can just tell her to check that. As long as you think she’ll see it in time.”
“Oh, I’m sure she will. And I’ll text her just to be sure. She’s at the library, supposed to be doing homework. What class did you say this was for?”
“English history.”
“What did you say your name was again?”
“How about I leave you my number?”
It’s a funny thing, but over the years I’ve found that nothing allays suspicion on calls like this more than offering a way to contact me.
“Ah, sure,” she said. “Just a moment.”
When she returned to the phone, I gave her my cell number. “Nice speaking with you, Mrs. Rawlings. You have a nice day.”
“You, too.”
One of the things I like about Columbus is that, as big a city as it’s gotten to be, it still takes only about twenty minutes to get anywhere. And so it was that in almost exactly that amount of time I was driving up Tremont to the library in Upper Arlington. It was a tony old suburb full of comfortable houses, wide boulevards, tall trees, fine golf courses, stellar schools, and a Fourth of July parade that people start reserving lawn space for days ahead of time. It was a bit much at times—the ’burb’s nickname, “Uppity Arlington,” was not always undeserved—but its charms were hard to argue with. Jack Nicklaus grew up there, and Dave Thomas, the guy who founded Wendy’s, called it home for forty years. My namesake, the real Woody Hayes, moved there after landing the Ohio State job in 1950.
Which was one of the reasons, the cost of real estate aside, why I’d never considered living there myself. Just wouldn’t have worked out.
I eased my blue Honda Odyssey into an open space in the library parking lot, got out of the car, and headed for the entrance. Then I reconsidered and took a stroll around the lot instead. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for, but I found it anyway underneath a tree at the end of a row of cars: a gleaming new red Mini Cooper with the license plate “JENI KAR.”
I walked into the library, went over to the information desk, and explained my situation. A minute later I heard the announcement over the PA system. And a few minutes after that Jennifer Rawlings walked up to the desk, wearing a tight white sweater, jeans that fit her quite nicely, and a frown that could have stopped Sherman’s army.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I dinged your car as I was pulling in. Do you have a sec—” I said, and gestured toward the door.
“Oh geez,” she said, with no improvement to the frown.
“Sorry,” I murmured, and we walked out together, the librarian at the desk casting a sympathetic look in my direction.
We walked without talking until we reached her car, at which point she stopped and demanded, “Where is it?”
I took two steps toward her. I said, “You’re Jennifer Rawlings?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” she said. “How’d you know my—”
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “I’m going to talk for five minutes and you’re going to listen. Interrupt me and I’ll key the Michigan fight song into the driver’s side door of your pretty little vehicle here. Understood?”
“I—” she began.
“I’m here on behalf of Ted Hamilton. I know all about the party. I’ve seen the e-mail and the video. I know what you’re up to and what you’re asking.”
“I, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she tried.
“No interruptions, remember?” I said, jingling my keys. “What you’re doing is extortion, and it’s illegal. You can go to prison for it. You and whoever shot that video. But even worse is the publicity. Got any college plans? You can kiss them goodbye if this hits the papers.”
She stared toward the library, not meeting my eyes. But at least she was listening.
“I can see how you thought this might be pretty easy. A simple way to make some quick cash, not that you look exactly poverty stricken. I’ll wager Mr. Hamilton wasn’t even the first. But all that’s in the past. The situation is now like this. Mr. Hamilton, who I represent, is declining to meet your demand. If you choose to post the video, he and I will be at the county prosecutor’s office and the local FBI headquarters and the Upper Arlington Police Department and the sheriff’s and the dogcatcher’s and whoever else I can think of before you’ve had three hits on the site. Am I making myself at all clear?”
She didn’t say anything. Just looked at her car.
“On the other hand, should you choose to rethink your request, we’ll simply walk away—on one condition. I want the video camera, the laptop, and every memory stick and external drive and mouse used in this undertaking. If I’m in a good mood when I’m done wiping them clean, you’ll get them back.”
I looked at her to see if I was getting through. She met my glance, then looked away.
“Unfortunately,” I said, looking at my watch, “I can’t be as generous with my deadline as you were. Therefore, you have until eight o’clock tomorrow morning. If I don’t have the stuff by then, I’ll assume you’re not accepting my offer and we’ll head to the police. Got it?”
After a moment, she said, slowly, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s up to you,” I said. I reached into my wallet, pulled out my business card, and handed it to her. She wouldn’t take it, so I tucked it under a windshield wiper on her car.
“Eight a.m.,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”
5
Since it was by now well past 2 p.m., I drove back down the road, pulled into the Tremont Center lot, and walked into the Chef-O-Nette. I sat at the counter and declined the menu the waitress brought by.
“I’ll have the Hangover,” I said.
A few minutes later she brought me the restaurant’s signature sandwich, consisting of a hamburger, slice of ham, cheese, onion, lettuce, and tomato. I’d been there when I’d needed the sandwich for the real thing. Today I just felt hungry. Fixing Hamilton’s problem had given me an unexpected appetite. But I got no further than my first bite when my phone rang.
“Yeah,” a boy’s voice said. “This is, ah . . . Did you talk to Jennifer Rawlings, like, a few minutes ago?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you, like, talk to her about Ted Hamilton.”
“That’s right,” I said again.
“Did you ask her to give you something?”
“Right again.”
“I think I’ve got what you want. If what you told her is true.”
“I told her a lot of things.”
“What you told her about the police.”
“What I told her about the police is true.”
“And you get the equipment, you won’t tell the police.”
“With a couple conditions.”
“Conditions?”
“If the video ever surfaces, no matter how or who’s responsible, the deal’s off.”
“All right, I guess.”
“No,” I corrected him. “All right, period. Secondly, the equipment has to check out. If you give me dummies or decoys, that’s just going to increase your liability, because then you’re looking at obstruction of justice.”
“Can we get the stuff back?”
“Once