“Like Daddy did?”
“That’s right. Anyway, we had a funeral for her and I had to bury her too. But I go back and visit her, you know, to check on her. And when I go there, I can…I can sense that she’s not cold. You can do that with people you love. So, I think that when you and your mom go to visit your dad, you’ll be able to sense that too. And by being there, you actually make things warm, because he’ll know that you’re with him. That people who love him are right there with him. Do you see?”
She nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on him. “Can I talk to him when I visit?”
“You absolutely can. Now, he won’t answer you back like he used to. But I can tell you that you’ll feel something right here.” He touched the center of his chest. “And that’s means that your dad is answering you back. And it goes right there, right to your heart. Because…that’s where you’ll always keep your dad now. Forever. Okay?”
She nodded, leaned over, and gave his thick calf a hug.
“I’ll see you when you get back, Mr. Amos.”
“You can just call me Amos.”
“Okay, Amos.”
Decker lifted his duffel and left.
He did not see Jamison standing at the top of the stairs.
She had heard the entire exchange and was quietly sobbing while holding on to the railing to steady herself.
When Zoe started up the stairs, she saw her aunt and ran up to her and flung her arms around her legs. As Jamison continued to shake, Zoe said, “Aunt Alex, are you okay? Are you sad?”
Jamison stroked her niece’s hair.
With tears streaming down her face, she managed to say, “I’m okay, Zoe. I’m really okay now.”
Chapter 45
AT NINE O’CLOCK in the morning Decker’s phone alarm went off.
He sat up in the driver’s seat of his rental, yawned, and looked around.
He’d arrived at the nursing home around six in the morning, parked on the street, and settled down to catch a few hours of sleep. He drove to a nearby McDonald’s, cleaned up, and changed into fresh clothes in the bathroom. He ate a breakfast sandwich and downed a cup of coffee.
He drove back to the Glenmont Senior Living Center and went inside.
The lobby was large and inviting, with sunlight blazing in through numerous windows. The whole place looked fairly new. It had comfortable seating areas with upholstered chairs, a large reception desk of polished wood, and wallpaper with a soothing flower-and-vine design.
An efficient-looking young woman was seated at the front desk. She looked up as Decker approached.
“Can I help you?”
He pulled out his creds and badge and held them up. “FBI. I need to speak with one of your patients.”
“We call them residents,” she said, eyeing his badge. “Can I ask what this is about?”
“I’m investigating a series of murders in Pennsylvania. It’s come to our attention that one of your residents, Stanley Nottingham, may have known one of the victims when he lived in New York.”
“I think I need to get my supervisor.”
“Do what you have to do, but don’t keep me waiting long. I’m on a deadline.”
She hurried off and came back less than a minute later accompanied by a tall, stout man with thick dark hair. He wore a pinstripe suit along with an important expression.
“I’m Roger Crandall, the executive director. What seems to be the issue?”
Decker explained why he was here.
“Don’t you need a warrant or something like that?” asked Crandall.
“No, I don’t. Mr. Nottingham isn’t a suspect or a person of interest. But he could be a material witness in a murder investigation. And I have every right to talk to him.”
“I think I might have to call the company lawyer on this. Can you come back another time?”
In response Decker took out his notebook. “Is that Crandall with two l’s? I’ve seen it spelled with one and just want to make sure.”
“It’s with two. But why are you asking?”
“My boss at the FBI gets pissed when anyone misspells a name on the arrest warrant.”
Crandall took a step back. “Arrest warrant? For me!” he added shrilly. “Why?”
“Well, you’re the one obstructing justice, aren’t you?”
“I don’t believe that I am.”
“I already told you that your resident is not a suspect or person of interest. He has no criminal liability. But he may be a material witness. And you will find that the FBI has a right at any time to speak to a material witness. But if you won’t let me do so, then you are committing a federal crime, which, by the way, has a five-year minimum sentence in a federal penitentiary.” He eyed the man’s natty attire. “And for what it’s worth, you look better in pinstripes than you would in an orange jumpsuit.”
Crandall gazed stupidly at Decker for a long moment and then said, “I’ll take you to Mr. Nottingham myself.”
Decker made a show of tearing the page with Crandall’s name on it out of his notebook, wadding it up, and tossing it into a nearby wastebasket.
“Thank you for your cooperation.”
As they walked down the hall, Decker said, “What can you tell me about Nottingham? I understand he came here recently.”
Crandall nodded. “That’s right. Usually the family will be instrumental in having a loved one come here. We all get old, and when you can’t take care of yourself, well, sometimes it’s hard to admit it. But Mr. Nottingham was different. He didn’t have any close family, but decided he could no longer live by himself. So he came here of his own accord.”
“How’d he find out about your place?”
“We get a lot of people from New York. We’re just over the state line, so if they do have family it’s an easy trip for them to come and visit.”
“I understand he was in the fashion business.”
“Yes. He worked for several of the big fashion houses. He’s very nice. Seems well educated.”
“How’s his health?”
“We really can’t give that sort of information out, but I can tell you that he has the sorts of problems one would typically associate with a person of his age.”
“Okay, but I meant is he lucid?”
“Oh, oh yes, there’s no problem there. At least not yet.”
They stopped at a door. The name STANLEY NOTTINGHAM had been written on a slip of paper and inserted in a brass holder screwed to the door.
“Well, here we are.”
Crandall knocked. “Mr. Nottingham? Stanley, can I come in? It’s Mr. Crandall.”
A deep throaty voice answered in the affirmative and Crandall opened the door. He and Decker stepped in.
Stanley Nottingham was sitting in a chair next to a bed. He was tall and cadaverous, with a fringe of white hair encircling his head. He wore a pair of thick black glasses. He had on what looked to be silk polka-dot pajamas.
A tank of oxygen was parked in one corner.
On the walls were large framed black-and-white photos of a variety of models on the catwalk.
“Stanley, this is—” Crandall paused and said to Decker, “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“I’m Amos Decker, Mr. Nottingham. I’m with the FBI.”
Nottingham, who had been slouching in his chair and looking immensely bored, immediately righted himself and sat up straighter. He looked positively delighted by this development and clapped his hands together.
“The FBI?” He smiled broadly. “How exciting!”
Decker glanced at Crandall. “I’ll handle it from here, thanks.”
Crandall looked put off by this, but nodded curtly and left. However, he kept the door open.
Decker went over and closed it and turned back to Nottingham.
“Thanks for meeting with me.”
“Have we met before?”
“No.” He looked at the photos arrayed on the walls. “So, you were in the fashion business?”
“For about fifty years. I worked for all the big houses. Dior, Versace, Valentino, Calvin, Tommy. The list goes on and on.”