“Maybe,” Alex said doubtfully. “Real people. But even if they did exist, that doesn’t mean you were their daughter.”
“How else could I inherit from them?”
Instead of responding, he read the last two of the five letters, both of which were from the claims office of the United British-Continental Insurance Association, Limited. Upon its receipt of the medical examiner’s official certification of the death of Robert and Elizabeth (nee Henderson) Rand, British-Continental had honored Robert’s life insurance policy and had paid the full death benefits to Joanna, the sole surviving heir. The sum received—which was in addition to the three hundred thousand dollars that had been realized from the liquidation of the estate—was a hundred thousand pounds Sterling, minus the applicable taxes.
“A hundred thousand pounds. More than another hundred and fifty thousand bucks. And you received this too?” Alex asked.
“Yes.”
“Quite a lot of money.”
“It was,” Joanna agreed. “But I needed virtually all of it to purchase this building and renovate it. The place needed a lot of work. Then I had to use most of what was left to operate the Moonglow until it became profitable—which, thank God, wasn’t all that long.”
Alex shuffled the letters, stopped when he found the last one from the London solicitor, and said, “This Woolrich guy—did you do all of your business with him by mail and on the phone?”
“Of course not.”
“You met him face-to-face?”
“Sure. Lots of times.”
“When? Where?”
“He was my father’s... He was Robert Rand’s personal attorney. They were also friends. He was a dinner guest at our apartment in London at least three or four times a year.”
“What was he like?”
“Very kind, gentle,” Joanna said. “After my parents were killed in the accident near Brighton—well, if they were my parents—Mr. Woolrich came to see me a number of times. And not just when he needed my approval or my signature to proceed with the settlement of the estate. He paid me frequent visits. I was horribly depressed. He worried about keeping my spirits up. I don’t know how I’d have gotten through without him. He loved jokes. He always had a couple of new jokes to tell me every time he came by. Usually quite funny jokes too. Always trying to get a little laugh out of me. He was extraordinarily considerate. He never made me go to his office on business. He always came to me. He never put me out in the least. He was warm and considerate. He was a nice man. I liked him.”
Alex studied her with narrowed eyes, very much the detective again. “Did you listen to yourself just now?”
“What?”
“The way you sounded.”
“How did I sound?”
Rather than answer, he got up from the couch and began to pace. “Tell me one of his jokes.”
“Jokes?”
“Yes. Tell me one.”
“You can’t be serious. I don’t remember any. Not after all these years.”
“His jokes were usually quite funny. You stressed that. Seems reasonable to assume you might remember at least one.”
She was puzzled by his interest. “Well, I don’t. Sorry. Why does it matter anyway?”
He stopped pacing and stared down at her.
Those eyes. Once again she was aware of their power. They opened her with a glance and left her defenseless. She had thought she was armored against their effect, but she wasn’t. Paranoia surged in her, the stark terror of having no secrets and no place to hide. She fought off that brief madness and retained her composure.
“If you could recall one of his jokes,” Alex said, “you’d provide some much needed detail. You’d be adding verisimilitude to what are now, frankly, very thin recollections of him.”
“I’m not trying to hide anything. I’m giving you all the details I can.”
“I know. That’s what bothers me.” Alex sat beside her again. “Didn’t you notice anything odd about the way you summed up Woolrich a moment ago?”
“Odd?”
“Your voice changed. In fact, your whole manner changed. Subtly. But I noticed it. As soon as you started talking about this Woolrich, you spoke in... almost a monotone, choppy sentences... as if you were reciting something you’d memorized.”
“Really now, Alex. You make me sound like a zombie. You were imagining it.”
“My business is observation, not imagination. Tell me more about Woolrich. What does he look like?”
“Does it really matter?”
Alex was quick to press the point. “Don’t you remember that either?”
