The Day Trader (18 page)

“I just had a few simple questions for him.”

“Why did you go back to see him again?”

Reggie’s eyes narrow. “Someone gave me another anonymous call, Augustus. The message was that we needed to investigate Frank Taylor very carefully.”

“Do you think the call came from the same person as before?”

“I assume so. And I assume it was you,” he says firmly.

“Me? That’s crazy! The first message you got was to let you know that I was here at Bedford. Why would I call you anonymously to tell you that?”

“So I wouldn’t think you were the source when the second call came concerning Taylor.”

“Forget it, Reggie. Wrong tree. Stop barking.”

“Would Frank Taylor have had a motive?” he asks.

“You tell me. You’re the detective.”

“Was Taylor having an affair with Melanie?” Reggie wants to know.

“You asked that last time you were here.”

“Well?”

“Did you ask Taylor that question?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

Reggie looks at me thoughtfully. “He didn’t. He said he wanted his lawyer present if I was going to continue interrogating him. I told him not to get so upset, but he refused to answer any more of my questions.”

“I’ve never been uncooperative like that.”

“No, you haven’t.” He pauses. “So tell me. Were Taylor and Melanie having an affair?”

I take a deep breath. “Yes, I think they were.”

“Did you ever catch them in the act?”

“No, Taylor bragged about it to me.” So did Melanie, in her own way, I think to myself, remembering how she slipped her arm into his so comfortably and how she let him touch her in front of me as she was walking away the afternoon before her death. “Taylor told me he had made love to her in my own bed,” I say, gritting my teeth. It’s still revolting for me to remember that.

“You think he was telling the truth?”

“I do.”

Reggie hesitates. “I’m sorry, Augustus.”

“Maybe that was his motive. Maybe she was ending the affair, and he killed her because he couldn’t stand losing her.”

“Maybe.” Reggie loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt. “Somebody else we both know would have had that same motive,” he points out. His eyes narrow. “Do you know who killed your wife, Augustus?”

“No.”

“I’m not asking if
you
killed her.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m asking if you
know
who killed her. Those are two very different questions.”

“I understand and my answer is no to both,” I say angrily. “Maybe
I
should have a lawyer present.”

“There’s no need for that.” Reggie strokes his thin mustache with his thumb and forefinger a few times before speaking again. “Did your father ever mention having children by another woman? Did he ever tell you anything like that?”

What the hell is he talking about now? “Children by another woman?”

“Obviously not,” he says, rising from his chair. “Well, I’ll make a point of calling before I visit in the future. I promise.”

“Wait a minute, Reggie! You can’t ask me something like that, then just leave!” I shout, jumping up from my chair and moving in front of the conference room door to block his way. “What are you saying? Was he married to someone else before my mother?”

“I told you. I’m very thorough with my investigations.”

“What did you find out? Please tell me, Reggie!”

He takes a deep breath. “Law enforcement’s ability to track people down has been enhanced dramatically in the last few years thanks to technology. The ability to share fingerprints and DNA information with other police forces and federal agencies has taken investigative work to a much higher level. It’s hard for anyone with a record to hide anymore.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, my mouth running dry. “Do you know something about my father? Did he have a record?”

“Some things are better left in the dark,” Reggie says.

As if I don’t already know that. “Tell me, Reggie. Tell me what you found out.”

For several moments he stays silent. Finally he motions toward the table. “Sit back down,” he says softly. He sits too, this time in the chair next to mine. Then he begins. “I’m going to tell you a story. So far it isn’t a very happy one, but who knows, maybe it’ll end up okay.”

I stare at him, wondering what in the world he is about to tell me.

“Forty years ago a young man goes to jail in a small town in southern Ohio for raping a fifteen-year-old girl. It’s statutory rape because the girl admits that the sex was consensual and there’s no evidence of a struggle. But it’s still rape under the law. Seems like this young man was a real smooth talker. At least, that’s what everybody around town says.

“The girl runs away from home a few months after the incident, when she starts to show. She’s pregnant with the man’s baby and the townspeople are being damn cruel. She won’t give up the baby and she can’t stay, so she runs.”

