The First Chelam National Bank was a small redbrick building across from the grocery store and next to a place called Zoot's Hardware. There was a single drive-through window for their customers' convenience on the west side of the bank and a small L-shaped parking lot wrapping around the east. Someone had planted a couple of young elms at the edge of the parking lot and their leaves were scattered over the cement. The drive-through window was closed.
I parked in the lot and went in. A teenage boy was filling out a deposit slip at a long table, and a heavy woman in stretch pants was talking to a teller at a blond-wood counter. An old guy in a gray security guard's uniform was reading Tom Clancy. He didn't look up. There were four windows built into the tellers' counter, but only one teller was on duty. Another woman sat at a desk behind the counter, and behind her were a couple of offices, but the offices looked empty. Neither the teller nor the woman at the desk appeared to be Karen Shipley.
I gave the woman at the desk a hopeful smile. She was in her late twenties and wore a bright green top under a tweed suit jacket and a little too much makeup. A name plate on her desk said JOYCE STEUBEN. I said, "Excuse me. I'm here to see Karen Lloyd."
Joyce Steuben said, "Karen isn't in right now. She has a couple of property appraisals, but she should be back around three. Of course, she might come in before then. That's always possible."
"Of course."
I left the bank and walked across the street to a pay phone outside the grocery. In L.A., they put phone books three inches thick with the pay phones, but most of the books are stolen and the ones that aren't are defaced. The Chelam book represented something called The Five-Town Area. Chelam, Oak Lakes, Armonk, Brunly, and Tooley's Mill. It was complete and immaculate and was this year's edition, and altogether it was maybe a quarter-inch thick. Karen Lloyd was listed on page 38. Number Fourteen Rural Route Twelve, Chelam. There were six Lloyds. Three in Tooley's Mill and two in Brunly. Karen was the only Lloyd in Chelam. No Mr. Lloyd. I copied her address along with her phone number and put the book back in its case, still complete, still immaculate. Jim Rockford would've ripped out the page, but Jim Rockford was an asshole.
I sat on the bench outside Milt's Barber Stylings and wondered at my good fortune. If Karen Lloyd was in fact Karen Shipley, maybe I could get this thing wrapped up and be on an evening flight back to L.A. In L.A., I wouldn't have to sit outside Milt's Barber Stylings with two sweaters under the G-2 and still be cold. Of course, maybe Karen Lloyd wasn't Karen Shipley. Maybe they just looked alike and May Erdich was wrong. Stranger things have been known to happen. All I had to do was hang around and wait for Karen Lloyd and ferret out the truth.
Portrait of the Big City Detective sitting on a small-town bench, ferreting. In the cold. People passed on the sidewalk, and when they did they nodded and smiled and said hello. I said hello back to them. They didn't look as cold as me, but perhaps that was my imagination. You get used to the weather where you live. When I was in Ranger School in the Army, they sent us to northern Canada to learn to ski and to climb ice and to live in the snow with very few clothes. We got used to it. Then they sent us to Vietnam. That's the Army.
A little bit after two-thirty kids started drifting past with books, and at five minutes before three a dark-haired boy in a plaid Timberland jacket came pumping down the street on a beat-up red Schwinn mountain bike. Toby Nelsen. He was horse-faced and gangly, with a wide butt and narrow shoulders, just like his father. His rear end was up and his head was down and he whipped the bike across the sidewalk and skidded to a stop by the front door of the bank just as a dark green Chrysler LeBaron pulled into the parking lot. He was laughing. A woman who might've been Karen Shipley got out of the Chrysler. A dozen years older than the Karen Shipley in the videotape, wearing a tailored rust-colored top coat and heels and tortoiseshell sunglasses. Together. Her hair was short and set off her heart-shaped face nicely and she stood straight and confident. She didn't bounce or wiggle. Toby raised his hands over his head and yelled, "I beatcha by a mile!" and she said something and the boy laughed again and they went into the bank. I crossed the street after them. Elvis Cole, Master Detective. We Always Get Our Mom.
