Driving across the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge the following morning, I thought this still seemed like the most viable option.
I had dropped Brandon at school. Later, Elena would pick him up and take him to her house. He stayed with her for a day or two from time to time if my folks were in Florida and I was out of town.
I was way too nervous for either of us to go back to my own house right now.
I turned off the bridge and wrapped onto Hylan Boulevard, as I’d done to go to the funeral two weeks ago.
This time I turned onto Midland Avenue in the direction of the bay. Patrick Kelty had said this was where anyone could find him if they wanted to come and help. The money rightfully belonged to him more than it did to me. I had to know where it might have come from, if someone was after me or not. Whether Rollie had been killed for it. Before I completely brought my life down for it.
And Brandon’s too.
Every house I passed was still in some state of disrepair. The street was passable; what debris was left had been cleared to the side. Several houses still had boarded-up first-floor windows and blankets or insulation covering them where they were exposed. What were once pleasant and colorful Victorians and beachy bungalows now looked like gutted and abandoned slum houses.
Baden Avenue was a middle-class street that back-ended into the drive that went along the shoreline, Father Capodonna Boulevard. Several homes had work crews in front, volunteers pitching in, dump trucks and Dumpsters.
I pulled up across the street from number 337. It was a blue Victorian with a tower on the third floor. Most of the houses seemed in decent shape, though closer to the bay, a couple of others looked like they’d been gutted. I’d read that a few people from this neighborhood had died, and many of the homes were no more than tiny wooden bungalows, below sea level. I waited for a while in the car, not sure what I would say. Only that the wrong reaction on Patrick’s part could land me in jail. Finally I just blew out my cheeks and thought, Hil, let’s just go. The one thing I couldn’t live with was the thought that I had possibly contributed to an innocent man’s death, and that if my fears were right, Patrick could be in danger too. I spotted him on the front porch, directing a couple of workers who were hauling lumber. I heard the sound of a chain saw from inside.
I got out of the car.
The cold wind coming off the bay lashed into me, and I was probably a second away from turning around and calling this a bad idea when he came down the front steps, lugging what appeared to be a rotted window frame. He was handsome, in a rugged way, wearing a blue New York Rangers sweatshirt and jeans and worn work boots, with auburn-colored hair cut short and flecked with red. He almost bumped into me. I’m sure I had one of those dumbstruck, I’m-not-sure-what-the-next-word-out-of-my-mouth-will-be looks on my face, but I knew I definitely didn’t look like I belonged here.
“I hope you’re with FEMA,” he said, heading past me to a pickup truck on the street.
“Sorry?”
“FEMA.” He balanced the frame on his thigh and pulled down the latch for the cargo bay. “But I don’t see any briefcase, so I think not. And you’re probably not with Penn Mutual either.”
“Penn Mutual?’
“Our insurance carrier. Who we haven’t seen here since we first filed. Three months ago.”
I shook my head and shrugged kind of apologetically. “No, I’m not.”
“And you certainly don’t look like you’ve come around to pitch in. So I guess that probably leaves you as some kind of local press down here to see how we’re all holding up, which is barely.
“Which would actually be fine,” he said, looking at me, “because we need whatever attention we can get. We’re not quite the story line the Jersey shore is, God knows why. As you can see, there’s a bunch of us still living like the storm was yesterday.” He threw the rotted window frame into the truck’s cargo bay.
“Sorry.” I shook my head again. The icy wind whipped in from the bay.
“Well, that’s three.” He shut the cargo door. “Three sorries. Publishers Clearing House lottery maybe? I won the grand prize? We could certainly use it.”
“None of the above, I’m afraid. I was actually just looking for a word with you. You’re Patrick Kelty, right? Joe Kelty’s son.”
“That would be me.” He headed back up toward the house.
“My name’s Hilary Cantor. I just need to talk with you for a few minutes,” I said, keeping up with him. “I know you’re busy. Do you have a couple of minutes?”
“I do have a couple of minutes.” He stopped. “I just don’t have a couple of minutes anywhere that’s warm. We could go inside, but it’s drafty enough you might as well be in a boat out on the bay.” The chain saw whirred with its earsplitting whine. “Then there’s that. We’re finally demolding the first floor.”
“Out here will be fine.”
“Not out here. I can see you’re freezing. Down here we call it ‘the Father Cap breeze.’ Balmy, right? C’mon, I can give you a cup of coffee at least? Courtesy of Dunkin’ Donuts up on Hylan. They keep us pretty filled day to day.”
“Sure.” I smiled appreciatively. “Coffee would be great.”
“Come on up then.”
I followed him up onto the front porch. The drone of industrial-size drying fans and the hammering of drywall being stripped hit me from inside. “Milk, okay? Sugar?”
“Just milk,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Be right back.” He went inside and I looked around at the neighborhood up close. A once happy family street, a block from New York Bay, in the shadow of the Verrazano. Now it looked as if a missile had hit it dead-on. A few of the homes had work crews at them and construction vans; others hadn’t yet begun. A couple of the homes looked as they must have the day after the storm.
Patrick came back out with two Styrofoam cups. “If it’s not right, don’t complain to me . . .”
