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  “I’ll drop it off myself.”

  “And Walker.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you,” the lawyer said.

  When they hung up, Walker dialed Blasko. “Can you make me a disc with all those files from the Knoebel laptop? Strictly on the down low?”

  “No problem.”

  “I need it by first thing in the morning. We’ve got to give up the computer.”

  “I’ll stop by, it’ll take me all of two minutes.”

  “You’re the best, Teddy.”

  Walker hung up and sat back in his chair. Damned lawyers, he thought. He checked his voice mail and found that Jake had phoned from the coroner’s office. He returned the call.

  Jake said, “I had a thought, after I spoke with you. You say Knoebel was in surgery that day.”

  “Uh huh,” Walker replied wearily.

  “Did you check the roster or the actual OR records?”

  “The roster? Yeah, I think that’s what the nurse showed me.”

  “Did it list more than one surgeon?”

  “I think so, but they wouldn’t let me take copies with me. Once I confirmed Knoebel was there, I didn’t fight it. Why?”

  “That’s just it. You don’t actually know if Knoebel was there. I thought of this after we spoke. Knoebel could have had residents performing surgery under his observation. He might have come and gone during the procedure. If it was a simple operation, he might not have been there at the end. Unusual, I admit. But possible.”

  “All right. How do I find out and how do I prove it?”

  Jake thought it over. “The patient charts wouldn’t show it. You need actual OR transcripts. That’s the only place it might appear. The surgical abstract. It’s a narrative of what happens during the operation, it says who does what. This is a long shot, I admit. And you may need a court order if they get tough with you.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Or you might find a friendly resident who could tell you.”

  “I’ll take a crack at it. Thanks Jake.”

  Walker hung up and returned to Elizabeth’s diary. He wasn’t giving these printed pages back, that was for sure. And he was going to hang on to the disc Teddy would make. That meant Randi Conway had the only other copy. He would have to get that back from her.

  He was lost in thought when his intercom buzzed. “Someone here to see you, Lieutenant. I already sent him up.”

  “Okay,” Walker said. He did not have to wait long before a familiar face appeared in the doorway. It was Kyle Avery.

  “Sir?”

  “Hey, come on in.”

  The boy stepped inside, looking around. They were alone.

  “How are you?” Walker asked.

  Kyle began nodding his head. “Good, I’m good.”

  “Sit down.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I just, uh, wanted to come here and, well, you know, just say thank you. For your help I mean.”

  The kid was so nervous Walker thought he’d better sit down before he fell down. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Sure you won’t grab a seat for a minute?”

  Kyle scanned the room again and figured it was okay. “Fine,” he said, then came over and lowered himself into the wooden chair beside Walker’s desk. “Saw you on television.”

  “That right?”

  Kyle nodded.

  “How’d I look?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “I don’t think Hollywood’s in my future.”

  Kyle uttered a short laugh.

  Walker thought the boy looked different—it was his hair, he decided, it was cut a lot shorter—but he seemed just as jumpy as the night they met on the bank roof. “Everything working out for you at home?”

  Kyle tilted his head slightly. “Not so much. They keep an eye on me all the time, you know, like I’m on suicide watch or whatever they call it.” He offered up an embarrassed smile. “I’m okay, though.”

  “Guess you are, if you came to the police station to say thanks like this. Not easy to do.” When the boy did not respond, Walker leaned forward, his chin on his hand, and smiled. “Your mother’s idea?”

  “No,” he said with a determined shake of his head. Then he asked, “You remember that night?”

  Walker nodded. “Sure do.”

  “Well you were right about what you said. Woulda been a whole lot worse if I didn’t listen to you.”

  “Glad you figured that out. Your folks doing any better?”

  Kyle looked down at his sneakers. “Nah. Mom and my sister and me, we moved out.”

  “Moved out?”

  “We’re staying with a friend in town for a while,” Kyle told him, “This way Nina and I can still go to school here. Mom is really pissed about something. I’m not sure what.” The way he made that last statement, Walker had the sense the boy knew exactly why his mother had taken them out of the house. “I don’t think Dad even knows we left. He’s away on a business trip. Gets home tomorrow.”

  “That’s got to be rough for you.”

  “Yeah. Rough for everybody.” He lifted his head, and Walker realized it was only the second time the kid had ever looked right at him. The boy had clear, intelligent, frightened eyes. “Wish you could talk to them. The way you talked to me.”

  Walker pressed his lips together, wanting to say just the right thing. “I know this is going to sound like bullshit, Kyle, but things really do have a way of working out.”

  “That’s what you said to me that night.”

  “At least I’m consistent, right? But they do.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. One way or another.” He thought about something, then said, “Remember how I told you I screwed up?”

  Walker nodded.

  “I wasn’t talking about going up on the roof.”

  “I figured that. I mean, you had to have a reason to go up there in the first place.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to talk about it now?”

  Kyle thought it over, staring down at his sneakers again. “That’s what everyone keeps asking me. In the hospital, Doctor Conway, my mother.”

  “Your father?”

  That got the boy to look up. “Not him, not so much.”

  Walker waited.

  “Maybe some other time we can talk about it. Would that be okay?”