When I got into the bank, Karen Shipley was seated in one of the back offices, talking on the phone, and the boy was at a little coffee table, writing in a spiral notebook. I went to the end of the tellers' counter again and waved at Joyce Steuben. "I'm back."
Joyce Steuben looked around at Karen Shipley, still on the phone. "She's on a call now. Can I tell her who wants to see her?"
"Elvis Cole."
"Would you like to have a seat?"
"Sure."
I walked back to the little round table and sat down across from the boy. He was writing in the workbook with a yellow pencil and didn't look up. Fractions. He was big for twelve, but his face was smooth and unlined and young. He looked exactly like his father, and I wondered if he knew that. I said, "You Toby Lloyd?"
He looked up and smiled. "Yeah. Hi." He looked healthy and happy and normal.
"You're Karen's son?"
"Yeah. You know my mom?"
"I'm here to see her. I saw you guys racing down the street. You were really flying."
His smile flashed a yard wide. "I really creamed her today. Usually she wins."
Karen Shipley said, "Mr. Cole? May I help you?" She was standing in the little passage at the end of the tellers' counter.
I got up and went over and shook her hand. The handshake was firm and dry and poised, and she looked at me with a clear confidence that she could meet my every banking need. No wedding ring. Up close, and with the sunglasses off, you saw that she was the woman in the video, yet not. It was the face, yet not the same face. As if she had stepped into the transmogrifier with Calvin and Hobbes and had been changed. Her voice was lower and there was a light network of lines around her eyes and she looked better now than she had then, the way most women do as they move into their thirties. I said, "I hope so. I'm going to be moving to the area, and I'd like to discuss financing for the purchase of a home."
She opened the gate and gave me a warm, professional smile. "Why don't we go back to my office and talk about it."
"Sure."
Her office was neat and modern, with a polished executive's desk and well-tended green plants and comfortable chairs in which people with legitimate business could sit and look at her. A Toshiba My Café coffee machine sat on a lowboy filing cabinet between a couple of smoked-glass windows that looked out on the parking lot, and on the wall behind her desk there were framed photographs and certificates and diplomas. Official-looking men and women were standing with Karen in the photos, and in some of them the official-looking people were presenting Karen with what looked like plaques and citations. Some of the citations were on the wall. Greater New England Banking and Trust Award. PTA Meritorious Service Award. Appreciation Award from the Five-Town Area Rotary. A framed real estate license hung beneath a diploma from the State University of New York for a bachelor's degree in finance. Gee, Peter, do I havta? It had been awarded two years ago. I blinked at her and maybe smiled a little. It had been a long time since she'd made herself up like a waitress. She said, "Would you like coffee?"
"No, thank you."
She went around and sat behind the desk and folded her hands and smiled at me. "All right. How can I help you?"
I got up and closed the door.
She said, "You don't have to do that."
I left the door closed and went back to my seat. "It's better if it's closed," I said. "I'm afraid I've come to you under false pretenses."
She made a small frown, wondering what I was talking about.
I said, "I'm not moving to the area, and I don't want to finance a house. I'm a private investigator. From Los Angeles."
Her left eye flickered and she didn't move for several seconds. Then she made an effort at the professional smile and sort of cocked her head to one side. Confused. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
I took out the 8 X 10 of nineteen-year-old Karen Shipley made up like a waitress, unfolded it, and put it on her desk. I said, "Karen Shipley."
She leaned forward and looked at the 8x10 without touching it. "I'm sorry. My name is Karen Lloyd. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Your ex-husband, Peter Alan Nelsen, hired me to find you."
She shook her head, smiled patiently, then used a pencil to push the picture back toward me and stood up. "I don't know anyone named Peter Alan Nelsen and I've never been to Los Angeles."
I said, "Karen. Come on."
"I'm sorry. But if you're not here to discuss business with the bank, I think you should leave." She came around the desk and opened the door and stood there, right hand on the knob. Outside, Joyce Steuben glanced at us from her desk and a woman with blue hair took money from the teller.
