Now and then - By Robert B. Parker Page 0,48

was Alderson all right, and a number of women, several of whom I’d interviewed, including Claire Goldin. Checking into hotels. Coming out of motels. Holding hands. Dining together.

“It’s all coming back to me,” Schuler said. “One of the babes made me. Brother was a cop. Cincinnati, maybe. Or Toledo, I don’t remember which. He called me up and ragged on me. Wanted to know why I was following his sister. He made reference to coming to Cleveland and kicking my ass.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I explained what I was doing. Promised not to include his sister.”

“But you kept her photo?” I said.

He smiled.

“So maybe I’m not entirely trustworthy,” he said.

“How did the case end?” I said.

“Right after that. Routine. I reported to Mrs. Turner. She paid me. Never saw either of them again.”

“You didn’t have to testify?”

“Nope. I called her once to follow up on that. Phone was no longer in service.”

“You have her address?”

“The original one. I assume she moved.”

“I’ll take that,” I said. “And her fi rst name.”

“Anne Marie,” he said.

He wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

“And the FBI?” he said.

“Mum’s the word,” I said.

52.

T he address was in Laurel Heights, about eight miles out from downtown. It was a big Tudor revival house with a broad lawn, and a two-car garage, and a couple of big trees out front.

“My name is Spenser,” I said to the woman who opened the door. “I’m looking for Anne Marie Turner.”

I gave her my card. She looked at it, looked at me, and didn’t invite me in.

“They haven’t lived here for years,” she said.

She was a big-boned blond woman who looked as if she might have grown up on a dairy farm.

“How long?” I said.

“Oh, God, when did we buy this house,” she said. “Ten years. Eleven this summer.”

“You bought it from the Turners?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

Then she smiled.

“Actually,” she said, “not exactly. We bought it from the bank.”

“The bank foreclosed?” I said.

“I guess. I don’t know the details. My husband does most of the money stuff.”

A cluster of small brown birds landed suddenly on the big lawn and began pecking about in the winter grass. I wondered what they found in there. Grass seed? Insects? Were they actually eating? Or just going through the motions? And did it matter. Maybe in the big scheme, but not in the small one I represented.

“Do you know why the bank foreclosed?” I said.

“Nonpayment, I assume,” she said. “Phil told me we got a good deal.”

“Phil is your husband?”

“Yes. Phil Karras. I’m Flora.”

“Do you know where Anne Marie went?” I said. “Or her husband?”

“No,” Flora said. “No idea.”

“And the bank?” I said. “Do you remember the bank you bought from?”

“Sure.”

She shifted a little. She was tiring of me. Hard to imagine. Maybe she was becoming aroused by my masculine profile andmy Boston accent. Probably invite me in for coffee in a minute. That would be the giveaway.

“What bank?” I said.

“Workingman’s Trust of Ohio,” she said. “Right here in town.”

I nodded.

“Is there anyone special you do business with there?”

“No. That’s Phil’s department.”

I nodded. The birds herky-jerked around the yard pecking at whatever they were pecking. Of course, if she did invite me in for coffee, it would not be fair to accept. I was considering marriage. I waited. Now would be about the right time to propose the coffee, and prove it was desire, not boredom, that caused her to seem restless.

“Is there anything else?” she said.

Iron self-control.

“Is there anything else you can remember about the Turners?”

She shook her head.

“Not a thing,” she said. “I never even met them.”

“Thanks for your time,” I said.

She smiled and closed the door and I walked down past the preoccupied birds to my car.

Hooray for Phil and Flora.

53.

The senior vice president and chief lending officer for Workingman’s Trust was a man named Norbert Coombs, who looked like he’d been recruited from a bank commercial. He was tall with thinning gray hair. His suit was a dark pinstripe. His shirt was a blue Oxford. His tie was a small blue bow tie with polka dots. His black shoes had wingtips. He wore half-glasses, which he peered over with his head tilted as he talked with me and looked at his computer screen.

“The Turners’ last mortgage payment to us was on August twenty-sixth, 1994,” he said.

“And you foreclosed when?”

“March 1995,” he said.

“You sent them dunning notices?”

“Every month,” he said, “and according to the notations here, we called them, fi rst monthly, then weekly.”

He read off his screen