With thoughts of Lisa’s departure on his mind, James forgot that a package was due to arrive until he heard the knock on the door. Through the window he saw a deliveryman scurry through the heavy rain to his brown delivery truck.
The box sat on the doorstep. The return address was from Cole Elliot in Queens, New York. Peter’s nephew.
James carried the package inside, shutting out the gusty wind that blew the rain in sideways patterns.
The storm outside, the old mantel clock ticking from the wall, and the refrigerator humming from the kitchen were the only noises around him as James faced the box. His mind reeled through memories of his old partner. His friend had spent countless hours at this very house, coming over for dinner, playing with Lisa in the backyard, or tinkering with the engine of his Firebird in the garage because his condo didn’t allow room for car repairs.
Peter had been the brother James didn’t have. They’d trusted their lives in each other’s hands more times than James could remember. Then suddenly, they never spoke again . . . not that Peter hadn’t tried. Now he’d finally hear Peter’s final words to him. How James wished he could say a million words back.
James opened the box on the dining room table. Inside he found a worn and crinkled manila envelope as well as a note from Peter’s nephew apologizing for not sending it along sooner. He wrote that he’d only discovered it after looking through his mother’s belongings after O’Ryan called him.
James recognized Peter’s handwriting on the outside of the thin envelope. The seal hadn’t been broken. Perhaps Peter’s words written across the front had scared his nephew into abiding by his request: For FBI Special Agent James Waldren ONLY. James broke the seal and looked inside.
There was a note folded in thirds. James stared at the other object sitting at the bottom of the envelope. He poured both items out, and an antique brass key clattered onto the table. He picked it up, feeling its weight. He knew exactly what he was holding.
O’Ryan was right. Somehow Peter had obtained the object he’d been looking for—one of the keys to President Kennedy’s historic cabinet. Had he used it to find the secrets he was looking for? James opened the letter.
Jimmy,
My mistakes are big and vast, ol’ buddy. I hope you can forgive me for them. There’s much I wanted to tell you. It was best not to, despite how it seemed. But in protecting you and your family, the only family I’ve been close to, I lost all of you. Know that my intentions have always been for the best. Loyalty and truth can become complicated in our field. But my loyalty has always been with you, despite how it seemed.
Someday please explain it all to Lisa-belle. I wouldn’t want her to think Uncle Peter didn’t love her. She meant the world to me.
I hope the key helps to right the wrongs. Be careful with it. Don’t trust the Bureau with it, or anyone else. Get to the source and unlock it yourself. That’s the only way to be sure. The answers should be there.
You were the brother I never had.
Peter
James read the letter three times, wanting more, much more. He wanted explanations and more clarity in his friend’s last words.
He sat down in a chair. Peter had died in 1971. He’d wanted James to get this back then, not all these decades later. James looked inside the envelope once more and saw an address written inside. Peter knew the address—it was in Washington, DC, and most likely where the Kennedy cabinet was stored.
James found his phone and called Lisa. She didn’t answer, and he didn’t leave a voice mail. But his mind raced with ideas. They could go together to DC and get to the bottom of this once and for all.
Glancing at the clock, he realized it was nearly time to pick Lisa up at her hotel. He wondered what to do with the key and letter. For too long it had been floating out in the world. He stuffed it into a small safe in his bedroom and tried calling Lisa again. Again, no answer.
James drove to her hotel more excited to see her by the minute. He had the key. The fact was settling in slowly; James could barely believe it. For decades he’d wondered if it even existed, and now it had arrived on his doorstep. His gut said that this was more than just a key to a cabinet—it was the key to saving Leonard Dubois.
Lisa wasn’t in the lobby yet. He was twenty minutes early. He called her again, then called her room from a hotel phone. No answer either time.
He wandered by a large fountain to one of the attached restaurants, peering in at the mostly empty tables. Then he walked back and sat beside a marble statue. He glanced up at the statue, shaking his head. He’d never feel comfortable in a place like this.
“Has Lisa Waldren checked out yet?” James asked the woman at the front desk.
She studied him and said, “Uh, I’m not able to give out guest information.”
“Never mind, I’ll go up to her room.”
“Is she expecting you?” the woman asked, standing from the stool.
“Yes. I’m her father.”
“I was told to get my manager if anyone asked for Ms. Waldren. One moment, please.”
James waited, drumming his fingers on the polished wood and scanning the lobby for his daughter. He dialed Rosalyn’s number while he waited.
“Didn’t Lisa say for me to get her at three?” he asked.
“Um, I think so,” Rosalyn said, and James wondered why he was asking the woman who was notoriously late.
He hung up with Rosalyn as the hotel manager arrived.
“If I can’t go up to her room, will you send someone? I’m getting concerned.” James showed the manager his retired FBI credentials.
“Oh, sorry, sir. Please come with me, and we’ll see if she’s there.”
The hotel manager unlocked the door to Lisa’s room. As they walked inside, James was struck by that old instinct that something was terribly wrong.
Lisa’s suitcase was still open. Several of her belongings were on the desk and her toiletry bag hung in the bathroom. He found the car rental agency papers on her bedside table. But no one was there.