Chương 11
“No.”
“Good.”
He frowned.
“Good?”
“I’m relieved there are still things you don’t know.”
“I’ve been trying to convince you of that all evening.”
Mr. Levin almost smiled.
We waited in a consultation room with beige walls, three chairs, and a coffee machine that made something technically brown.
James drank it anyway.
I refused.
“You and Detective Keene.”
He stared into the paper cup.
“What about us?”
“You knew her voice.”
“Yes.”
“She knew yours.”
“Yes.”
“That usually indicates people have spoken.”
“We have.”
I waited.
He looked at me.
“You’re not subtle.”
“I buried my husband three days ago.”
“Four.”
I stared at him.
He winced.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re right.”
I looked at my hands.
“Four.”
The days had stopped attaching themselves properly.
James sat opposite me.
“Mara and I worked on a securities case about nine years ago.”
“That doesn’t explain the first-name basis.”
“No.”
“Were you married?”
He choked on the coffee.
Despite myself, I smiled.
“No.”
“Dating?”
“Briefly.”
“How briefly?”
“Fay.”
“I’ve had a bad week.”
“That doesn’t give you subpoena power over my romantic history.”
“Shame.”
He put the cup down.
“We dated for six months.”
“What happened?”
“She had excellent judgment.”
That made me laugh.
A real laugh this time.
It lasted only a second.
Then Nathan’s absence came back and closed around it.
James looked away first.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I shouldn’t joke.”
“Yes, you should.”
He nodded.
For several minutes we sat without speaking.
The building’s ventilation clicked on overhead.
A printer ran somewhere beyond the wall.
I took Nathan’s note out again.
His handwriting leaned slightly right.
He always pressed too hard with black pens.
The lowercase g in missing had torn the paper a little.
My thumb stopped over the indentation.
“He wrote this here?”
I asked.
Mr. Levin, still at the front desk beyond the glass wall, looked up when James repeated the question.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The day he changed access.”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
“Was he alone?”
Mr. Levin hesitated.
“No.”
James stood.
“Who was with him?”
The manager looked uncomfortable now.
“I’m not certain I’m authorized to discuss visitors.”
James’s voice became smoother.
“Mr. Levin, Mrs. Hale is the surviving co-owner of the locker.”
“I understand.”
“And the other authorized person is about to arrive.”
“I understand that too.”
“Then perhaps we can avoid making this unnecessarily formal.”
Mr. Levin sighed.
“A man came with Mr. Hale.”
“What man?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“Age?”
“Mid-fifties, perhaps.”
My stomach tightened.
“Stephen Cole?”
Mr. Levin looked at me.
“I couldn’t say.”
I opened my phone, searched Cole Meridian, and found an archived business article with a photograph.
The man pictured beside a glass office tower had silver at his temples, a narrow face, and the practiced smile of someone accustomed to being photographed beside ceremonial shovels.
I held up the screen.
“Was it him?”
Mr. Levin studied it.
“No.”
Relief came too quickly.
Then he added, “The man here was younger.”
“How much younger?”
“Maybe ten years.”
James frowned.
“Did Nathan introduce him?”
“No.”
“Did they seem friendly?”
Mr. Levin considered.
“No.”
“What did they seem?”
“Careful.”
That word stayed with me.
“Careful how?”
“They didn’t stand close.”
He looked embarrassed by the vagueness.
“The other man kept his coat on.”
James said, “That’s it?”
“No.”
Mr. Levin looked at me.
“He was wearing medical scrubs underneath.”
My mouth went dry.
“What color?”
“Dark blue.”
A face appeared in my mind before I could stop it.
Silver hair.
Wire-rim glasses.
A safe smile.
Dr. Raymond Voss.
I searched his name.
The clinic website loaded.
I turned the screen toward Mr. Levin.
He looked at the photograph for two seconds.
Then he nodded.
“Yes.”
James stood so quickly his chair scraped the floor.
“That’s Voss?”
“Yes.”
I stared at the image.
My family doctor had come to Nathan’s private locker three weeks before Nathan died.
My mother had arranged for that same doctor to evaluate me days after the funeral.
I felt suddenly cold.
James said, “We call Keene back.”
Before he could, the lobby buzzer sounded.
Mr. Levin checked the monitor.
A woman in a dark wool coat stood outside the glass doors holding up identification.
“That’s her,” James said.
Detective Mara Keene was smaller than I expected.
Late forties, perhaps, with dark hair pulled back carelessly and the tired posture of someone who spent too much time in government buildings.
She entered, shook my hand once, and ignored James for the first few seconds.
“I’m sorry about Nathan.”
“Thank you.”
“He was stubborn.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“More than you know.”
I almost snapped at her.
She saw it coming.
“That sounded wrong.”
“Yes.”
“I meant he wouldn’t let people protect him from himself.”
“That sounds more accurate.”
She nodded.
Then she looked at Mr. Levin.
“We can access the locker?”
“Yes.”
“Before we do, Mrs. Hale needs to understand something.”
I said, “Fay.”
“All right.”
Her eyes stayed on mine.
“If the locker contains evidence connected to an active investigation, I may need to secure some or all of it.”
“Do I get copies?”
“If legally possible.”
“I’m not giving you Nathan’s personal belongings without knowing what they are.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Yet.”
“Yet.”
I appreciated that more than reassurance.
Mr. Levin led us through two secured doors into a narrow room lined with steel compartments.
Locker 314 was waist-high.
The brass key fit the first lock.
Mr. Levin used a second key for the other.
He pulled the compartment open and stepped back.
Inside sat a gray archival box.
Nothing else.
My hands hesitated over the lid.
Nathan had touched this box.
That thought almost stopped me.
Keene said nothing.
James said nothing.
I lifted the lid.
On top lay a photograph.
My father stood outside a self-storage facility beside Stephen Cole.
The timestamp printed in the corner was from eight months earlier.
Under the photograph sat a folder labeled MERCER.
Then another labeled COLE.
May you like
Then one labeled VOSS.
I touched that one.