“I won’t. Thanks.” I wrapped my hands around it and instantly it warmed me. I took a sip. “So how did you know I wasn’t here to volunteer?”
He chuckled. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I’m not.”
His eyes drifted down to my moccasins. “People who come to pitch in don’t usually show up in Tod’s. Dead giveaway.”
“Oh.” I nodded guiltily. “Anyway, they’re not. Tod’s. Tod’s knockoffs maybe.”
“Anyway, you look like you should be volunteering up in Greenwich or Rye or something. Not that that’s so bad. So what’s up? You actually look familiar.” He stared at me. “Why do I think I’ve seen you somewhere before?” My hair was pulled back and I had only a hint of makeup on.
“I was at the funeral,” I said.
He slowly nodded. Then he jabbed his index finger at me. “That’s where it was. You were in one of the back rows. I remember.”
“That’s pretty good under the circumstances. I’m really sorry about what happened to your dad.”
“Thanks. He was a good guy. So you knew him then?” He smiled. “People he worked with generally don’t wear Tod’s either. Or the knockoffs.”
“No. I didn’t know him.” I took another sip and drew in a steadying breath. “I was actually at the accident site.”
He blinked. That seemed to take him totally by surprise. “Up in Westchester . . . ?”
I nodded.
“Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. So you’re from up there?”
“Armonk.”
“Ah, now I get the shoes.” He rotated his coffee cup. “I actually didn’t know there was anyone else at Pop’s accident site. Just this one guy . . .”
“Rollie,” I answered for him. “Roland McMahon.”
Now he nodded. “My sister spoke with him. Now that I think of it, maybe he did mention someone else being with him there at first.”
I waited to see if that seemed to mean anything to him. If the friendliness in his eyes suddenly shifted to suspicion. If behind them was the question of where the hell half a million dollars had gone that was in his father’s possession at the time of his death.
I didn’t see anything.
“I know this is kind of weird,” I said, “but I don’t know if you heard . . . He died.”
“Yeah, we actually did hear that.” Patrick leaned his weight against a column. “Suicide, we were told. The police contacted us, to see if he’d maybe been in touch after our initial conversation. Which he hadn’t. Kind of a strange thing, though, given how he was ready to run down and help my dad, then not even a week later . . .” He shrugged. “So you were there?”
“Actually, I was there first,” I said, putting my own cup down on the railing. “I saw your father’s car go out of control. A deer ran in front of it. You probably already know that. But he was gone by the time I got down there. I’m sorry, I really wish there was something I could have done. I just couldn’t wait around. I have a son who I was late for and Rollie was there, so . . .” I shrugged. “There wasn’t much either of us could do.”
“No need to explain.” Patrick smiled. “I understand.” He sat down on the railing. “So I guess we’ve come to the part of the conversation as to what brings you all the way down here?”
We had. Did I just let it out right here? There was half a million dollars on the front seat that might have belonged to you, and I took it. This was the time. But Patrick didn’t seem to be fitting into any of my concerns. His demeanor hadn’t changed. He wasn’t probing me for details. I was also thinking he probably didn’t need to be going through this again so soon after the funeral.
“I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to let you know that I was there,” was all I said, feeling my courage ebb. “I was wondering if you ever figured out what your dad was doing up there? You mentioned at the funeral that you hadn’t?”
He looked at me. A liveliness in his warm blue eyes. Earnest, trusting. “No. We still don’t,” he said. “I was going to dig into it, then I figured, what would be the point? What happened, happened. He’d mentioned something about some building supply outfit he was going to see up there. For kitchen tile. Anyway, it may not look it, but what’s left here is still very much alive, and it’s pretty much taking up everything I have lately.”
“I can see that. It’s overwhelming.”
He shrugged. “At times it seems that way. You just do what you can. Anyway, look, I appreciate you trying to help up there. My dad would have been the first one to pitch in himself if it had happened to someone else.”
“So I heard.” I wanted to tell Patrick exactly why I’d come. Why I was at the funeral. But the words stuck in my throat. I suddenly felt panic, mixed in with a bit of shame. I felt if I stayed there any longer he’d see right through me. I realized that Patrick Kelty’s father was involved in something that his son knew nothing about. And there was likely nothing good connected to it. And the more I talked, the more it would come out. He didn’t need to hear it.
I felt I had to get out of there.
“Look, thanks for the coffee.” I stood up. “You’re busy. I probably should head on.”
“You’re not just being modest and you’re actually a whiz with a chain saw by any chance, are you?” He smiled.
“No. Wouldn’t know which end was the chain and which was the saw.”
“Figured. You didn’t exactly look the type. By all means come see us again if you ever do figure one out.”
“I will. Thanks for the coffee.” I went back down the stairs. I motioned to a ragged stuffed teddy bear that was perched on the steps of the front porch. “Night security?” I asked
Patrick smiled. “Keeps out the looters. I found him washed ashore in a pile of rubble. Happens every day down here.”
“What’s his name?” I put my hand over my eyes as Patrick was suddenly in the sun.
“Joe.” Patrick picked up the coffee cups and stacked them together. “He doesn’t say very much, so I named him after my dad.”