“I’d like that,” I said.
She’d already laid out a coffee service: cups, saucers, cream and sugar, cloth napkins, a plate of biscotti, and a large Thermos of hot coffee. It was clear we’d make our way through the niceties before we got to the subject of my visit. I was curious but in no particular hurry to hear what she had to say. I enjoyed the sense of well-being, trying to imagine a life in which this was the norm. After a pleasant interval, she eased into the subject at hand.
“Hollis won’t be home until six, which I thought would give us ample time to chat.”
“What sort of work does your husband do?”
“He’s a tax attorney who manages investments for clients at the bank. Very successful, I might add, if it doesn’t sound like bragging. I’ve never had to work.”
“And where’s Fritz?”
“He’s bunking in with friends for the weekend.”
“I read about his release. Must be nice to have him back.”
“It is, though it’s generated a problem that’s caught us off guard.”
“Which is why you contacted Lonnie.”
“Exactly,” she said. “We had hoped he’d help, but he suggested your services instead.”
“So this isn’t a legal matter?”
“It is and it isn’t. It’s complicated.”
I was wondering why Lonnie Kingman had steered away from the job. In my experience, attorneys relish diving into thorny legal issues, expounding on the depths of your troubles, which they’re quick to assure you are worse than you first thought. “Can you tell me what you’re dealing with?”
She leaned over and picked up a package that she’d placed on the nearest end table.
“This arrived a week ago,” she said. She held out a manila envelope with a bubble-lined interior meant to protect its contents. Originally, the envelope had been stapled shut with an extra width of clear tape added to secure the opening. The package now gaped open and I could feel the contours of a book or a box of some kind.
“May I?” I asked, not wanting to presume.
“Of course. You might need a brief introduction before you understand what you’re looking at.”
What I removed from the padded mailer was a VHS tape with a label that read “A Day in the Life of . . . 1979.” I felt a rush of adrenaline. I held it up, waiting for an explanation though I knew what it was. This had to be the aforementioned sex footage taken ten years before.
“This came in the same envelope,” she said. She handed me a computer-generated note; all caps. “TWENTY-FIVE GRAND IN CASH OR THIS GOES TO THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY. NO COPS AND NO FBI. BE READY WITH THE MONEY IN SMALL BILLS. I’LL LEAVE A PHONE MESSAGE WITH INSTRUCTIONS.”
“This is the only communication you’ve received?”
“So far. Hollis went to RadioShack and bought three recording devices to attach to the phones, anticipating a call.”
I was on the verge of admitting what little Jonah had told me about the tape, but why interject? I was curious about her version and didn’t see a reason to make it easy on her. “Why is this worth anything?”
For the first time, she colored, her cheeks taking on a faint tint of pink. “You know about Sloan Stevens?”
“The girl who was shot to death.”
“Tragically, yes. A week or so before, Fritz and Troy and another friend launched a home movie project, absurdly pleased with themselves. I asked about the contents more than once, but they were secretive, all guffaws and self-congratulations. One afternoon, I came across the tape in Fritz’s room and I couldn’t help myself. Fritz was off at his tennis lesson and it seemed like the perfect opportunity to take a peek. I pictured a melodrama—werewolves or vampires or a shoot-’em-up of some kind.
“When I played the tape, I was horrified. You’ll see it for yourself, of course, but I’m warning you. It’s despicable. The boys subject some poor drunken girl to sexual abuse. I can’t tell you how revolted I was.”
“Did you confront him?”
“I didn’t have the chance. I left the tape in his machine where I’d found it. I felt it was imperative to talk to Hollis first so we could decide what to do. I thought Fritz should be held accountable, but in what fashion I didn’t know. Sloan arrived at the house, asking to speak to him, but I told her it wasn’t a good time because something had come up. She didn’t argue the point. I told her I was on my way to the club to pick him up. She said she’d talk to him at school. End of the matter as far as I knew. When I pulled out of the garage, she was on the street with her dog, Butch, and I assumed she was walking home since she was headed in that direction. Now I suspect she waited until I turned the corner before she wheeled around and came back.”
“She stole it?”
“Let’s put it this way. When Fritz and I got home, the tape was gone. He had a fit, convinced I’d taken it. I played dumb and swore up and down I didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“Isn’t it possible someone else took it?”
“I suppose so, but she was the obvious culprit since she showed up just before I left the house.”
“Who else was in that group of friends?”
“Poppy Earl, for one. She and Sloan were best friends until Iris Lehmann came along; she’s the young girl in the tape being victimized. The truth of the matter is I don’t see how anyone but Sloan had time to get in the house and out in the short time I was gone.”
“Wasn’t the house locked?”
“Locked, but easily entered. We had an open-door policy with Fritz’s friends and all of them knew where the key was kept.”
“That was trusting of you.”
“We wanted them to feel at home, that this was a refuge where they were free to hang out.”
“Where was the key?”
“On a hook in the garage, which I’d left open when I went out.”
“What did you tell Hollis?”
“Well, I described what I’d seen, but without the tape, his only option was to take my word for it. He thought I was exaggerating, when if anything, I was toning it down.”
“So what was the upshot?”
“Nothing. The tape was gone and that was the last I heard of it until now. Meantime, Sloan was killed and the boys were arrested. Except for Austin, of course, and no one knows where he is.”
“He’s the kid who came up with the idea of shunning her?”
“That’s correct. He was also behind the events that culminated in the shooting. Sloan was apparently using the tape as leverage, forcing him to back off.”
I looked at the note again. “Twenty-five thousand seems like an odd demand. You’d think a blackmailer would ask for more.”