Patrick came back that afternoon, and around five we drove over the Whitestone Bridge, retracing his father’s route.
We found the address in his GPS device under “Recent Destinations”: 110 Main Street in Banksville, New York. I Googled it on my phone and it came back it was something called the Stateline Diner.
“You know the place?” Patrick asked.
I shook my head. “I’ve probably passed it a dozen times. Banksville is the size of a postage stamp on the New York–Connecticut border. There’s not much there beyond a food market, a pharmacy and a post office. And this fancy French restaurant Jim took me to a couple of times, Le Cremaillaie.”
Patrick shrugged. “Well, I’d bet you a buck to a dime that my father damn well didn’t know it.”
“Maybe. But I’d take that bet that he was meeting someone who did.”
It took about an hour for us to get up there. Patrick told me about the missing phone and the calls back and forth between his father and whoever he’d given it to. He had no idea who that could be. We didn’t need to follow his dad’s exact route, as Patrick had already gone up there to reclaim his father’s belongings and visited the accident site. “He must have come up through New Jersey and over the Tappan Zee to avoid the BQE. That’s why he was on that back road.”
“You’re probably right,” I agreed. I called Elena, thinking of how his father’s choice of routes had probably cost him his life. Brandon had a doctor’s appointment at four.
I got her voice mail in Spanish.
They were probably in there now.
We took the Merritt up to Greenwich and then all the way out on North Street to the New York state line. We wound past some of the huge estates—sprawling gated properties hiding Loire-like chateaux set back from the road. It was enough to impress anyone, but these were clearly not the kind of places Patrick saw on a regular basis on Staten Island and in Bensonhurst.
“Kinda reminds me of your place.” He chuckled as we drove by a particularly impressive one.
“My place would be the garage for some of these homes,” I said. “And trust me, they can fill it!”
We slowed when the GPS announced we were a quarter mile from Banksville. The Stateline Diner was on Main Street, a cozy, shingled white house, and if you didn’t stop quickly, you’d pass through the town. About four or five cars were parked in the lot. We were talking about as out of the way as one could get here. If you were meeting someone and you didn’t want anyone else in the world to see, you came to the right place.
We parked, went up the porch steps, and stepped inside. The early dinner crowd seemed pretty local. Three or four tables were filled, a handful of stragglers at the counter. FOX News was on the screen with the sound muted.
A middle-aged hostess told us to take a seat. We found an empty table in the corner. A waitress came over, a girl with frizzy red hair and multiple earrings who seemed in her early twenties and who said her name was Amy. She pointed to a board on the wall that listed the specials. I was dying for a glass of wine, but I went for a Diet Coke instead. Patrick asked for a light beer. A few minutes later when Amy brought them back, Patrick asked her if we could show her something.
“My father was in here,” he said, “a couple of weeks ago.” He took out a photo. His dad smiling proudly with Patrick’s son. “It was a Thursday. Maybe an hour or so later than now. I wonder if anyone here might recognize him?”
“I’m not in on Thursdays,” the waitress said. “Lorraine might remember.” She indicated the hostess. “I’ll have her come by.”
A couple of minutes later the hostess came over. Patrick showed her the photo and asked if she recalled him from the week before.
At first she just stared. “He looks familiar …”
“Maybe you heard,” Patrick said. “He was killed in a car accident on his way home.”
“Oh my, yes, of course we heard!” the hostess said with an empathetic sigh. “Dina read about it in the local papers. Such sad, sad news. That was your father? I’m so, so sorry, dear …”
“Thank you,” Patrick said. “Appreciate it. We’re trying to reconstruct what brought him up here, and who he might have been meeting with. The truth is, we don’t have a clue.”
“Well, I don’t know,” The hostess shook her head. “I know I served him coffee. It was just before dinnertime if I recall.”
“He was here with someone?”
Lorraine put a hand to her curly blond hair as if trying to jog her memory. “Not when he came in, if I recall. But yes, someone did sit down with him a while later. They didn’t stay very long. They both got up and continued their conversation outside. I remember because I ran to take some leftovers out to a customer who had left them on the table and saw them over by a car …” She pointed. “Over there.”
Out in the dark parking lot.
“Any chance you know who this person was?” Patrick asked. “It’s really important.”
“I don’t, hon. Sorry. But Deena might. I’ve seen the man in here from time to time. I think she’s waited on him before. Deen …”
She called over a pretty waitress who looked to be in her forties with her dark, long hair in a ponytail. “You remember that guy you read about who was killed after he was in here? The one who got into that accident …”
“’Course … Wasn’t I the one who brought the newspaper in?”
“Well, this is his son. You remember the guy he was in here with that night? Stocky, short lightish hair. He’s got a mark on his face …” She touched her cheek. “Here. I know you’ve waited on him before.”
“You mean Charlie,” Deena the waitress said.
Charlie.
Patrick glanced at me, a rush in his eyes, as if we were finally getting somewhere. “Charlie who? Do you happen to know a last name? Or where he’s from?”
“Sorry. To me, he’s just Charlie. He comes in here maybe once a month. Mostly lunch or breakfast.”
“There must be something you can tell me about him?” Patrick asked. “Anything would be helpful.”
Deena shrugged, kind of blankly. Then, “Maybe one thing,” she said. “He works up in Hartford, I’m pretty sure.”
“Hartford?”
“In the state capital. Always bragging how he’s such a VIP. Acts like he’s God’s gift to women, which I assure you he ain’t.” Deena rolled her eyes.
“You think he works for a lawyer up there?” Patrick asked. “Or in law enforcement?”
“No.” Deena shook her head. “I think he works for some big-shot representative. Someone high up, he likes to brag. In the state government up there.”