smile opened to a polite chuckle. “You can’t be Christopher Hopman because he was killed, shot down on a golf course outside Boston, by…?”
“I’ll take your word for that,” he said.
“By…?” Isobel repeated.
“I believe a man named Leonard Martin confessed to that murder, among others.”
“So, what is your name and why are you here? What does this have to do with Walter Sherman? He didn’t send you, did he?”
“No, he didn’t send me. He is, however, responsible for my visit. As for my name, that’s not important.”
“Well, you can get the hell out of here!”
“I represent some people who need to know where Mr. Sherman took Harry Levine. They believe you know where that is.”
“What are you talking about? Who the hell is Harry Levine? Get the fuck out of here!”
“Calm down, Ms. Gitlin. This is a very serious matter. You need to hear what I have to say. You also need to provide me with whatever information you have that might be helpful. This is, I assure you, not a matter to be taken lightly.” He paused, removed his coat, which he carefully laid down on the chair next to him and then pulled his seat forward, directly across from her. She said nothing more, which he took to be agreement on her part, at least to pay attention. He looked her in the eye and spoke with an ease of manner that, considering what he said, was more than a little frightening.
“Harry Levine-you don’t know Mr. Levine, or so it would appear-is in the company of Mr. Sherman. To be frank, Mr. Sherman is hiding him. The people I work for desire to talk to Mr. Levine. I have no idea why-they didn’t feel a need to tell me, and that’s fine with me. I am little more than a facilitator in this matter. As you have already guessed, Leonard Martin fits in here too. My employers believe that Mr. Sherman has taken Mr. Levine to whatever location Leonard Martin used during that period of time when he was avoiding the rest of the world, including the authorities. If that’s so, if that is where he is, everyone agrees Harry Levine can’t and won’t be found. Not without help, anyway. Your help, Ms. Gitlin.”
“I have no…”
“Please stop,” the man said, sounding less like an unnamed menace and more like an Assistant Principal who knows he’s about to be regaled with a tale something akin to, “an elephant ate my homework.” “We do not want to begin this way,” he said. “I certainly don’t want to, and I don’t believe you really want to either. Lies are uncalled for. They’re counterproductive. Of course you know where this location is. That is not in question. Actually, there is no question here. I am merely trying to be polite by asking you. You have to tell me. You are the only one. We-and now I include you too-we are aware that Walter Sherman is a man, a very capable man, a man with numerous resources. He will tell us nothing and there’s an element of risk even approaching him. That leaves only you, Ms. Gitlin.”
“They can’t pay you enough to go after Walter, can they?” Isobel angrily interrupted.
“So,” he continued, “we’re asking you. My employer will not stop at asking.”
“You can’t hurt me!”
“No, no, no. You misunderstand me. Please. I never meant to say you would be hurt in any way.” For some reason Isobel breathed easier. Why, she asked herself, do I think I’ve won something? “Is that a picture of you and your husband?” he asked, pointing to a cube-framed photo on her desk. “Your husband, Otto Heinrich, plays with the Atlanta Symphony, doesn’t he?” Isobel’s sense of satisfaction left her as quickly and completely as her last breath. “A violinist, right? I’m told he plays beautifully. A man like that must have exceptional fingers, especially on his left hand. Isn’t that right? How does he manage to care for his hands, his fingers? Exercise? Warm water and soap? Custom-made gloves? Some sort of special lotion, probably. I could never know. You do, of course. Tell me about his hands.”
“No,” said Isobel in a voice no louder than a whimper.
“A man like your husband has to make sure nothing happens to his hands. I guess they’re as much a part of his instrument as… as the bow.”
“Y-y-you can’t…”
She had never been there, but she knew where it was. Long ago, Walter told her. He told her about his drive from Santa Fe, up into the mountains near Albert, New Mexico, near the Indian forest. She remembered his description of the cabin, even the road leading to it. He met Michael DelGrazo there-Leonard Martin, the Cowboy with the floppy hat. She had never been there, but she knew exactly where it was. She paid the taxes on the property. Each year since Leonard Martin walked off into the void. She paid the electricity. The water bill. The Center cut the checks. She never questioned the expense. It was, after all, Leonard Martin who founded the institution she headed. She was following his instructions. Would Leonard ever return? Is he even alive? She didn’t know. Who did? Walter? The genial, well-groomed imitation of a businessman, sitting in front of her, was totally correct. She knew where it was, yet her natural inclination was to tell this thug to go fuck himself. My God! she thought, Otto!
Washington, that was where Walter was headed. Headed to Devereaux. To Devereaux, whose arrogance had so unhinged him in Atlanta. And now-the sonofabitch sent someone into his home! There was a late flight out of St. Thomas he could still catch. It would take him to Miami. He’d stay over there and fly to Washington in the morning. He knew he would be calm by then, calmer anyway. Passing the cruise ships, on the long cab ride from the St. Thomas ferry dock to the airport, the sight of those massive floating resort hotels, all done up in pastels, blue and sea green, yellows and light shades of red, towering like buildings many stories above the water, he realized his blood pressure had gone from a boil to a simmer sooner than he expected. A few minutes later his cell phone rang as he waited in the airport.
“Yes,” he said.
“Walter, Walter,” came a familiar voice, with an unfamiliar tone. It jolted his awareness to a sharp point. The frustration and anger he felt about Devereaux and his hired girl was counterproductive. He knew that and was grateful for the intrusion. It was Isobel Gitlin’s voice he heard.
“Yes,” he said, hoping his hurt pride was not showing too much.
