Finders Keepers (21 page)

The boy's face offered a wordless reply:
Easy for you to say.

“I need time to think.”

Drew nodded, but not in agreement. “I understand how you feel, but no. If you walk out of here now, I can promise a police car waiting for you when you get home.”

“And you lose your big payday.”

Drew shrugged. “It wouldn't be the first.” Although never one of this size, that was true.

“My dad's in real estate, did you know that?”

The sudden change in direction put Drew off his stride a bit. “Yes, I saw that when I was doing my research. Has his own little business now, and good for him. Although I have an idea that John Rothstein's money might have paid for some of the start-up costs.”

“I asked him to research all the bookstores in town,” Saubers said. “I told him I was doing a paper on how e-books are impacting traditional bookstores. This was before I even came to see you, while I was still making up my mind if I should take the chance. He found out you took a third mortgage on this place last year, and said you only got it because of the location. Lacemaker Lane being pretty upscale and all.”

“I don't think that has anything to do with the subject under discus—”

“You're right, we went through a really bad time, and you know something? That gives a person a nose for people who are in trou
ble. Even if you're a kid. Maybe especially if you're a kid. I think you're pretty strapped yourself.”

Drew raised the finger that had been poised near the silent alarm button and pointed it at Saubers. “Don't fuck with me, kid.”

Saubers's color had come back in big hectic patches, and Drew saw something he didn't like and certainly hadn't intended: he had made the boy angry.

“I know you're trying to rush me into this, and it's not going to work. Yes, okay, I've got his notebooks. There's a hundred and sixty-five. Not all of them are full, but most of them are. And guess what? It was never the Gold trilogy, it was the Gold
cycle
. There are two more novels, both in the notebooks. First drafts, yeah, but pretty clean.”

The boy was talking faster and faster, figuring out everything Drew had hoped he would be too frightened to see even as he was speaking.

“They're hidden away, but I guess you're right, if you call the police, they'll find them. Only my parents never knew, and I think the police will believe that. As for me . . . I'm still a minor.” He even smiled a little, as if just realizing this. “They won't do much to me, since I never stole the notebooks or the money in the first place. I wasn't even born. You'll come out clean, but you also won't have anything to show for it. When the bank takes this place—my dad says they will, sooner or later—and there's an Au Bon Pain here instead, I'll come in and eat a croissant in your honor.”

“That's quite a speech,” Drew said.

“Well, it's over. I'm leaving.”

“I warn you, you're being very foolish.”

“I told you, I need time to think.”

“How long?”

“A week. You need to think, too, Mr. Halliday. Maybe we can still work something out.”

“I hope so, son.” Drew used the word deliberately. “Because if we can't, I'll make that call. I am not bluffing.”

The boy's bravado collapsed. His eyes filled with tears. Before they could fall, he turned and walked out.

12

Now comes this voicemail, which Drew listens to with fury but also with fear, because the boy sounds so cold and composed on top and so desperate underneath.

“I can't come tomorrow like I said I would. I completely forgot the junior-senior retreat for class officers, and I got elected vice president of the senior class next year. I know that sounds like an excuse, but it's not. I guess it entirely slipped my mind, what with you threatening to send me to jail and all.”

Erase this right away, Drew thinks, his fingernails biting into his palms.

“It's at River Bend resort, up in Victor County. We leave on a bus at eight tomorrow morning—it's a teacher in-service day, so there's no school—and come back Sunday night. Twenty of us. I thought about begging off, but my parents are already worried about me. My sister, too. If I skip the retreat, they'll know something's wrong. I think my mom thinks I might have gotten some girl pregnant.”

The boy voices a brief, semi-hysterical laugh. Drew thinks there's nothing more terrifying than boys of seventeen. You have absolutely no idea what they'll do.