  “Any time.”

  That appeared to please the boy.

  “There’s something else on your mind.”

  Kyle nodded. “This murder. The reason you were on TV.”

  “Yes?”

  “You know who did it?”

  “Not yet. That’s what I was working on when you came in.” Now he fixed the young man with a serious look. “If you have a theory, I’m willing to listen.”

  Kyle shook his head. “No, no I was just curious is all.” When Walker continued to stare at him, Kyle said, “Well, I guess I should go,” and stood up to leave.

  Walker said, “Hey. If you ever do want to talk, I mean about anything at all, I’ll be here.”

  Kyle hesitated for a moment, then said, “Thanks.”

  “I mean it,” Walker told him.

  The boy answered with a sad smile that made him look a lot like his mother. “I know you do,” he said, then turned for the door and was gone.

  CHAPTER 32

  That evening, Thomas Colello and Fred Wentworth stood shoulder to shoulder at the bar of the Black Swan, a bistro in the center of Darien.

  Colello was not one of this suburb’s wealthy elite. He had a reasonably successful contracting business, which afforded him a small house with a large mortgage on the less fashionable side of town, and the right to claim inclusion in this exclusive community, even if he received little attention from the established country club set. To that well-entrenched group, Colello was not even an arriviste, since he had not really arrived. As in other communities along Fairfield County’s Gold Coast, those actually require
d to work for a living were regarded with both suspicion and disdain by those who have no such need.

  Whatever hopes Colello had of gaining acceptance from that upper crust, he was certainly not going to find any help from Fred Wentworth. Wentworth did not make the grade either, financially or in terms of style. The large, garrulous garment-center salesman was, as they might say at a meeting of one of the local club’s membership committees, the wrong fit.

  Nevertheless, Colello found Wentworth amusing at times, the only one in their dreary group therapy sessions who ever made him laugh. If the man was a bit loud, at least he could be fun. Tonight, however, Colello’s motive in asking Wentworth to stop by for a drink had nothing to do with entertainment.

  Colello had skipped last week’s group session, the gathering that was held after Elizabeth was murdered, and he wanted to know what the others had to say.

  Wentworth lifted his drink and then craned his leonine head around, surveying the rich wood paneling and architectural molding of the restaurant’s grill room. “Beautiful,” he pronounced, as if someone had asked him his opinion. Then he took a long pull of his Johnny Walker Black on the rocks. “Great work,” he added.

  “Thanks,” Colello said. His company had built the interior space and kitchen, and he was now a regular customer.

  “Yeah,” Wentworth was saying, “you sure did it up right.”

  Colello was athletically built, with Mediterranean features and complexion, his dark, wavy hair combed back, neatly in place. He wore navy blue slacks that were crisply pressed, a white polo shirt open at the neck and black loafers with no socks.

  Wentworth was still dressed in the suit he had worn to work. He gave Colello a gentle elbow to the ribs and said, “Bet you charged them enough too.”

  Colello responded with an embarrassed smile but gave no answer. “Glad we could get together tonight,” he said.

  “Me too,” Wentworth told him as he had a gulp of his scotch.

  “You have your usual one-on-one with our friend Doctor Conway on Saturday?”

  “Sure,” Wentworth said, “I did my penance. Beats going to church, eh?”

  “Sometimes I’m not so sure.”

  Wentworth laughed. “What about you? We missed you in group.”

  “Yeah,” Colello said, “something came up.” He waited a beat, then asked, “How is Randi doing? She must be taking this pretty hard.”

  Wentworth reached into a pewter bowl, his hand the size of a bear’s paw, and scooped out some bar mix. “The Knoebel thing, you mean?” He began chewing on the nuts as he said, “Yeah, seems to be.”

  “She say anything about it in group?”

  “What do you think? She wanted us to talk about Stanley, what we thought when we heard about his wife’s death, how we felt about him, all that crap.”

  Colello waited as Wentworth took another big swallow of scotch. “And?”

  “What the hell is there to say? Guy’s cold enough to kill his own mother, know what I mean?” He shook his head. “She wanted us to share our feelings, but there was one little problem—none of us had any. Mitchell couldn’t give a shit and Paulie wouldn’t know what to do with an opinion if he tripped over one.” Wentworth polished off his drink in a final gulp.

  “So that was it?”

  “Basically, yeah.”

  Colello knew there had to be more, Dr. Conway would have pushed them to discuss the Knoebels, but he decided he would circle back to that subject later. He waved to the bartender. “Do us again, would you Marcus?”

  As a new round of drinks were being poured, Colello said, “I’ve got some interesting news about the murder investigation. A good friend in the police department here in town fills me in on what’s going on from time to time.”

  “That right?”

  Colello nodded. “What I’ve got to tell you stays between us.”

  “Absolutely,” Wentworth said as he picked through the dish in search of cashews. “What’d he say?”

  “The scuttlebutt is that the police found Elizabeth Knoebel’s diary.”

  “Her diary?”

  “That’s right. And it’s supposed to be seriously X-rated.”

  Wentworth ignored the bowl of nuts and looked up. “What does that mean?”

