justice. Nonsense. Because he moved a few boxes.”
Tree aimed a sympathetic nod in her direction, remembering the boxes contained evidence pertaining to the case. The removal had been caught on a security camera.
“How’s he doing up there?”
“Brand is doing fine. Brand always does fine. No matter what. That’s Brand. He adjusts to his circumstances. He survives. That’s what he does.”
A fleeting, uncertain look was followed by silence. She crossed and uncrossed her legs. Tree tried not to look. Elizabeth Traven cleared her throat.
“We’ve lived in New York and London for the past twenty years or so. Captiva is our winter retreat. But ever since Brand’s been at Coleman, I’ve stayed here, driving to see him three or four times a week. You spend a lot of time waiting at Coleman, in a kind of holding room where they put inmate wives and girlfriends, lawyers too, but mostly it’s the women. It becomes sort of a bonding thing. In a way, we all become inmates.”
She glanced out the window, as though the rest of her story might be in the parking lot.
“I’ve become friends with a woman whose husband is a dealer in stolen goods, at least that’s what she says. He’s serving time for manslaughter, which means he killed someone but didn’t do it intentionally. According to my friend, her husband never killed anyone unintentionally. So there you go, Mr. Callister, these are the kind of people you get involved with when your husband ends up in prison; the criminal class. I suppose in your line of work, you are used to such types.”
Tree nodded solemnly, as though intimately familiar with the criminal class.
“Well, for me, it’s alien territory, let me assure you. But I like Michelle. Something rather captivating about her. Fascinating.”
“Michelle?”
“Michelle Crowley.”
Tree put on his glasses and made a note. Elizabeth Traven said, “You wear glasses?”
“Just for reading.”
“Everyone calls her Mickey. Hispanic mother who was a drug addict. Black father doing life in Idaho or some such place. A brother was killed in a drive-by shooting. Stories of growing up in the Overtown section of Miami that are not to be believed.”
“She lives around here now?”
“Fort Myers. She had to take the bus to Coleman, which isn’t easy, so I drove her back and forth on the days when I visited. It was nice to have the company. You’ve got nothing in common, really, but in fact for the moment you’ve got everything.
“A few times we ended up eating together because it was late after the drive back, and neither of us felt like cooking. Then she began calling me—late at night, first thing in the morning.
“After that, she would show up at odd hours. I’d drive to the supermarket or walk on the beach, and she’d follow me.”
She paused and looked at him. Tree threw his glasses on the desk. “It sounds as though there might be reason for concern.”
She re-crossed her legs. He fought off memories of the bad women who filled the paperback detective novels of his youth.
“So that’s where we are at the moment,” Elizabeth said. “I find her actions threatening. I’m never sure when she’s going to appear, and I’m not certain what she will do next. I don’t want to go to the police, because she hasn’t done anything. Maybe she is just lonely, and needs a friend and has gone a little overboard. I don’t know.”
“What can I do to help?” Tree was pleased with the way he phrased the question. It had a nice professional ring to it.
“You may or may not know, I’m a writer.”
“A biography of Karl Marx.”
Elizabeth looked pleasantly surprised. “Among others, yes. I’m trying to finish a new book. Trotsky. His life and times. He’s giving me enough trouble. I don’t need any more distractions. I’m feeling vulnerable, perhaps a little more frightened than I like to admit.”
“Why don’t I see what I can find out about this woman, ascertain what she’s up to,
Tree aimed a sympathetic nod in her direction, remembering the boxes contained evidence pertaining to the case. The removal had been caught on a security camera.
“How’s he doing up there?”
“Brand is doing fine. Brand always does fine. No matter what. That’s Brand. He adjusts to his circumstances. He survives. That’s what he does.”
A fleeting, uncertain look was followed by silence. She crossed and uncrossed her legs. Tree tried not to look. Elizabeth Traven cleared her throat.
“We’ve lived in New York and London for the past twenty years or so. Captiva is our winter retreat. But ever since Brand’s been at Coleman, I’ve stayed here, driving to see him three or four times a week. You spend a lot of time waiting at Coleman, in a kind of holding room where they put inmate wives and girlfriends, lawyers too, but mostly it’s the women. It becomes sort of a bonding thing. In a way, we all become inmates.”
She glanced out the window, as though the rest of her story might be in the parking lot.
“I’ve become friends with a woman whose husband is a dealer in stolen goods, at least that’s what she says. He’s serving time for manslaughter, which means he killed someone but didn’t do it intentionally. According to my friend, her husband never killed anyone unintentionally. So there you go, Mr. Callister, these are the kind of people you get involved with when your husband ends up in prison; the criminal class. I suppose in your line of work, you are used to such types.”
Tree nodded solemnly, as though intimately familiar with the criminal class.
“Well, for me, it’s alien territory, let me assure you. But I like Michelle. Something rather captivating about her. Fascinating.”
“Michelle?”
“Michelle Crowley.”
Tree put on his glasses and made a note. Elizabeth Traven said, “You wear glasses?”
“Just for reading.”
“Everyone calls her Mickey. Hispanic mother who was a drug addict. Black father doing life in Idaho or some such place. A brother was killed in a drive-by shooting. Stories of growing up in the Overtown section of Miami that are not to be believed.”
“She lives around here now?”
“Fort Myers. She had to take the bus to Coleman, which isn’t easy, so I drove her back and forth on the days when I visited. It was nice to have the company. You’ve got nothing in common, really, but in fact for the moment you’ve got everything.
“A few times we ended up eating together because it was late after the drive back, and neither of us felt like cooking. Then she began calling me—late at night, first thing in the morning.
“After that, she would show up at odd hours. I’d drive to the supermarket or walk on the beach, and she’d follow me.”
She paused and looked at him. Tree threw his glasses on the desk. “It sounds as though there might be reason for concern.”
She re-crossed her legs. He fought off memories of the bad women who filled the paperback detective novels of his youth.
“So that’s where we are at the moment,” Elizabeth said. “I find her actions threatening. I’m never sure when she’s going to appear, and I’m not certain what she will do next. I don’t want to go to the police, because she hasn’t done anything. Maybe she is just lonely, and needs a friend and has gone a little overboard. I don’t know.”
“What can I do to help?” Tree was pleased with the way he phrased the question. It had a nice professional ring to it.
“You may or may not know, I’m a writer.”
“A biography of Karl Marx.”
Elizabeth looked pleasantly surprised. “Among others, yes. I’m trying to finish a new book. Trotsky. His life and times. He’s giving me enough trouble. I don’t need any more distractions. I’m feeling vulnerable, perhaps a little more frightened than I like to admit.”
“Why don’t I see what I can find out about this woman, ascertain what she’s up to,
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