“I'll come on Monday afternoon instead,” Saubers resumes. “If
you wait that long, maybe we can work something out. A compromise. I've got an idea. And if you think I'm just shining you on about the retreat, call the resort and check the reservation. Northfield High School Student Government. Maybe I'll see you on Monday. If not, not. Goodb—”

That's where the message-time—extra-long, for clients who call after-hours, usually from the West Coast—finally runs out.
Beep
.

Drew sits down in his chair (ignoring its despairing squeal, as always), and stares at the answering machine for nearly a full minute. He feels no need to call the River Bend Resort . . . which is, amusingly enough, only six or seven miles upriver from the penitentiary where the original notebook thief is now serving a life ­sentence. Drew is sure Saubers was telling the truth about the retreat, because it's so easy to check. About his reasons for not ditching it he's far less sure. Maybe Saubers has decided to call Drew's bluff about bringing the police into it. Except it's not a bluff. He has no intention of letting Saubers have what Drew can't have himself. One way or another, the little bastard is going to give those notebooks up.

I'll wait until Monday afternoon, Drew thinks. I can afford to wait that long, but then this situation is going to be resolved, one way or the other. I've already given him too much rope.

He reflects that the Saubers boy and his old friend Morris Bellamy, although at opposite ends of the age-spectrum, are very much alike when it comes to the Rothstein notebooks. They lust for what's
inside
them. It's why the boy only wanted to sell him six, and probably the six he judged least interesting. Drew, on the other hand, cares little about John Rothstein. He read
The Runner
, but only because Morrie was bonkers on the subject. He never bothered with the other two, or the book of short stories.

That's your Achilles' heel, son, Drew thinks. That collector's
lust. While I, on the other hand, only care about money, and money simplifies everything. So go ahead. Enjoy your weekend of pretend politics. When you come back, we'll play some hardball.

Drew leans over his paunch and erases the message.

13

Hodges gets a good whiff of himself on his way back into the city and decides to divert to his house long enough for a veggie burger and a quick shower. Also a change of clothes. Harper Road isn't much out of his way, and he'll be more comfortable in a pair of jeans. Jeans are one of the major perks of self-employment, as far as he's concerned.

Pete Huntley calls as he's heading out the door, to inform his old partner that Oliver Madden is in custody. Hodges congratulates Pete on the collar and has just settled behind the wheel of his Prius when his phone rings again. This time it's Holly.

“Where
are
you, Bill?”

Hodges looks at his watch and sees it's somehow gotten all the way to three fifteen. How the time flies when you're having fun, he thinks.

“My house. Just leaving for the office.”

“What are you doing
there
?”

“Stopped for a shower. Didn't want to offend your delicate olfactories. And I didn't forget about Barbara. I'll call as soon as I—”

“You won't have to. She's here. With a little chum named Tina. They came in a taxi.”

“A taxi?” Ordinarily, kids don't even
think
of taxis. Maybe whatever Barbara wants to discuss is a little more serious than he believed.

“Yes. I put them in your office.” Holly lowers her voice. “Barbara's just worried, but the other one acts scared to death. I think she's in some kind of jam. You should get here as soon as you can, Bill.”

“Roger that.”

“Please hurry. You know I'm not good with strong emotions. I'm working on that with my therapist, but right now I'm just
not
.”

“On my way. There in twenty.”

“Should I go across the street and get them Cokes?”

“I don't know.” The light at the bottom of the hill turns yellow. Hodges puts on speed and scoots through it. “Use your judgment.”

“But I have so little,” Holly mourns, and before he can reply, she tells him again to hurry and hangs up.

14

While Bill Hodges was explaining the facts of life to the dazed Oliver Madden and Drew Halliday was settling in to his eggs Benedict, Pete Saubers was in the nurse's office at Northfield High, pleading a migraine headache and asking to be dismissed from afternoon classes. The nurse wrote the slip with no hesitation, because Pete is one of the good ones: Honor Roll, lots of school activities (although no sports), near-perfect attendance. Also, he
looked
like someone suffering a migraine. His face was far too pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. She asked if he needed a ride home.