“I don’t follow,” I say, my voice shaky.

“The young man is released from jail a year later for good behavior, and he leaves the area. Drops off the face of the earth as a matter of fact. For two years no one knows where he is.” Reggie rests his elbows on the arms of the chair. “Then one day he turns up in Richmond, Virginia. Turns up at a police precinct charged with raping another young girl. This one’s sixteen. Seems he likes them young.”

The story is coming together and the blood is beginning to pound in my brain.

“But this time the young man has a stroke of good luck. He finds himself with a sharp lawyer doing pro bono work as a public defender, and all he gets is probation. Law enforcement wasn’t nationally coordinated in those days so the Richmond court doesn’t even know about the Ohio crime. Besides, once again the young woman admits that the sex was consensual, so it’s statutory rape, and she pleads with the judge to show leniency. Turns out she’s in love with the young man.”

“Keep going,” I urge.

“There’s no pregnancy as a result of the rape this time, but they end up getting married,” Reggie continues. “The young man gets a job at a local factory and the girl works as a maid for a family on the rich side of town. After a while they save enough for a down payment on a small house in a working-class section of the city. Then she does get pregnant and they have a baby boy. Everything’s going along fine. They’re in love and the young man seems to have gotten control of himself. But his past catches up to him. The girl from Ohio shows up on their doorstep with
her
child and suddenly the situation gets complicated again. Seems the young man had secretly been staying in touch with the Ohio girl the whole time.”

“The young man in the story is my father,” I whisper.

Reggie nods.

“But how did you find out all of that?” After so many years I’m finally learning who he is, and it isn’t pretty. I don’t see how this story could possibly have a happy ending. “Did you find old newspaper clippings from Ohio or something? Is that how you found my father?”

“No. He wasn’t William McKnight when he lived in Ohio. He was George Wayne Franklin. He didn’t change his name to William McKnight until he came to Richmond.”

“George Wayne Franklin,” I whisper to myself. “Then how did you find him?”

“Everything’s digital these days, and when we entered William McKnight’s fingerprints into the computer, Franklin’s record came up too. I pieced things together by talking to people in Richmond and Ohio who were around when this all happened.” Reggie puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right, Augustus?”

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice raspy. Maybe it was good that I hadn’t been close to my father. If I had been, this news might be hitting me even harder. Though it’s hard to imagine how I could feel any worse right now.

“You sure? You want to talk?”

Down deep I think Reggie has a good heart. He can say all he wants to about staying cold and objective with regard to the people involved with cases he’s working on, but he knows he might as well have just dropped a bomb on me with what he’s said, and I can see that he’s concerned. “I just need a few minutes by myself.”

He nods. “Okay.”

He gets up and starts to walk out. “Just one more thing. Sorry to bring this up right now,” he says evenly, “but I still need a blood sample. Let’s get that detail out of the way.”

“Tell me again why you need a blood sample,” I say quietly, still stunned.

“I told you. It’s standard operating procedure. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

“If it was nothing to be worried about, Reggie, you wouldn’t be bugging me about it.” Augustus Franklin. It sounds strange. “Be honest with me, Reggie. What’s going on?”

“There was dried blood under Melanie’s fingernails when they brought her body into the morgue. I’m sure none of it was yours because you told me that you were never physically violent with her. Right?”

I nod slowly, as if in a trance.

“But our pathologists still need to check it out. It’s just part of the process. You understand, don’t you?”

I really don’t, but this afternoon I’ll give him what he wants, I decide, letting my face fall slowly into my hands.

“Good-bye, Augustus.”

So that’s why my father disappeared for a couple of days every few months. He was seeing his “other” family. And my mother was letting him. She had to have known what was going on if the other girl showed up in Richmond like Reggie said.

There’s a soft knock on the door.

“Yes?” I take my hands from my face but don’t look around. I assume it’s Reggie at the door, back with more questions.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Augustus,” Anna says quietly, moving to where I can see her.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“That was a cop who just left, right?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?” she asks reluctantly, as if she knows she has no right to ask but can’t stop herself.