She sighed. “He was in his forties when my parents died. A slender man. Five foot ten. Maybe a hundred forty or a hundred fifty pounds. Very nervous. Talked rather fast. Energetic. He had a pinched face. Pale. Thin lips. Brown eyes. Brown, thinning hair. He wore heavy tortoiseshell glasses, and he—”
Joanna stopped in midsentence, because suddenly she could hear what Alex had heard before. She sounded as if she were standing at attention in front of a class of schoolchildren, reciting an assigned poem. It was eerie, and she shivered.
“Do you correspond with Woolrich?” Alex asked.
“Write letters to him? Why should I?”
“He was your father’s friend.”
“They were casual friends, not best buddies.”
“But he was your friend too.”
“Yes, well, in a way he was.”
“And after all he did for you when you were feeling so low—”
“Maybe I should have kept in touch with him.”
“That would have been more in character, don’t you think? You aren’t a thoughtless person.”
“You know how it is. Friends drift apart.”
“Not always.”
“Well, they generally do when you put twelve thousand miles between them.” She frowned. “You’re making me feel guilty.”
Alex shook his head. “You’re missing my point. Look, if Woolrich was really a friend of your father’s and if he actually was extraordinarily helpful to you after the accident in Brighton, you would have maintained contact with him at least for a couple of years. That would be like you. From what I know of you, it’s entirely out of character for you to forget a friend so quickly and easily.”
Joanna smiled ruefully. “You have an idealized image of me.”
“No. I’m aware of your faults. But ingratitude isn’t one of them. I think this J. Compton Woolrich never existed—which is why you couldn’t possibly have kept in touch with him.”
“But I remember him!”
Joanna said exasperatedly.
“As I said, you may have been made to remember a lot of things that never happened.”
“Programmed,” she said sarcastically.
“I’m close to the truth,” he said confidently. “Do you realize how tense it’s made you to have to listen to me?”
She realized that she was leaning forward, shoulders drawn up, hunched as if in anticipation of a blow to the back of the neck. She was even biting her fingernails. She sat back on the couch and tried to relax.
“I heard the change in my voice when I was telling you what Woolrich looked like. A monotone. It’s spooky. And when I try to expand on those few memories of him... I can’t recall anything new. There’s no color, no detail. It all seems... flat. Like photographs or a painting. But I
did
receive those letters from him.”
“That’s another thing that bothers me. You said that after the accident, Woolrich came to visit you frequently.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“So why would he write to you at all?”
“Well, of course, he had to be careful....” Joanna frowned. “I’ll be damned. I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about that.”
Alex shook the thin packet of correspondence as if he hoped a secret would drop out of it. “There isn’t anything in these three letters that requires a written notice to you. He could have conducted all this business in person. He didn’t even have to deliver the settlement check by mail.” Alex tossed the letters on the coffee table. “The only reason that these were sent to you was so you’d have superficial proof of your phony background.”
“If Mr. Woolrich never existed... and if Robert and Elizabeth Rand never existed... then who the hell sent me that three hundred thousand dollars?”
“Maybe it came from the people who kidnapped you when you were Lisa Chelgrin. For some reason, they wanted to set you up well in your new identity.”
Amazed, she said, “You’ve got it all backward. Kidnappers are out to get money, not to give it away.”
“These weren’t ordinary kidnappers. They never sent a ransom demand to the senator. Their motives apparently were unique.”
“Yeah? So who were they?”
“Maybe we can find out.” He pointed to the telephone that stood on a rosewood desk in one corner of the living room. “As a start, maybe you should make a call to J. Compton Woolrich.”
“I thought you’d decided he doesn’t exist.”
“There’s a telephone number on his stationery. We’re obliged to try it, even if it won’t get us anywhere. And it won’t. After that, we’ll make a call to the United British-Continental Insurance Association.”
“Will that get us anywhere?”
“No. But I want you to make the call for the same reason that a curious little boy might poke a stick into a hornet’s nest: to see what will happen.”
