Victims by Collin Wilcox Read Free Book Online Page B

going to trust just anyone—a hack, who’d botch the job. I flew here from New York on Wednesday. I rented a car, and began watching Marie and John. I already knew that, almost always, Guest takes John for the weekend, while Marie goes cruising.”
    “Cruising?”
    “For men,” he said bitterly. “Any man. She hits the bars—the singles’ bars. She drinks, and she screws. All weekend.”
    Neither Friedman nor I responded; we didn’t look at each other. I was aware, though, that Friedman was writing something in his notebook.
    “When I found out there was a man living with Marie, and obviously guarding John, I knew I’d have to take him from Quest’s house, on Friday or Saturday. So I waited in front of Marie’s place, on Friday. I stayed down the block until I saw Guest come to pick up John. I followed them for several hours, until finally they went to Guest’s house. I parked again, around the corner. I waited until about one o’clock, until I was sure Guest would be asleep.”
    “You didn’t know that Guest had hired someone to guard John on weekends, when he was staying with Guest?” Friedman asked.
    Kramer shook his head. “No.”
    “You might’ve expected it, though. Especially if Guest suspected that you were after John.”
    “Why would he suspect?”
    “Why wouldn’t he?” Friedman countered. “You’d been through a bitter divorce. You were furious, and he knew it. Not only that, but you already knew John was guarded at your wife’s home. That alone would’ve warned you to expect a guard at Guest’s house.”
    Kramer rubbed an unsteady hand across his forehead, once more shaking his head. His shoulders were sagging; he was slumping in his chair. Catching Friedman’s eye, I shook my head. This wasn’t the time to press Kramer on details. As long as he was talking, we should let him talk, uninterrupted. Friedman nodded mute agreement as Kramer said wearily:
    “You’re right, it was a bitter divorce. And, yes, I was furious. It—” He sighed, a ragged exhalation that caught painfully in his throat. “It was brutal. When Guest finished with me, I didn’t have a thing. I mean, nothing. Overnight, my business dried up. One week I had more clients than I could handle. The next week I had nothing. Zip. Guest had seen to that. No one returned my calls. Clients reneged on contracts, and dared me to sue them. There was only one thing I could do, and that was leave town. Which is what I did. I went back to New York, and started to pick up the pieces. That was the deal Guest offered me, you see. As long as I stayed away from San Francisco, away from his daughter, and John, he wouldn’t interfere. He’d even help me, in New York. Which he did, I’ll give him that. He helped me start again, and in a year I was back in business. Then I got remarried. Her name is—was—Diane Fischer. It’s been two years since we were married. We—” Suddenly he shook his head, and waved a wan, protesting hand, signifying that he’d momentarily run out of words.
    “And that’s when you started to think about getting your son back,” I prompted. “When you got remarried.”
    He looked at me. “Are you divorced?”
    I nodded. “Yes.”
    “Then you know.”
    “Yes.”
    He nodded in return, then dropped his eyes. He’d come to a pause—an agonizing pause. I decided it was time to try and fill in the details, the background: “You married your first wife—Marie—in New York,” I said, remembering Alexander Guest’s testimony. “You lived there when John was born. You were apparently doing quite well, in your business. Why’d you decide to come to San Francisco?”
    “We came to San Francisco,” Kramer answered, “because Guest wouldn’t have it any other way. He promised me the moon, if I agreed to come here. And he delivered, too. That’s the way he operates, you see. As long as you go along with him, the sky’s the limit. He’ll promise you anything—and make good on the promise, too.