I look into Anna’s eyes and I swear I see fear. “It’s a matter concerning an old family business. Money stuff. Nothing to worry about.”

I sweat profusely as I slam the red Everlast punching bag hanging from the basement ceiling. I haven’t even bothered to put on the eight-ounce gloves I usually wear when I work out. I just hit the bag harder and harder, faster and faster, making believe it’s Frank Taylor. Or my father.

I may be in good shape, but hitting the bag is exhausting work no matter how fit you are. After a few minutes my hands feel like anchors, and I start to become light-headed. But I keep going, groaning louder each time my fist smashes the bag, until my head is spinning and I’m gasping for breath.

Failure. Ironically, that’s my objective. Keeping my hands and arms going until I physically cannot do it anymore. That’s how you increase strength when you train. Go to failure.

Finally it happens and my knees buckle. I try desperately to maintain my balance, but it’s impossible and I stumble toward an old wooden wardrobe Melanie used when we were first married. My arms are so tired I can’t even raise them to protect myself, and I have to take the brunt of the impact with my shoulder. I crash into the shabby piece of furniture so hard it almost falls over as I collapse on the cement floor in front of it.

For five minutes I’m flat on my back, chest heaving, while my body recuperates. As I’m lying there, I think about how I finally made the trip downtown this afternoon and gave the D.C. police department my blood. The whole procedure was over quickly and it seemed routine—Reggie wasn’t even around. I haven’t heard anything yet, but I suppose it’s too soon to expect news. Not that I think there will be any news. Depending on how thoroughly Melanie washed her hands—or didn’t—the lab people may find my blood beneath her fingernails because of the scratches to my neck. But that wasn’t my fault, and if I have to explain the incident to Reggie, I think he’ll understand.

Finally I raise myself onto one elbow, still drained from the exercise. Maybe the blood test has weakened me. The lab people took more than I thought they would.

Both wardrobe doors have swung wide open as a result of the impact. As I rise to my knees, I see it’s full of Melanie’s old clothes dangling from wire hangers. Blouses and dresses she used to wear but that went out of style a few years after we were married. I reach out and touch one of the dresses, thinking about how happy we were during our first years together. It was a time when simply having each other was enough. When the lack of money wasn’t an issue. When eating hot dogs three nights a week didn’t bother us.

As my fingers stroke the material, I feel something in one of the dress’s pockets. It’s a solid mass about the size of a baseball. I dig inside curiously and fall slowly back on the floor as I pull it out of the pocket and hold it up in front of my face. It’s a thick roll of cash, held tightly together by a rubber band.

When I’m finished going through the rest of the clothes in the wardrobe I’ve found several more rolls. In total there’s more than six thousand dollars hidden here.

CHAPTER 12

I’m not a gambling man. I’m not part of a neighborhood crew that meets regularly for Friday night poker marathons, I don’t bet on sporting events, and I’ve been inside a casino only once in my life.

That was last February when Melanie and I drove to Atlantic City and stayed at the Taj Mahal on the boardwalk. I won the trip as a door prize at my company Christmas party in early December—the first time I had ever won anything like that. It was so cold when we got to New Jersey we stayed inside the casino the entire time. We never even made it to the boardwalk, let alone the beach.

The afternoon of our first day we bought two very expensive cocktails and wandered aimlessly through the cavernous, neon-lit rooms. I didn’t have extra cash for the tables—the door prize included only the room and dinners—so we people-watched. Most of them appeared to be enjoying themselves. The whole gambling thing was simply an experience and the cash they were throwing away was funny money.

But a few people in the casino didn’t take losing quite so easily. They slammed their fists on the green felt of the tables every time the house hit twenty-one. They yelled and cursed and shouted for a new dealer whenever they lost, unable to accept the simple fact that Lady Luck was laughing at them. One guy was even ejected by two huge uniformed guards after he banged the table so hard following a bad deal that other players’ chips fell to the floor. There was a mad scramble as the crowd tried to grab a few.