Patrick and I rushed back to my house in Armonk at two thirty in the morning. It took only forty minutes; there was barely another car on the road. As we turned up my cul-de-sac, I kept my eyes peeled for any suspicious cars around.
I didn’t see any.
“Whoa!” Patrick ogled, his eyes widening as we drove into the driveway. The place did look impressive with its second-floor dormers, mullioned windows, the three-car garage, and the outside lights turned on.
“Make me an offer.” I grinned. “We can start with your share of the cash.”
“Sorry.” He pulled the car up in front of the garage. “Just a shade out of my league.”
“I hope you don’t mind if we dispense with the tour. I’ll be back in a minute.” I ran in through the garage and hurriedly threw together a change of clothes and a few toiletries as Patrick stayed in front and stood guard.
Then I went around the back.
It was a bit eerie going under the deck, my feet crunching on a crusty layer of snow, no light but the moon. I crawled over to the cooler and breathed a sigh of relief to find the ski bag where I’d left it. I was even more relieved when I opened it and saw the money still there. I zipped the case up and went back upstairs.
Barely five minutes had passed and I was back in the car.
“Let’s just get out of here,” I said.
“Mind if I take a peek?” Patrick asked, and zipped open the nylon case. His eyes grew wide. “Always wondered what half a million dollars looked like.”
“Four hundred and thirty-seven five,” I reminded him. “Now can we please get the hell out of here?”
It took even less time to make it back to his house in Bensonhurst. The late hour, along with the intensity of everything I’d been through tonight, began to take its toll. I even closed my eyes and dozed on the way back.
Back at his house, Patrick insisted I take the bedroom and threw a sheet and a quilt over the couch for himself. He threw the money in a storage nook in the basement. In about thirty seconds I was dead to the world. The next thing I knew I was opening my eyes and it was light. The smell of bacon was coming from the kitchen. I threw a T-shirt on over my jeans and stepped out.
I couldn’t believe it was almost noon.
“I don’t think I’ve slept this late since college.” I gave Patrick a sleepy wave at the stove.
He was in a cut-off sweatshirt and jeans. “Breakfast’s almost ready. You mind green salsa in your eggs?”
“You mean lunch, right? And sure, I love salsa.”
“Grab a seat.” The table we sat at last night was already set. “It’s not much—I found whatever I could in the fridge. Turkey bacon, scrambled eggs and cheese over a tortilla. Help yourself to some coffee. There’s milk in the fridge.”
“Not much? This is great! Any chance for some tea?”
“It’s usually extra, but in your case, you did put up a larger deposit than usual.” He pointed to the counter. “There ought to be some in that jar over there.”
I found a tin and some English Breakfast inside. Next to it, I noticed a framed photo I hadn’t seen last night. A young boy, seemingly around eight. Bangs of light brown hair down to his eyes. An adorable smile.
The boy I’d noticed with him the day of the funeral.
“That’s Matt,” Patrick said. “His mother moved out west and remarried a guy who lives in Phoenix. He adored his grandpa.” He scooped the eggs out of the pan onto two plates and added a couple of strips of bacon.
“I bet he did,” I said. “He’s adorable.”
“You kidding . . . ?” Patrick grinned, putting a plate in front of me. “The kid’s a rock star. Takes after his mother, fortunately. Here . . .”
“Thanks.” I took the plate and looked up at him. “Really. For everything, Patrick.”
“C’mon. Eggs are getting cold.”
They were delicious. Scrambled eggs over a tortilla with a spicy green salsa and cheese. “You were obviously a short-order cook before you became a cop.”
He shrugged. “Remnants of a hospitality major for a while when I was in college.”
He read my look, which was kind of like, how the hell did a hospitality major end up working for the police?
“Switched to government in my junior year,” he volunteered without my asking.
“Where?” I asked, scooping a forkful of eggs onto a tortilla.
“Upstate New York. Cornell.”
