Part 6 (2/2)

”We don't have any theories at present. Do you mind if we borrow this picture?”

Corliss pulled it away, toward his own chest. ”My father wouldn't kill anyone. No one.”

”I understand,” Theresa said.

”Unless they deserved it,” he added, and turned over the picture. The sentiment did not seem too odd; Theresa had heard it before. Corliss continued to sort through the photos but the only other find, from an investigator's point of view, came near the bottom of the box.

”This is my father's office at the Pullman building,” Corliss told them.

Corliss Sr.'s office bore a great resemblance to Corliss Jr.'s study, aside from the color of the walls-white in the photo, pale caramel in the room in which they currently stood. Plenty of bookshelves supporting model trains instead of books, and framed pictures of same. Arthur Corliss stood by himself, facing the camera with crossed arms and a self-satisfied expression. A notation at the bottom read: November 1935.

”This is the same desk,” Theresa said.

Edward patted the worn surface as if pleased she had noticed. ”Solid cherry. An unusual design for the time, the flat top. Office desks were always rolltops, with all those little cubbies for storing things, but as office work increased in the new century, efficiency experts decided that a plain top minimized clutter and backlog. The pigeonholes made it too easy for workers to stash their work and forget it.”

”Interesting,” Theresa said.

Frank didn't find the historical trivia quite as fascinating. ”There's a door.”

”Door?” Corliss asked.

”Door?” Jablonski asked.

Theresa noted the opening, framed by wooden molding, in the wall behind the desk. ”Is that the bathroom? Did you ever visit your father's office, Mr. Corliss? Do you remember its arrangement?”

He frowned in concentration, peering at the photograph. ”Vaguely. I would have been only seven or eight, you understand.”

”Did it have a small lavatory?”

”It had a sink. I remember how old the fixtures seemed. And a bit rusty.”

”Anything else? A closet? A storage s.p.a.ce?”

”I don't think so, but I really can't be sure. I had just turned nine when he sold the place.” He handed the photo to Frank and went through the rest of the box but did not find any more of the building at 4950 Pullman.

With the interview winding down, Jablonski the stringer came to life.

”Did you work for your father's railroad, Mr. Corliss?”

”A bit, in my younger days. I ran the dispatch office for a few years, but then decided to break away to the more sophisticated climes in Europe and England. Silly, as it turned out, but not entirely unproductive: I read mechanics and chemistry at Oxford and then settled down to a respectable job as a civil engineer.”

”Buildings?”

”No, roads. Traffic patterns were our main concern.” He stood up, visibly stretching his legs, and plucked a four-inch-long locomotive carved from ivory from a shelf. He pressed it into Theresa's hands, guiding her fingers over the glossy surface. His eyes, she noticed, were blue with blue-gray flecks, like bubbles in champagne. ”I bought that from a pipe maker in Bath...remarkably smooth, don't you think? Anyway, then my father died and I returned to manage his estate. I also took over his position in the preservation society.”

Jablonski pounced on this. ”The what?”

Frank's pager buzzed, that angry-bee sound.

Corliss answered without looking away from Theresa. She had not been a tactile person for many years but somehow didn't mind the warmth of his hands wrapping hers around the ivory train. ”The American Railroad History Preservation Society. I'm the vice president. We're hosting a c.o.c.ktail partyslashfund-raiser at the art museum next month. You should come.”

Was this older man hitting on her?

Of course as her officially ancient birthday loomed, sixty-one no longer seemed too far out of line, especially a well-spoken and interesting sixty-one, so perhaps she should consider- Then she thought of her fiance, dead for fifteen months now, and it all seemed absurd. Her, her job, a seventy-four-year-old corpse.

”All of you,” Corliss added.

”It's beautiful,” she said of the train, and placed it back on the shelf.

”Thank you for showing us around.”

”Any time. I'm only too happy to share my collection. See this gear? It's from an original Union Pacific steam locomotive.”

”We have to go,” Frank said.

”Mr. Corliss, did your father ever mention the Torso Murders?” Jablonski asked.

”The what? Oh, those, the bodies in the river. I'm not that old, young man. Those things happened long before I was born.”

”Now,” Frank added.

Both host and reporter seemed disappointed as the party moved back to the front door, their voices echoing slightly against the foyer's high ceiling. Corliss said, ”Do come back if I can help in any other way. Take my card, Detective-there's my phone number. It's been a pleasure to meet you.”

”Thanks,” Frank said.

Jablonski asked if he could come back with follow-up questions, perhaps in the next day or two, and Corliss agreed.

”Thank you,” Theresa told him. He responded by touching her elbow as she made her way over the threshold, a courteous gesture, gentlemanly, except for the way his thumb caressed her forearm as he did it.

As she slid into the pa.s.senger seat, she noticed Corliss still watching from the open door. ”That was interesting.”

Frank mumbled under his breath.

”Did you get a call?”

”I'm going to drop you off at your car, Mr. Jablonski,” he said by way of response, and nosed the car out onto the boulevard.

”Your boss said I could stay with you two all afternoon, following the investigation....”

”Only the cold case. Not a current one.”

The grim way he said it convinced Theresa that the rest of her day had just been claimed as well.

<script>