The doctor laughed. “Well—so you think I could know something that I don’t know?”
“Okay. Perhaps I said that a little awkwardly. But is there anything that your father—though such a distant figure in your life—gave you? Something that could, in some way, be important?”
Dr. Brennan started shaking her head. “No. Nothing.” But then she stopped. “There’s just . . . that . . .”
She pointed to one of the bookshelves behind her. At the photograph. The man with a baby.
Billy stood up and walked over to it.
“May I?” he said, turning back to the doctor, who nodded.
Billy took the photograph down.
“I’m guessing—”
“Yes. My father. And me. The only photograph I have of him. He gave it to me when I was in high school.”
“In person?”
A shake of her head. “No. He mailed it to me, with a note . . .”
“Do you have the note?”
“’Fraid not. But kept the picture. Guess, it is kind of important. At least one time, long ago, he held me.”
“Yes,” Billy said, studying the picture. “And do you remember what the note said?”
“Um, not really. Something like . . . well . . . ‘Wish I was a better dad. More like the person in this picture.’ Something like that.”
Billy had hoped that the picture, important to Dr. Brennan, could actually be of help in figuring out the mystery of Paul Steiner.
“Just that note then? And the picture?”
Another nod. “And well—there’s something on the back of the picture. Didn’t seem to mean anything.”
At that, Billy froze for a second and then turned the frame over. But to see what was on the back of the photo, he’d have to take it out of the frame.
“Do you think I could take it out? See what’s there?”
“Sure. Doubt it means anything. Least, it didn’t mean anything to me.”
Billy carefully slid the backing of the frame down, taking care to hold the glass of the frame and the picture in place.
Until the black felt-like backing was off, and he saw what was written on the back.
There was a name. Luis. Then a series of numbers that meant absolutely nothing to Billy.
“This ‘Luis’ . . . that mean anything to you?”
“No. Not at all.”
Billy nodded. “And these numbers?”
“Not them either. Maybe went to a combination lock or something? Maybe just a note he made to himself . . . before he decided to give me the picture?”
Billy wasn’t at all sure about that.
Was it just sentimentality and regret of all the time lost with his daughter . . . was that all that this represented? Or did it mean something else?
He kept staring at the two rows of numbers.
411525704
And below it:
72153947
Meaning absolutely nothing to Billy. Until—
They did.
Amazingly . . . they did.
“Do you mind if I take a picture of the photo of what’s written here?”
“Sure. And if you have nothing more—”
Billy used his phone to take the pictures.
“Okay,” he said. “Guess I’m done. But thank you for talking with me. I think that your father, whatever his failings, would be so proud of you. The work you do . . .”
Billy was tempted to tell her what was likely the fate of her father. But that—would be best left till he knew for sure.
“The work you do here—that he made happen? Guess—good can come from some odd places.”
And at that, Katie Brennan turned to the office door, and Billy slid the frame’s backing up again, replaced the photo on the shelf, and then hurried to leave.
But Dr. Brennan had some final words: “Stay safe . . .”
Billy nodded. That was the goal, of course.
And he sure hoped it was possible.
* * *
Driving back to the North Fork, Billy used the Jeep’s Bluetooth setup to make a call.
“Lola Bristow,” he said, and Siri heard and confirmed the call to be made in her no-nonsense voice.
“Calling Lola Bristow.”
He waited while it rang . . . once, twice, then again. Maybe she was out somewhere, out of range? The North Fork did have many dead spots.
But then—
“Hello, Billy! Where are you?”
“Heading back.”
“Did you learn anything?”
Billy told the Northold police chief about the grants to the hospital and how Steiner had funded his daughter to do the amazing work she was doing.
“And that’s it? Nothing that can help us with what’s going on here?”
“Well. I think . . . I saw something. A photo. Katie Brennan as a baby, with Steiner. But there were things written on the back.”
“Things? Such as?”
“Two series of numbers. First thought—they could be anything, or nothing. You know, maybe a combination lock? But then—something clicked . . .”
“Go on?”
“The numbers. Realized I had seen something very close to them, arranged in just the same way. See, not sure. But I think . . . they aren’t just numbers? I think . . . they are GPS coordinates.”
“Coordinates? I don’t follow?”
“A location. I was seeing numbers just like these when I was on Willits’s boat. Marking a specific location.”
Then a pause. And he guessed that Bristow understood what that might mean.
“Wait a minute. You’re thinking . . . maybe . . . the money, the bullion . . . maybe there?”
“Wow. Bingo. Or being cautious—hopefully bingo? Only one way to find out.”
There was excitement in Lola’s voice. “Go to wherever they indicate, right? I’ll set that up. You want to come as well? Will bring in Talbot from the Coast Guard. Time we did that . . .”
“Good. Sure. And oh, there was one more thing written on the photo. Probably doesn’t mean a thing. Right above the first row of numbers.”
“Uh-huh?”
“A name. Luis.”
And at that, he heard Bristow laugh.
“Well, Billy Blessing, my turn to tell you something. Does that name mean something? You bet it does. But why not wait till you are back? Come direct to the station. Meanwhile, I’ll start making some calls.”
Billy was tempted to ask her to please tell him now but then thought: nah, a little bit of suspense would make things all the more interesting.
So he said, “See you soon.”
“You too.”
And the call ended, Billy wondering: What does Lola know about this name, Luis?