"You said it was about your husband."
She laughs a sad laugh. "I'm not even sure he's still my husband."
"What do you mean?"
"I filed for divorce three months ago. The final papers just came through yesterday, but I don't know if one can divorce a deceased spouse. Of course, now there is very considerable doubt that my spouse is deceased, which seems to complicate things even more."
She starts to cry, softly, as if she's afraid if she lets it out full blast, it would disturb me. Of course, it probably would, so I just wait until she's finished. It only takes a few seconds, and she continues.
"I know the police don't believe your client, but I do. My husband is alive."
"Why do you say that?" I ask.
"Well, for one thing, I simply cannot picture him dead." She smiles. "But you probably are hoping for something more concrete."
"Yes."
"I heard him talking about faking his own death."
Yesss! Finally, a positive development. "When?"
"Two years ago, when he was being investigated by the department."
"Who was he talking to?" I ask.
"I'm not sure. You have to understand, in the last five or so years of our marriage, and perhaps long before that, my husband kept a great many things from me. On some level I was glad he did; I sensed that there were things I wouldn't want to know. But there was one man he spoke to very often, and he got secretive whenever he did. But I overheard things, and one was this conversation with this man."
"How do you know it was a man?"
"Now that you mention it, I can't be sure. But he always called the person 'Lieutenant,' and even though women can certainly rise to that level and higher within the department, I've always assumed it to be a man."
Based on what I know about Dorsey, and the department, the odds are she is correct.
"What exactly did he say?"
"I can't remember exactly, but it was something like 'If they don't back off, they'll never see me again.' And then he laughed and said, 'They'll bury my box, but I won't be in it.'"
"And you never asked him about it?"
She shakes her head. "No, but it was one of the things that changed my perspective on my marriage. It finally helped drive into my thick head what should have been obvious all along: that I had not been an important part of his life for a very long time. I should have left then."
"But you didn't."
"No, and by the time I did he had taken all our money."
"What did he do with it?"
A smile, even sadder this time. "I wish I knew. But if you follow the money, you will find Alex. It's part of what drives him."
"What else drives him?" I ask.
"Power and hatred. And when he can exercise power to get back at those he hates, he is in his glory. I suspect that's what your client is finding out right now."
"Can I ask what drives you?"
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"Why did you call me?"
She pauses a moment to think about this. "Alex took the years of love and loyalty I gave to him and treated them like they meant absolutely nothing at all. He hurt people and I stood by and watched, and then I became one of those people. I'm ashamed of how I've acted, and I can't act that way anymore. If there is any way I can help you, I will."
There is a toughness and resolve in her voice that is impressive. This is a delicate, vulnerable woman that I want to have in the foxhole with me when the war starts.
Before I leave, Celia provides me with whatever financial records she has, so that I can try to follow Dorsey's money trail. To that end, I decide to stop off at my office and visit with the best money follower I know, Sam Willis.
Sam is surprised to see me and expresses his concern about Laurie. He assumes I'm there to see how he's doing with cousin Fred, and he tells me that they've hit it off really well and that I'm soon going to be even richer than I am now. Goody, goody.
"I need you to help me find someone," I say. "Or at least his money."
Sam brightens up immediately. This is his kind of assignment. "Who?"
"Alex Dorsey," I say.
"The dead cop? Or, I mean, the not-dead cop?"
"The very one." I give him the financial records that Celia gave me, and he spends a few minutes looking at them. His expression is that of an orthopedic surgeon looking at a CAT scan, calling on his years of experience to make perfect sense out of what to me is bewildering.
"This guy was a cop?" he asks.
I nod. "Yes."
"This is pretty sophisticated stuff."
He calls Barry Leiter in from the other office, and the two of them eagerly devour the records. Every twenty seconds or so, Barry says, "Wow!"
I'm glad to be able to bring such pleasure into their lives, but I'm getting a little impatient "If he moved his money, can you find out where it went?" I ask.
"To a degree," Sam says. "We can tell you a lot about it, but we won't be able to identify the city."
"Why not?"
He shrugs. "Because each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factory. And every stranger's face I see reminds me that I long to be homeward bound."
It's a sign of my desperation that I'm sitting here relying on a compulsive song-talker. Well, I'm simply not going to be drawn into it. "How long is this going to take you?" I ask.
"I won't be doing it at all. I'm going on vacation tomorrow. Barry will take care of it."