  Trying to sound casual about it, Colello said, “Let’s just say it’s not a list of her favorite restaurants.”

  The bartender served them fresh drinks and Wentworth lifted his glass and took a swig. Colello was eying him carefully, about to say something else when he noticed Robert Stratford stroll through the door. Stratford was still in his professional uniform, dark suit, powder blue shirt with contrasting white collar, and yellow Hermès tie with a geometric print. He turned in their direction and gave Colello a brief wave, then came over and the two men shook hands.

  “Bob Stratford, say hello to Fred Wentworth,” Colello said. “Bob’s our First Selectman in Darien.”

  “I know who you are,” Wentworth said genially. “I voted for you.”

  “Well thanks,” Stratford said with his practiced smile. “I appreciate every vote I get.”

  Colello said, “Bob’s also a successful lawyer and, among his many illustrious clients, you know who he represents?”

  Wentworth shook his head and gave his wide shoulders a theatrical shrug.

  “Bob is counsel to our good friend Doctor Randi Conway.”

  “That so?”

  “Guilty as charged,” Stratford said, then asked the bartender for a vodka tonic. “All right if I join you two for a little bit?” He looked at his watch. “I’m meeting someone but I guess he’s running late.”

  “No problem,” Colello said, doing what he could to disguise his disappointment at the intrusion.

  “So,” Wentworth said, “you represent Doctor Conway.”

  “I do,” Stratford said. “I take it you know her.”

  Wentworth shot a conspiratorial glance at Colello. “We’ve met,” he said.

  Colello said nothing.

  “Guess she’s got her hands full,” Wentworth said.

  Stratford did not reply. He took the drink the bartender handed him and said thanks.

  Wentworth was a man who regarded silence as positively painful. He filled the current void by saying, “Almost all murders wind up being committed by someone in the family, did you know that?”

  “You suggesting she was shot by her husband?” Stratford asked.

  “Thomas and I were just getting around to that,” Wentworth said.

  Colello figured if anyone knew what was going on, it would be Stratford, so he decided to run with it. “We were discussing a rumor that the police have found the woman’s diary.” He gave the First Selectman a searching look. “I assume you’ve heard that, am I right?”

  Stratford had first been told about the diary by Randi, then by Chief Gill. He said, “My lips are sealed. Even in a personal chat like this, I have to respect the fact that there’s a police investigation in progress.” He did his best to hide his concern that the secret of Elizabeth Knoebel’s journal had already become a topic for barroom chatter. Instead he took a sip of his vodka tonic, forced a grin, and told them, “That doesn’t mean I’m not willing to hear what you have to say.”

  “Well,” Colello responded, lowering his voice slightly, “the buzz is that Mrs. Knoebel was involved in some steamy extracurricular activities, and was writing about them.” Colello strained to keep a neutral demeanor as he spoke—one of the reasons he was here was to gauge Wentworth’s reaction to this news, face-to-face. “May have named names, too.”

  “Names?” Wentworth asked.

  “Actually, it seems she used some sort of code. That’s the story I heard anyway.”

  “A code,” Wentworth repeated.

  “The police have already cracked it, so now they can track whatever leads she might have left behind.”

  When Stratford offered no reaction, Wentworth said, “If it’s true, Stanley’d have reason enough to pull the trigger, kno
w what I mean?”

  Colello took a moment to make it appear he was mulling that over. It was apparent that news of Elizabeth’s infidelity had come as no shock to Fred Wentworth, even if word on the diary did. “You may be right, Fred, but there are some serious issues to deal with before you even get there. First, like you say, you have to believe what she wrote is fact and not fiction. Then there’s the question of whether Stanley knew. And what about the people she mentions?”

  “What about them?”

  “Maybe a lover did it. Or an ex-lover. The authorities have the diary and maybe it’s a road map for them to solve the case.”

  “An interesting thesis,” Stratford said.

  “Who else knows about this diary?” Wentworth asked.

  “I have no idea,” Colello said.

  Stratford certainly was not answering that question.

  “What about Doctor Conway?” Wentworth looked from Colello to Stratford.

  When Stratford again offered no response, Colello said, “Far as I know, the police aren’t showing it to anyone.”

  “Mm hmm,” Wentworth murmured, then picked up his glass of scotch. “I sure would like to get my hands on a copy. More reasons than one, know what I mean?”

  Neither Stratford nor Colello gave any indication that they knew what he meant.

  “Bob,” Colello said to Stratford, “this all stays here, right?”

  Stratford shook his head. “I should really ask who told you, but there are barroom rules. It stays right here.”

  “Thanks.”

  Wentworth liked that, and said so. “You’re okay for a politician. And I really did vote for you, true fact.”

  Stratford smiled. “I believed you the first time.”

  “So,” Colello said, returning to the subject at hand, “this could get messy for a lot of people. I mean, take my situation. And Fred’s. Our wives were in Randi’s group with Elizabeth Knoebel. And the two of us are in group with Stanley.” He turned to Wentworth and said, “Hope you don’t mind my telling Bob.”

  “Too late now,” Wentworth replied affably, already two and a half large Johnny Walker Black Labels into the program. “But why should any of this make it messy for us?”