It was a busy month at High Noon Enterprises. The work got done but there was plenty going on that had nothing to do with cyber security and everything to do with the takedown of the Duarte Cartel. There were a number of interviews with law enforcement, with DEA agent Ken Logan being the first to arrive, wanting to speak to Stuart.
“A burner cell phone was found in Ms. Miramar’s hotel room,” he explained, “and the only call made from that phone was to you. How are you tied in to all this?”
“One of her clients, Owen Hansen, left money to me when he died. The contact I had with her mostly concerned that.”
“Then what about Traci Cantrell?” Logan asked. “How is it that you people here are the ones who hooked Felix Duarte up with those homicides from the nineties?”
“After the Ron Webster firebombing, once we learned about the nexus between MS-13 and the Duarte Cartel, Cami Lee, my assistant, started doing some online research. She’s the one who made the connection between that old composite sketch and Felix Duarte.” Logan didn’t ask to see Cami’s browsing history, and neither did anyone else, but Stuart was glad it was still there.
Everyone knew that if there had there been some kind of shoot-out with Graciella at the business park in Cottonwood, those interviews might have been far more serious. As it was, Stuart was able to keep Frigg’s very existence as well as her contributions to the process totally off the radar.
Stuart spent hours dealing with Hank Cooper, B. and Ali’s CPA, who sorted out the amount of taxes due on Stuart Ramey’s various windfalls. Concerned about the wild volatility in the Bitcoin market, Stuart chose to convert most of his Bitcoin account into dollars so he could use it to pay the applicable taxes. And then he went car shopping. Using cash from the still-ongoing Bitcoin mining operation, he bought a brand-new four-wheel-drive Ram crew cab pickup truck. Cami, who had been lobbying for him to get a Prius, wasn’t happy with that choice, but he was.
Two days before Thanksgiving, Stuart requested the weekend off. “Are you going somewhere?” Ali asked.
“To Santa Barbara,” he replied. “To see Irene Hansen. I have a check for her, and I want to deliver it in person.”
On Thanksgiving Day, instead of accepting any of the three separate holiday invitations he’d received, Stuart Ramey set out on his first-ever solo road trip. The last items he loaded into the crew cab were three small white crosses, the bottom of each cross was formed into a sharp point. He also brought along a sledgehammer.
When he reached the exit to Vicksburg Road, he turned off I-10 and parked on the shoulder of the side road. Then, carrying the crosses and the sledgehammer, he walked to milepost 45. As he pounded the three crosses into the rock-hard dirt along the shoulder, Stuart’s eyes blurred with tears. It was thirty-eight years late, but at least he was getting the job done.
Back in the truck, he headed west again, with Frigg’s voice speaking in his ear, acting as copilot.
“Frigg,” he said, “I would like to listen to the opera Thaïs.”
“Would you like me to purchase and download a copy of the performance from the Metropolitan Opera?”
“Yes, please,” he said, wondering as he did so if the recorded performance was the one Cami had attended with her mother years earlier.
Stuart had never before listened to an opera all the way through. He didn’t understand the words, but he knew enough about the story to be moved by the singing. The soprano in the role of Thaïs was amazing.
Holiday traffic going into L.A. was exceptionally light. He checked into the same hotel in Burbank where he and Cami had stayed a month earlier. On Friday morning he headed off to Santa Barbara. He had called ahead. Irene Hansen was expecting him, and when he arrived at the house on Via Vistosa at ten a.m., she was dressed to the nines when she opened the door.
“Why, Mr. Ramey,” she said, “how very nice to see you again. Won’t you come in? Would you care for something to eat? Coffee or tea?”
“No, I’m fine,” he said. “I won’t stay long. It’s just that I’ve done a lot of thinking about something you said when I was here before—that your son blamed you for your husband’s suicide.”
Irene nodded. “That was always the case.”
“Were you aware that your husband was ill?”
“Harold, ill?” She seemed dismayed at the very idea. “What are you talking about?”
“In going through your son’s computers, I came across some medical records from a Dr. Richards.”
“That would be Darrell Richards,” Irene said. “He was Harold’s physician for years and also his golf partner.”
“It turns out your husband had been diagnosed with ALS.”
“ALS?”
“Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
“Harold was sick? I don’t believe it.”
“He was more than just sick,” Stuart said. “He was dying. I would guess he committed suicide in order to spare both you and your son, and maybe even himself, from the ordeal that was coming.”
“Oh my,” Irene whispered. “He never said a word to me about it.”
She cried for a time after that, and Stuart let her. When she finally dried her eyes, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the cashier’s check he’d had the bank make out in her name. Even with the taxes taken out, it was still a very large amount.
“This is what your son left me,” Stuart said, handing it over. “I believe that was an error on his part and this money should have gone to you.”
She studied the check for some time, then she looked at Stuart and smiled. “You have given me something my son never did—peace of mind. Your having the money was never an error.” With that she tore the check into tiny pieces and dropped the shreds of paper into a crystal ashtray on the side table next to her.
“You’re sure you don’t want it?” Stuart asked.
“I have everything I need,” Irene said. “I don’t require anything more.”
“Did your son ever speak to you about the Thor Foundation?”
“He never mentioned anything like that. What is it?”
“It’s a philanthropic organization he started shortly before he died. I’ve been asked to look into keeping it going. Perhaps I’ll donate some of this money to that.”
“The money is yours, Mr. Ramey,” Irene said. “You do with it as you see fit.”
“All right,” he said, “I will. As for the foundation? I’m thinking about changing the name from Thor Foundation to the Thaïs Foundation.”
Irene Hansen clapped her hands in apparent delight. “After Massenet’s opera?” she asked. “That one has always been one of my favorites.”