I picked up the 8x10 and looked at it and looked at the woman with her hand on the knob. They were one and the same. I had not lost my mind. 'Ten years ago you and Peter Alan Nelsen were divorced. Your theatrical agent was a guy named Oscar Curtiss. You lived in an apartment house on Beechwood Drive owned by a woman named Miriam Dichester for almost a year, and then you skipped out on three months' back rent. Twenty-two months after that, you mailed a U.S. postal money order for four hundred fifty-two dollars and eighteen cents to Ms. Dichester. It was postmarked Chelam. This is you in the picture. Your maiden name was Shipley. Then you were Karen Nelsen. And now you're Karen Lloyd."
She was gripping the door knob so hard that the tendons in the back of her right hand were standing out like bow strings, as if the force of the grip was not so much to hold on to the knob as it was to hold together something that had been carefully constructed over many years and was now in danger of being pulled apart. Her eye gave the flicker again. "I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't know."
She made the professional smile, but it didn't quite work this time. "I'm sorry."
I held up the picture. "This isn't you?"
The little smile again. "No. We do look alike, though, so I can understand your confusion."
I nodded. Outside, the woman with the blue hair put money in a plain white envelope and put the envelope in her blouse and walked away. Joyce Steuben talked on the phone. The guard read Tom Clancy. Nobody seemed ready to jump up and give me a hand, but then they rarely do. I said, "Peter doesn't want anything from you. He doesn't want to impose on you or to interfere with either your life or the boy's. He just wants to meet his son. He seems sincere in this. You're not going to gain anything by acting this way."
She didn't move.
I spread my hands. "Karen, you're found."
She made a little shrug and shook her head. "I hope you find whoever you're looking for. I really do. Now if you don't mind, I have work to do."
She didn't move and I didn't move. Outside, a black man in a New York Yankees baseball cap approached the teller and Joyce Steuben hung up the phone and began to write on a yellow legal pad. Somewhere in the back of the little building the heating system clicked on and warm air came through the vents. I said, "If there's nothing to anything I've said, call the guard and have him throw me out."
She squinted to make the left eye stop moving. The knuckles on the hand holding the knob turned white. Neither of us said anything for quite a while. Then the tip of her tongue appeared and wet her lips. She said, "I'm sorry that you've wasted your time, but I know nothing about any of this."
I took a deep breath and let it out and then I nodded. "Karen Lloyd."
"Yes. That's my name."
"Never been to Los Angeles."
"Never."
"Don't know Peter Nelsen."
"I can understand your confusion. I do look very much like the girl in the picture."
I nodded again. The black man finished his transaction and left and the teller walked over to Joyce Steuben's desk and sat down. Toby Nelsen appeared in the teller's window, reached through, took a pencil, then disappeared again. Karen Shipley stood very still, legs together, elbows tight at her sides, right hand on the knob and left hanging down at her side. The left was red as if blood had pooled there. I folded the 8 x 10 and put it in my pocket and stood up. "Sorry," I said. "You do look very much alike."
"Yes."
"I'll be seeing you."
"Have a nice day."
I walked past her and past Joyce Steuben and around the end of the tellers' counter and out past the guard to the front door. I stopped and looked back at her. She had not moved. Her face was tight and contained and her right hand was still gripping the knob of her door. She stared at me a little longer and then she stepped back into the office and shut the door. Toby was concentrating on the math workbook and did not look up.
I went out to the parking lot and stood by my car beneath a sky that had grown heavy and dense and the color of shale. There was a cold wind coming from the northwest and a formation of large black crows beating their wings a hundred feet overhead. Because of the wind, the crows were pointing in one direction but traveling in another. I wondered if they knew it, and, knowing it, understood it, or if they were simply oblivious, carried along by a force that was felt but not seen. The same thing happens to people, but most of the time they don't know it, or when they know it, they think it an action of their own devising. They are usually wrong.