He opened the center drawer of the desk. There were pens in there, notepads, rubber bands, stubs of movie tickets, but no bank statements. A couple of magazines had been tossed onto the desk. He picked them up; there was nothing under them. Carefully, he put them down in the same location. Okay, nothing there. Some people did all their paperwork at the kitchen table. Hayes walked in there, checked the drawers, but came up empty. Ditto the small closet on the right just before entering the kitchen.
Okay, that left the bedroom. Again, he was struck by how neat everything was. The bed was made, there hadn't been any dishes in the sink, no clothes lying tossed around. Hell, no wonder Clancy had thought no one was home.
There were three taped and sealed cardboard boxes stacked in the corner near the window. So she hadn't yet got everything unpacked after moving in; that made Hayes like her a little better, made her seem more human. It also gave him an excellent place to look, because if he were lucky, the book would be in one of those boxes, and he wouldn't have to dig around in a metal storage unit in this heat.
"Winter clothes" had been written on the sealing tape on the top box. Hayes took the box down and opened it. Sure enough, it was full of clothes. He took each item out, taking care not to disturb the folds, and felt to make certain nothing had been inserted between them. Nothing. Not a single stray item was in that box, nothing that wasn't an article of winter clothing.
The second box had "Insurance papers, books, photographs" written on the tape. That looked promising. The box had been carefully packed with the heaviest items, the books, on the bottom, then the photographs, then the insurance papers. The insurance papers were in a manila file folder, but when he flipped through them, he found nothing but… insurance papers. The photographs were framed and few. Hayes inspected the books. Fiction, nonfiction, medical books, books about nursing. Nothing was hidden inside any of them.
The tape on the third box said "Christmas decorations, wrapping paper, bows." Hayes groaned. Damn, he didn't want to look through a box of fucking Christmas decorations, but he didn't dare leave it unexplored just because the other boxes had contained exactly what the labeling said. There were Christmas decorations. And wrapping paper. And bows.
A woman that organized needed killing.
He opened the dresser drawers. Underwear, neatly separated and folded. Pajamas. Nightgowns. Socks. Nothing.
In the closet, a few dresses hung on one side, pants and jeans and tops on the other, with crisply
starched uniforms hanging in the middle. A name tag had already been clipped to a uniform, the one she had chosen to wear next, and a stethoscope was secured around the crook of the clothes hanger. Below it were thick-soled white walking shoes.
There were some boxes on the top shelf of the closet. Hayes took down the closest one. Written on top were the words "Bank statements."
Bless her neat little heart.
Laughing to himself, Hayes took out the top envelope. An adding machine tape had been stapled to the statement, to show that her figures matched the bank's. He unfolded the sheets of photocopied checks and ran his finger down each column until he found one that read "Buckeye Stockit and Lockit." The notation on the check read: "Unit 152, July." Just what he wanted to know. He put the statement back into the envelope, the envelope back into the box, and the box back on the shelf. All he needed now was an address. He found the telephone book and looked up Buckeye Stockit and Lockit, writing down both the address and the phone number. The storage company would be fairly close by, he was certain, because Ms. Whitlaw was too organized to have it otherwise. Raymond Hilley waited in a parked car across the street from the apartment building Hayes had entered. He had cut the engine off and slumped down in the seat; even though he had managed to park the car in partial shade, the heat was intense. He rolled down the window but didn't start the engine; people would notice a seemingly empty car left with its motor running. He had waited a lot longer, and in a lot tougher conditions, during the years he had worked for Mr. Walter.
Mr. Stephen wasn't half the man his father had been, or even the man William had promised to be, but Raymond loved him, would do anything for him. Mr. Stephen tried . No matter what, he never shirked his duty, and Raymond respected that. Just look at the way Mr. Stephen took care of his father, spending time with him every day, making certain Mr. Walter was as comfortable as possible. It broke Raymond's heart to see Mr. Walter in such shape, a living vegetable instead of the forceful, dynamic man he had once been; at least Mr. Stephen honored his father instead of dumping him somewhere and forgetting about him, just waiting for him to die.
But Mr. Stephen had always adored his father and tried so hard to please him. Mr. Walter had known that and had been patient with Mr. Stephen's shortcomings; in the end, he had also been proud of him. Mr. Stephen hadn't set the world on fire, but he had accomplished a lot in his cautious, methodical way. Following Hayes to Columbus had been pathetically easy; he had always taken care, the few times Hayes had been to the Minnesota estate, to stay out of sight. Raymond knew exactly what his role was in the Lake household: he was a weapon, an enforcer. A weapon was most effective when it was unexpected.
He had simply gotten a seat on the same flight with Hayes—two rows behind, as a matter of fact. Senator Lake had taken the next flight, using a fake driver's license Raymond had procured for him. He had even given the senator a disguise, and the photo on the license had shown a man with a full gray mustache and completely gray hair. Raymond had achieved the effect with an authentic-looking fake mustache and a can of gray hairspray such as makeup people in Hollywood used to give actors an interesting touch of gray at the temples when it was needed. The stuff washed off with shampoo, adding to its convenience. The name on the license was one he had taken out of the D.C. phone book. He had even established a debit card in that name, so the senator could rent a car and get a hotel room without a