“Jeez,” I said, “you’re also some kind of brain on top of everything else?”
He sniffed, shaking his head. “Hockey. I got recruited there, but by my junior year I’d banged up my knee and didn’t even play.”
“Well, these are good. At least that hospitality major didn’t go to waste. How’d that wife of yours ever let you go?”
“Didn’t. She left me. Long tale.”
“They all are,” I said. “And we all have one.”
“Anyway, after nine-eleven I had a change of heart. I decided to go into police work. And you?”
“You mean how I became a cop?”
“I was thinking more how you became single.”
I gave him the sixty-second version. Jim. My days in magazines, then my time at the agency. The Cesta debacle. I’d already talked about the divorce and Brandon.
“So he’s okay?” Patrick asked. He clearly meant Brandon. “Where he’s staying now?”
I nodded. “He and Remi have stayed with Elena whenever I had to travel and my folks weren’t around. No one would know that. I had her pick him up from school yesterday afternoon. Speaking of which, he’s got a doctor’s appointment today with his neurologist. I have to remind Elena.”
“Who’s Remi?” he asked.
“Remi’s the dog.”
“It must be very tough.” He broke off a piece of tortilla and dipped it in the salsa. “Dealing with all this on your own. And I don’t mean taking the money.”
“It’s tough . . .” I nodded. “Not like there’s a choice in the matter . . . But these past two years, with Brandon at Milton Farms, watching him evolve, it’s strangely also become the most rewarding time of my life. One I don’t want to let go of. Sorry, but in my book he’s kind of a rock star too.”
Patrick smiled. “I bet he is.”
“So I guess that brings us to present time . . .” I pushed my plate aside. It was pretty clean. “You have a next step?”
“I’ve been thinking . . . My dad had a GPS with him in his Honda. I’d thought about tracking down where he went that night, but until all this came up, it wasn’t exactly a mystery that needed to be solved. You know what I mean? But there’ll be a record in there of where he went. Maybe someone might know who he was there to see.”
I nodded. “Seems a start,” I said.
“A start?” he said, stacking my plate and putting it on the counter near the sink.
“Look, there’s something else I didn’t tell you.” I stood up.
“The mike’s all yours . . .” he said, and leaned with his palms against the counter.
“I found your father’s cell phone on the floor mat when I went into his car. Something made me take a look. I’m not sure why. There was a text message in there he had written.”
“Wasn’t his. My dad didn’t text message,” he said, shrugging.
“Well, I’m sorry, but he did that night. I even noticed the time of it. It was almost exactly when he went off the road. I can’t remember who it was to, but he was telling someone that he was on his way back, just as that deer ran in front of him. The police never mentioned that?”
“No. They didn’t.” He shook his head with surprise.
“I’m trying to recall who it was to. It was a woman. With a P. Patty, maybe . . . ?”
“Paula?” Patrick suggested, wrinkling his brow.
“Paula. That’s it. I remember now. Who is she?”
“Paula was my mom. But she’s been dead a couple of years. Why the hell would he be texting her? You’re sure? What did it say?”
“That he was heading home. Then just a ‘wi,’ which I assumed meant with . . . That he was heading home with—”
“With what . . . ? The money?”
I shrugged. “That would be my guess, Patrick.”
“He could just have been letting me know he was on his way back and hit the wrong key. My mother’s name would’ve come right after mine.”
“I thought you just said your father didn’t text? And anyway, what else could he have meant but ‘with the money’? Which wouldn’t have meant anything to you. It wouldn’t have ever meant anything to anyone, even the police, because no one knew it was in there. But it damn well did to someone.”
“So you’re saying what?” Patrick scratched his head. “He was letting someone know?”
“He may have hit the wrong key, Patrick; I don’t have a clue. But he was definitely telling someone he had that money. So who would that be? I’m not the detective here, you are. That said”—I smiled—“I’m kind of thinking it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to get your hands on that phone.”