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“Your point?”
“It’s a decoy run.”
More nothing.
“An attempt to mislead us.”
“I’m fluent in soccer. Why would Benjamin want to mislead us?”
“He’s hiding something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But I spotted another tell. Benjamin listed reasons his father grew to hate New York. Snow. Lumpy sidewalks—”
“I was present.”
“Pretty boys.” Hooking finger quotes Monck couldn’t see. “That seems an odd irritant for an old man. Also, while talking to him, I had the feeling another person was there.”
“So, what? The dude’s not allowed to have a life?”
“There’s something else.”
I stole another calming moment before putting it into words.
“When we arrived at Benjamin’s house, an old Dylan song was blasting. ‘Mr. Tambourine Man.’?”
“Big deal. It’s a classic.”
“The same track was playing yesterday.”
“So the guy—”
“I keep bumping on this one line in the lyrics.”
Monck waited as I recited the words.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free.
4:00 P.M.
Monck came to the condo at four, goofy hair an unresolved spat. He looked as wired as I felt. And by then I was bursting out of my skin.
I offered coffee, the last thing my sizzling nerves needed. Monck accepted. We drank it on the terrace as he briefed me on the latest.
The usual legal pad was covered with the usual scribbles. He consulted it now and then, checking a name or date.
“A man named Avner Binjamin bought the home on Karst Way in 2013. In 2017, when Avner kicked, title transferred to Yosef Binjamin.”
“Joe Benjamin. He altered his name.”
“Yes. There’s no record of the property changing hands again. Utilities have been in Joe Benjamin’s name since shortly after his assumption of ownership.”
“What’s his story?”
“Here in Provo, he hasn’t one.”
Monck raised fleshed fingers to emphasize points.
