In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,37

my private business.”

“I am conducting a police inversting into a murder,” I replied evenly, refusing to be bullied. “That means where any suspect is concerned, there’s no such thing as private business.”

He grew red in the face and glowered at me. I thought at first he would refuse to answer, or reply with another rude retort, but he reconsidered and answered, though his tone was gruff. “I gave him $500. It was a ridiculous amount, of course—but I hoped it would be enough to keep him away for a few months.”

“So you had no indication that anything might be wrong? No signs of any sudden changes in Michael’s mood?”

“Mood?” Clyde scoffed. “When has Michael’s mood ever been anything but surly? You know I was never concerned about his moods. It was his actions that caused trouble. He needed discipline to keep from acting out.”

“It was never as simple as that,” Alistair began wearily, but Clyde cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah, spare me your ideas about—what do you call it?—‘distorted thinking.’ Nothing but poppycock. The point is, you need to find Michael, and with as little fanfare as possible. Don’t want to see our family name dragged through the papers.”

“Can you tell us where Michael was living?” Alistair asked. “I checked with the landlady at the last address I had for him; apparently he left there six months ago.”

Clyde merely chortled. “Sounds like you haven’t been keeping on top of the boy as you promised. Last I heard, he had rented a room somewhere in the west Forties. Maybe Lizzie will know. She always had a soft spot for the boy. Though I can’t imagine why.”

He cleared his throat and got up, ambling toward the door. “Well, I believe our business is done, and I trust you’ll take care of this situation quickly and discreetly. I summoned Lizzie over here after you telephoned because I thought, given her relationship with Michael, she would have more information to give you than I do. I’ll send her in.”

And without a word more, he shuffled out of the room and we did not see him again, although we almost immediately heard him berating someone with respect to a household task left undone. Apparently it was the man’s nature to be disagreeable toward everyone he encountered. As Alistair later explained, Clyde Wallingford was an egalitarian in one respect: He was rude to everyone alike.

Clyde’s aunt, Lizzie Dunn, was exactly as Alistair had described her earlier this morning: plain and mousy in both appearance and demeanor. It was easy to see why Clyde had prevailed upon her to take charge of a troublesome young boy; she was so excessively amiable she appeared unable to refuse any request.

“Miss Dunn?” Alistair stood politely and made the introductions as she came across the length of the room toward us; we had moved from the area near Clyde’s desk to a sitting area by the fireplace. As I took her hand to greet her, I noticed it was icy cold, despite the general warmth that pervaded the house. She took the seat nearest the fire, sitting on its very edge.

“Please, can you tell me what’s happened with Michael?” she asked nervously. “I know something awful has happened, or Clyde would never have asked me to come here. But he’s told me nothing.”

I watched her face blanch as Alistair explained what we knew about Fromley’s disappearance and suspected role in a murder. It seemed the news would overwhelm the woman, and I prepared to summon help in the event she fainted. She recovered, but as I observed their exchange, I decided Alistair’s initial assessment had been remarkably precise: Lizzie Dunn meant well, but if Michael Fromley had anything of his half brother Clyde’s domineering personality, she could never have stood up to it.

“No,” she was saying, “the last time I saw Michael was in early October for his birthday. I’d put together a little birthday dinner for him, and he humored me by coming by to eat it.” She smiled wanly. “You know, he doesn’t come around the way he used to when he was a young boy. I suppose that’s natural now he’s grown-up.”

It was incongruous to hear this woman talk about Michael Fromley as a favored nephew—and yet, I had seen this phenomenon before, where a mother or grandmother described men I knew to be depraved criminals in the most endearing of terms. I supposed it was because they clung to loving memories of what the child had been—even when