“I don’t share that with many people,” she said. “But I feel comfortable around him.”
“Why did you fall for me?”
“ ’Cause you’re fucking loaded. Where’d we get married?”
“Tiburon.”
“How romantic.”
“It is. Amy and I got married there. July 4, 2020.”
“You want to check with her before lending me her wedding day?”
“She’s letting me drive off with you.”
“She’s a very trusting woman, your wife.”
“Or she perceives you as no danger whatsoever.”
“Touché,” she said. “Are we staying overnight?”
“Probably.”
“Are we sharing a room?”
“If we’re married, I think we have to. I’ll bring a sleeping bag.”
“Bring earplugs. I snore. Okay,” she said, “it’s a start. We’ll work on it.”
“Your turn for transparency,” I said.
Without hesitation, she said, “I lied about Warren Pezanko. He did answer my letter.”
“What did he say about Nick?”
“He never spoke to him. He barely knew who I was talking about. He asked me to smuggle him titty pics.”
“Are we ruling him out?”
“Nothing there,” she said. “Your stuff feels stronger.”
I nodded. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
“About the case? No. But we’re not done with ground rules. Number two: Any money comes out of this, I get dibs.”
“There’s no money. Tara’s broke.”
“Go back to Chris Villareal. Get him to throw us a bone.”
“He’s not interested.”
“He might be, if we bring him these fuckers’ heads on a plate.”
“I’ll ask,” I said. “You get first crack at expenses. Then me. Anything on top of that is gravy and we go fifty — fifty. Good?”
“Good.”
I put out my hand but she held up a finger.
“Number three. We leave in ten days.”
“It’s not going to take that long to work up a backstory.”
“Ten days. Not one day sooner.”
“You have something you need to do?”
“No. You do,” she said. “Your daughter’s birthday party, moron.”
Three
Chapter 32
Ten days later I waited on my front steps in the predawn. Red and gold streamers fluttered from the eaves; a skull and crossbones was taped to the front door, along with an arrow directing guests to the backyard. Arrrgh matey, party be in the stern.
Regina Klein pulled up in a black rented Jeep Wrangler four-by-four.
I took my bag to the curb. The passenger window buzzed down, and she stretched across to hand me a gift-wrapped box. “For Charlotte.”
“You got her a present.”
“That was for dinner. This is for her birthday.”
“Thank you.”
I jogged back to the house and left the gift in the entry hall by Amy’s boots. When I returned to the car Regina had moved to the passenger seat. Her eyes were closed.
“Wake me up in an hour,” she said.
She was snoring before I hit the freeway.
Traffic was light and I made good time. Up 580 and over the San Rafael Bridge to Marin, merging onto 101 toward Sonoma as the gray world began to differentiate. Driving with the radio off, my mind drifted to another road trip, seven years ago, with another partner beside me. We’d gone to visit a school where the students made the rules. One died; the school shut down.
I reached Petaluma with Regina still sawing wood and pushed on toward Santa Rosa, past a luxury outlet mall for saving money and a casino for losing it. Fast-food restaurants alternated with vast family vineyards, wine country in its many white-collar, blue-collar contradictions.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder.
Regina opened one eye. “Wha.”
The caller ID read Maeve Ferris.
“That’s Prado’s agent.”
“The fuck is she calling this early.”
“She’s in New York. Answer it, please.”
Clearing her throat, she raised the phone to her ear. “Clay Edison’s office... I’ll see if he’s available. One moment, please.” She tapped Mute. “Are you available, sir?”
“Cut that shit out.”
Regina unmuted and tapped Speakerphone. “You’re on with Mr. Edison.”
“Hi, Maeve. Sorry. That’s my colleague. You’ll have to excuse her.”
Ferris said, “Hello, Colleague.”
Regina said, “Pleasure.”
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Our conversation set me reminiscing,” Ferris said. “I have a few boxes left from my agency days. Tax forms, royalty statements, contracts, galleys. I went down to scrounge. Perhaps I’d kept Octavio’s transfer receipts after all. No — but I did find a letter from him, the one instructing me to burn Cathedral. Would you like me to send you a photo?”
“Please. Thanks so much.”
“One second. I’ll text it.”
I slowed onto the shoulder. Regina leaned over to share the screen. Her eyes were wide awake and alert.
An image appeared, typewritten words on creased paper.
My pride and joy throw it in the fire.
Dont try to find me good bye
— O
The letters had a three-dimensional quality, and when I zoomed in I could see a streak of Wite-Out behind the word good.
“Was this done on an actual typewriter?” I asked.
“Looks that way,” Ferris said. “It’s odd, Octavio always worked by hand, why bother for such a short message? Where in the world did he get a typewriter? Not to mention the sloppiness. He was prickly about not sounding uneducated. Grammar, spelling — those things mattered to him.”
“Could be he was in a bad way, mentally. The manuscript breaks down as it goes along.”
“Yes. But something about this feels off. I suppose I didn’t notice at the time because I was more concerned with what he was saying, rather than the phrasing.”
“You told me the letter showed up after the manuscript,” I said. “How long after?”
“Well. I... I don’t remember.”
“Do you have the envelope it came in?” Regina asked.
“I don’t know. I can look. I’ll have to check my storage cage, in the basement. Give me thirty minutes or so.”
“Take your time,” I said. “Thank you.”
The call disconnected.
Regina sat up to peer through the windshield. “Where are we?”
“Near Healdsburg.”
“I can take over but I need coffee first.”
“Deal.”
I drove into town, stopping at the first café and paying for breakfast: egg sandwich and drip coffee for me, oatmilk latte and dairy-free burrito for Regina.
“When did you become a vegan?” I asked.
“I’m not,” she said, chewing. “I’m lactose-intolerant.”
“Bummer.”
“You know what’s a fucking bummer? Two thousand years of anti-Semitism.”
Maeve Ferris called, breathless and excited. “I found it. I’m texting it to you.”
The envelope was addressed to her Seventh Avenue office. No return address.
But there was a postmark.
“This is great,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
“Please let me know what happens.”
“I will. Take care, Maeve.”
Regina crumpled her burrito wrapper. “I’ll drive.”
At ten a.m. we rolled up to Fanny’s Market. The bulletin board had been rearranged since my previous visit, new flyers added and others shuffled around. Nick Moore had been relegated to the far left side, his face covered.