I’ll have you know I was one wicked Lady Macbeth.”
Sawyer looked at the screen, his mouth wide open as the word she had
just uttered pounded through his head: Performance?
Chewing on this new information, Sawyer hustled back to the conference
room. Ray Jackson was sitting there with several documents in his hand,
which he waved at his partner. “By fax from Charles Tiedman. Page’s
handwriting samples. I’ve got copies of the letters I found in
Lieberman’s apartment. I’m no expert, but I think we’ve got a match.”
Sawyer sat down and looked over the letters comparing the writing.
“I agree with you, Ray, but get the lab to give us a definite.”
“Right.” Jackson started off to perform that task, but Sawyer abruptly
stopped him. “Hey, Ray, let me look at those letters one more time.”
Jackson handed them over.
Sawyer only really wanted to look at one of them. The letterhead was
impressive: Columbia University Alumni Association. Tiedman hadn’t
mentioned that Steven Page had attended Columbia. Page had evidently,
at some point, been active in alumni affairs. Sawyer did some rough
arithmetic in his head. Steven Page was twenty-eight when he had died
five years ago. That would make him thirty-three or thirty-four today,
depending on his birthdate. So he probably would have been a 1984
graduate. Another thought suddenly flared into Sawyer’s head.
“Go ahead, Ray. I’ve got some calls to make.”
After Jackson went off with the documents, Sawyer dialed information and
got the number for Columbia University’s information office. Within a
couple of minutes he got through. He was told that Steven Page had
indeed been a 1984 graduate of the university, in fact a magna cum laude
graduate. Sawyer looked down at his hands as he prepared to ask his
next question. Every finger was quivering. He did his best to keep his
emotions under control as he waited for the woman on the other end of
the line to consult her records. Yes, Sawyer was told. The other
student was also an ’84 grad; indeed, this one had graduated summa cum
laude. Quite impressive, the voice said, to achieve that at Columbia.
He asked another question and was told he would have to talk to Student
Housing for the answer. He waited, his nerves humming with electricity.
When he finally got someone at Student Housing, the question was
answered within a minute. Sawyer quietly thanked the person for his
help and then slammed down the phone. The veteran FBI agent jumped out
of his chair and yelled “Fucking bingo!” to the empty room. Under the
circumstances, Sawyer’s excitement was quite natural.
Quentin Rowe was also a 1984 graduate of Columbia University.
And, far more importantly, Steven Page and Quentin Rowe had shared the
same residence during their last two years in college.
When it occurred to Sawyer a few seconds later why the two guys in
sunglasses on the videotape looked so familiar, his happiness quickly
faded into complete disbelief. There was just no damned way. But, yes,
it did make sense. Particularly if you looked at it for what it was: a
performance, all a sham. He picked up the phone. He had to find Sidney
Archer as fast as possible and he knew where he wanted to start
looking..Jesus, Joseph, Mary, has this case just taken one big U-turn,
he thought.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Traveling in a rental car, Mrs. Patterson and Amy were on their way to
Boston, where they would stay for a few days. Despite arguing about it
until the early morning hours, Sidney had been unable to persuade her
father to accompany them. He had sat up all night in the motel room
cleaning every speck of dirt and grit from his Remington twelve-gauge,
his jaw clenched tight and his eyes staring straight ahead as Sidney had
marched back and forth in front of him pleading her case.
“You know you really are impossible, Dad!” She said this as they were
heading back toward Bell Harbor in her father’s car; the battered Land
Rover had been towed to a service shop for repairs. She breathed a
quiet sigh of relief, though, as she leaned back against the seat. Right