29
Joanna sat at the small rosewood desk on which stood the telephone. Alex pulled up a chair beside her and sat close enough to hear the other end of the conversation when she turned the receiver half away from her ear.
Midnight Kyoto time was two o’clock in the afternoon in London, and the insurance company’s switchboard operator answered on the second ring. She had a sweet, girlish voice. “May I help you?”
Joanna said, “Is this British-Continental Insurance?”
After a pause the operator said, “Yes.”
“I need to speak to someone in your claims department.”
“Do you know the name of the claims officer you want?”
“No,” Joanna said. “Anyone will do.”
“What sort of policy does the claim involve?”
“Life insurance.”
“One moment, please.”
For a while the line carried nothing but background static: a steady hissing, intermittent sputtering.
The man in the claims department finally came on the line. He clipped his words with crisp efficiency as sharp as any scissors. “Phillips speaking. Something I can help you with?”
Joanna told him the story that she and Alex had concocted: After all these years, the Japanese tax authorities wanted to be certain that the funds with which she had started life in Japan had not, in fact, been earned there either by her or someone else. She needed to prove the provenance of her original capital in order to avoid paying back taxes. Unfortunately, she had thrown away the cover letter that had come with the insurance company’s check.
She felt that she was convincing. Even Alex seemed to think so, for he nodded at her several times to indicate that she was doing a good job.
“Now I was wondering, Mr. Phillips, if you can possibly send me a copy of that letter, so I can satisfy the tax authorities here.”
Phillips said, “When did you receive our check?”
Joanna gave him the date.
“Oh, then I can’t help. Our records don’t go back that far.”
“What happened to them?”
“Threw them out. We’re always short of file space. We’re legally obligated to store them only seven years. In fact, I’m surprised it’s still a worry to you. Don’t they have a statute of limitations in Japan?”
“Not in tax matters,” Joanna said. She hadn’t the slightest idea whether that was true. “With everything on computer these days, I would think nothing ever gets thrown out.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but they’re gone.”
She thought for a moment and then said, “Mr. Phillips, were you working for British-Continental when my claim was paid?”
“No. I’ve been here only eight years.”
“What about other people in your department? Weren’t some of them working there twelve years ago?”
“Oh, yes. Quite a few.”
“Do you think one of them might remember?”
“Remember back twelve years to the payoff on an ordinary life policy?” Phillips asked, incredulous. “Highly unlikely.”
“Just the same, would you ask around for me?”
“You don’t mean now, while you hold long distance from Japan?”
“Oh, no. If you’d just make inquiries when you’ve got the time, I’d appreciate it. And if anyone does remember anything, please write me immediately.”
“A memory isn’t a legal record,” Phillips said doubtfully. “I’m not sure what good someone’s recollections would be to you.”
“Can’t do any harm,” she said.
“I suppose not. All right. I’ll ask.”
Joanna gave Phillips her address, thanked him, and hung up.
“Threw out all the records. Convenient,” Alex said sourly.
“But it doesn’t prove anything.”
“Exactly. It doesn’t prove anything—one way or the other.”
At twenty minutes past midnight, Kyoto time, Joanna reached the number that they had found on J. Compton Woolrich’s impressively heavy vellum stationery.
The woman who answered the phone in London had never heard of a solicitor named Woolrich. She was the owner and manager of an antique shop on Jermyn Street. The number had belonged to her for more than eight years. She didn’t know to whom it might have been assigned prior to the opening of her shop.
Another blank wall.
30
The Moonglow Lounge had closed early, at eleven-thirty, nearly an hour ago, and the staff had gone home by the time Joanna concluded the second call to London. Music no longer drifted up through the floor, and without a background melody, the winter night seemed preternaturally quiet, impossibly dark at the windows.
Joanna switched on the CD player. Bach.
She sat beside Alex on the sofa, and they continued to leaf through the gray-and-green Bonner-Hunter Security Corporation file folders that were stacked on the coffee table.