Fourth Down and Out. Andrew Welsh-Huggins
probably already has? And probably on a smart phone, which arguably has better screen resolution than that laptop.”
“I just—I’m just telling you what he said.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Not really. He apologized. Said he was sorry.”
“Where is he?”
Beth spoke. “Still at school,” she said. She was pretty, dyed blonde but tasteful, smart in gray leggings and a brown knit dress accented with a wide leather belt and boots to match, with a trim figure to equal her husband’s. They were a striking couple.
“Did he know I was coming?”
“No,” she said.
“How’d you get my number?”
“He gave it to us,” Doug said. “After I started asking about the laptop.”
“What’s on the computer that’s so important?”
“Work files,” he said. “Things from the office I needed at home.”
“Not on a flash drive? Seems more convenient than lugging around a laptop.”
“Easier this way,” he said, a little vaguely. “I was afraid I might lose a flash drive.”
“As opposed to losing a laptop,” I said.
“Well, right,” he said.
“Where do you work?”
Freeley shifted again, and again traded glances with his wife. I might have been mistaken, but the look did not seem to be what we in the trade call lovey-dovey. “American Financial Health Care.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Most people haven’t.”
“What do you do?”
“It’s a bit complicated.”
“Try me.”
“We help small health care facilities, like nursing homes or doctors’ practices, pay their bills faster. Something like that.”
“Sounds simple enough. What kind of files were on the laptop?”
“Important ones,” he said.
“How important?”
“The thing is,” Freeley said, ignoring my question, “Pete got ahold of the laptop without me knowing and went off to the mall. Which is where you came in.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not.”
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s not where I came in.”
“What do you mean?”
I took a sip of the coffee Beth had placed before me.
I said, “Let me explain a couple of things.”
There was a long silence when I’d finished.
“I don’t believe it,” Doug said, in a tone that suggested the opposite. He looked at Beth, who had sat down in a wingback chair near the fireplace. She just shook her head.
“What can I do to fix this?” Doug said. “I really need the laptop back.”
“You’ll get it back. But it’s not going to be right away. I need to deal with the video files, see what else Pete might have stored on there that might relate to my client. You’ll forgive me if I don’t take his word that he told me everything.”
“I can pay,” Doug said. “If that’s what it takes. How much? A thousand? Two thousand? I’ll write you a check right now.”
“It’s not about money,” I said.
“I really need those files.”
“I agree with Doug,” Beth interrupted, impatience in her voice. “Those files mean a lot to his company. Seems like you could do what you have to do with the video in an hour or two.”
“Might seem like it,” I said. “But it’s just going to take a little longer.”
“We could call the police,” Beth said, color rising in her cheeks.
“You could,” I agreed. “And I could be sure to mention upfront the reason I have the laptop at all.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Doug said quickly.
Beth started to speak, then stopped. She appeared to be wrestling with something. Whatever it was stayed unspoken, though if I’d had to guess, it didn’t involve a charitable thought toward her husband. “You’re right,” she said after a moment. “Against my better judgment, I’ll trust Mr. Hayes on this.” She wouldn’t meet my eyes as she said my name. “Right now, we’ve got other things to worry about. We’ve got to deal with Pete. This is . . . unacceptable. Completely unacceptable behavior.”
“Unacceptable,” Doug echoed a moment later..
“Just give me a few days,” I said. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
“Please,” Doug said. “As quickly as possible.”
“A few days will be fine,” Beth said. “We appreciate everything you’ve done. I’m sorry about our son.”
“Not as sorry as my client,” I said.
10
I was still trying to wrap my mind around the parenting issues confronting the Freeleys when I walked under the long white awning at the Top that afternoon and looked around.
I wasn’t sure quite what I’d expected Henry Huntington to look like. After collecting information from my Google search, I’d tried to put aside whatever stereotypes I had about the result: provost and distinguished professor of nineteenth-century American studies at McCulloh College, a small liberal arts institution tucked between the city’s other two east-side colleges, Capital and Ohio Dominican. On the one hand, the man who stood up as soon as I’d reached the bar was indeed wearing a bow tie, tortoiseshell horn-rimmed glasses, and a tweedy-looking jacket with the requisite elbow patches. On the other hand, his hair was longer than I would have guessed, nearly shoulder length, and the close attention he was paying his smart phone as I walked up—and indeed paid throughout our conversation—belied any notions of a fusty academic out of step with the modern age. Frankly, he looked right at home with the smart set crowding the bar at the Top, an old-style steak house on East Main Street.
“Mr. Hayes,” he said, extending a hand.
“Call me Andy,” I said.
The bartender approached and I ordered an Elevator Brewing Company Buckeye Red draft. Huntington signaled for a second bourbon on ice. Cocktail hour was in full swing, and the bar was getting loud. I signaled toward a table and he nodded. We walked past the piano player and tucked into a corner booth.
“A shame there’s so few of these places left,” he said. “It’s like a tableau of the elegant past.”
“I try not to dwell in the past,” I said.
“An optimist?”
“Something like that. What can I do for you?”
“Regrettably,” Huntington said, looking past me, “I believe my wife is having an affair. I’d like you to look into it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Inklings,” he said. “She doesn’t work, well, not for money, and there are stretches of the day where I can never seem to reach her. Especially between noon and two. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Like clockwork.” He sipped his drink. I followed suit.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, responding to something in my expression. “She occupies