chapter thirty-six

I’ve been trying his number, but with no success. Every time I call, no matter day or night, the machine picks up. I’ve left three messages. No response.

The day Janet gave me his number, I felt relieved. I was sure he was the descendant of my Patrick O’Riley—he just had to be. Now, with more time that passes, with days ticking by and still no contact, doubt chews at my heart.

Tonight, after I dial for the second time since arriving home, I sit down at the computer and run a search on his name. At first I find nothing new, only the same information Janet has already provided. I keep clicking, continue looking. Several pages into my search, I come across a website for a marketing research company, Strategy Data International, in Manhattan. The search engine pulls up the page because among its listed employees is a man named David Riley. The address of the business is not terribly distant from the home address I have for Mr. Riley, and I wonder if he is the same man. On the company’s personnel page, he is listed as a senior vice president. I click the link and, to my surprise, a picture flashes onto my screen.

His short hair is dark, and a look of confidence radiates in his eyes. I smile because he looks like he might be posing for the cover of a magazine—a mental picture so different from the one I’ve developed for Patrick, a bridge worker. As I study his features, I wonder if the two men resemble one another. Did the man who penned such wisdom in his engineering journal look like the person staring back at me from the computer screen? Are their features similar?

I find myself dropping into my interrogation mode, my park-bench game. This time the questions are different.

“Mr. Riley, do you know about your grandfather? Do you realize he spent years of his life alone, building a bridge, so that he could find hope for his family in America? If I send you this priceless journal, will you cherish it or toss it aside? And, Mr. Riley, do you still hold dreams in your heart?”

My questions end without answers as I pick up the phone and dial his number again. On the third ring, the machine clicks into its hired service. But as I stare at the picture of David Riley smiling back from the computer, it dawns on me that I now have another avenue. It is too late today—no one will answer after hours—but first thing tomorrow I will call the offices of Strategy Data International. First thing tomorrow, I will finally talk with Mr. David Riley.

Dave headed west. He didn’t look back.

In the distance, miles over the horizon near the coast, a wall of cool ocean air, heavy with moisture, was sweeping inland. It was moving rapidly toward a blanket of warm desert air that had stagnated midland. Before long the two layers would collide over the San Bernardino Valley, causing the temperature to drop several degrees in just a few minutes. The billowing mass of majestic cumulus clouds was just beginning to thicken and churn near the base of the mountains.

In the distance, a massive storm was forming.

The phone rings only once.

“Good morning. Strategy Data. How may I direct your call?” The young voice is polished and professional.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. David O’Riley, please.” I notice a pause.

“Do you mean Dave Riley?”

I chuckle. I’ve been calling Patrick by his last name, O’Riley, for so long that it sounds wrong pronounced any other way. “Yes, my mistake. May I please speak to Dave Riley?”

“Let me transfer you.”

After a few clicks, the phone is answered again. This time the woman sounds older, less mechanical.

“I need to speak to Dave Riley, please.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Riley is out on . . . an extended leave. It could be several days, perhaps longer.”

It’s odd that they don’t know when he’ll be back. I wonder what message to leave. “May I give you my number? I presume he’ll be checking for messages?”

“He hasn’t. I’m sorry, I don’t know if he will.”

It’s a peculiar way to run a professional corporation. But then again, I work at a university. After I recite my number, she asks, “And may I tell him what this concerns?”

I could tell her that it’s a personal matter, but that won’t give me answers. Instead I decide to respond with a question. “Do you know if Mr. Riley had a grandfather named Patrick?”

Her silence tells me it’s a question that she’s never been asked.

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have that information.”

It was worth a shot. “If Mr. Riley does check in, please have him call me immediately. I have something valuable that may belong to him.”

Brock was on the phone when Ellen entered for the third time that morning. She waited patiently—not her usual character—until Brock finished.

“Anything?” Ellen asked.

“I talked to a guy named Redd down at the bike shop, a friend of Dave’s. He spoke to him yesterday. I guess Dave was having some bike problems in Colorado, but according to Redd, he got them fixed and is now heading toward the coast.”

“And you tried his cell number again?”

“I did. Either the battery’s dead or he’s not answering. I get nothing.”

“Seriously? How can he not answer?”

“Don’t blame him for that.”

Ellen ignored the comment. “Look, just keep trying, and if you hear something, anything at all, let me know.” She turned and headed out of the office, mumbling.