“No,” Pete said, “I'll take the bus.”

She offered him Advil—it's all she's allowed to dispense for
headaches—but he shook his head, telling her he had special pills for migraines. He forgot to bring one that day, but said he'd take one as soon as he got home. He felt okay about this story, because he really did have a headache. Just not the physical kind. His headache was Andrew Halliday, and one of his mother's Zomig tablets (she's the migraine sufferer in the family) wouldn't cure it.

Pete knew he had to take care of that himself.

15

He has no intention of taking the bus. The next one won't be along for half an hour, and he can be on Sycamore Street in fifteen minutes if he runs, and he will, because this Thursday afternoon is all he has. His mother and father are at work and won't be home until at least four. Tina won't be home at all. She
says
she has been invited to spend a couple of nights with her old friend Barbara Robinson on Teaberry Lane, but Pete thinks she might actually have invited herself. If so, it probably means his sister hasn't given up her hopes of attending Chapel Ridge. Pete thinks he might still be able to help her with that, but only if this afternoon goes perfectly. That's a very big if, but he has to do
something
. If he doesn't, he'll go crazy.

He's lost weight since foolishly making the acquaintance of Andrew Halliday, the acne of his early teens is enjoying a return engagement, and of course there are those dark circles under his eyes. He's been sleeping badly, and what sleep he's managed has been haunted by bad dreams. After awakening from these—often curled in a fetal position, pajamas damp with sweat—Pete has lain awake, trying to think his way out of the trap he's in.

He genuinely forgot the class officers' retreat, and when Mrs.
Gibson, the chaperone, reminded him of it yesterday, it shocked his brain into a higher gear. That was after period five French, and before he got to his calculus class, only two doors down, he has the rough outline of a plan in his head. It partly depends on an old red wagon, and even more on a certain set of keys.

Once out of sight of the school, Pete calls Andrew Halliday Rare Editions, a number he wishes he did not have on speed dial. He gets the answering machine, which at least saves him another arkie-barkie. The message he leaves is a long one, and the machine cuts him off as he's finishing, but that's okay.

If he can get those notebooks out of the house, the police will find nothing, search warrant or no search warrant. He's confident his parents will keep quiet about the mystery money, as they have all along. As Pete slips his cell back into the pocket of his chinos, a phrase from freshman Latin pops into his head. It's a scary one in any language, but it fits this situation perfectly.

Alea iacta est.

The die is cast.

16

Before going into his house, Pete ducks into the garage to make sure Tina's old Kettler wagon is still there. A lot of their stuff went in the yard sale they had before moving from their old house, but Teens had made such a fuss about the Kettler, with its old-fashioned wooden sides, that their mother relented. At first Pete doesn't see it and gets worried. Then he spots it in the corner and lets out a sigh of relief. He remembers Teens trundling back and forth across the lawn with all her stuffed toys packed into it (Mrs. Beasley holding pride of place, of course), telling them that they
were going on a nik-nik in the woods, with devil-ham samwitches and ginger-snap tooties for children who could behave. Those had been good days, before the lunatic driving the stolen Mercedes had changed everything.

No more nik-niks after that.

Pete lets himself into the house and goes directly to his father's tiny home office. His heart is pounding furiously, because this is the crux of the matter. Things might go wrong even if he finds the keys he needs, but if he doesn't, this will be over before it gets started. He has no Plan B.

Although Tom Saubers's business mostly centers on real estate search—finding likely properties that are for sale or might come up for sale, and passing these prospects on to small companies and independent operators—he has begun creeping back into primary sales again, albeit in a small way, and only here on the North Side. That didn't amount to much in 2012, but over the last couple of years, he's bagged several decent commissions, and has an exclusive on a dozen properties in the Tree Streets neighborhood. One of these—the irony wasn't lost on any of them—is 49 Elm Street, the house that had belonged to Deborah Hartsfield and her son, Brady, the so-called Mercedes Killer.