“I’m listening.”
“The warden came to the prison nineteen years ago. By that time, anyone who knew about Eli or the armored car was dead or forgotten. Eli was just an old man destined to die inside. He was a statistic, a number. Just like anyone else. Eight years ago that somehow changed.”
“How?”
“Newspaper clippings. Eli’s file. I don’t know. But, the warden figured out about the shooting and the car, and the fact no one ever found the money.” Adrian spread his hands above the hole he’d dug. “This is what Eli died for. This is why they tortured me.”
“For money?”
“I said it’s not about that. It’s about Eli’s life and his choices, about courage and will and a final act of defiance.”
“Call it what you will, Adrian, your friend died for money.”
“Because he refused to be broken.”
“For a hundred and seventy thousand dollars.”
“Well, that part’s not exactly true.”
“I’m tired of riddles, Adrian.”
“Then give me a minute.” He kept digging. When finally he stopped, he leaned in shoulders deep and heaved out a jar, dropping it with a thump. The top was rusted away, the glass smeared with dirt.
Elizabeth pointed. “Is that…?”
“The first of thirty.”
She reached for the jar, but stopped short.
“Go ahead.”
She plucked out a single coin, smearing dirt with a thumb until it glinted yellow. “How many?”
“Coins? Five thousand.”
“You said he stole a hundred and seventy thousand dollars.”
“Gold was thirty-five dollars an ounce in 1946.”
“How much is it, now?”
“Twelve hundred dollars, maybe.”
“So this is…”
“Six million,” Adrian said. “Give or take.”
28
Stanford Olivet let his daughter sleep in and started pancakes when he heard the shower run upstairs. It was just the two of them, and today he wanted to hold her close, spend a little time. The kitchen around him was neat and clean, a smell in the air of batter and coffee and gun oil. The .45 was beside the stove. Before that it was beside his shower, and before that, the bed. Olivet was terrified, and not of Adrian Wall.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
“Pancakes. Yes.” His daughter moved down the stairs. She was twelve, a tomboy who loved archery and animals and sports cars. She kept her hair short, avoided makeup. Already, she could drive better than most adults. “Are you going to the range?”
She meant the gun. The .45 wasn’t his duty weapon, but a military-grade pistol he’d bought secondhand at a surplus store. “I thought I might.”
“How’s your face?”
She rounded the kitchen island and kissed him gently on the cheek. He had stitches, bandages. Four teeth were loose. “It’s okay.”
“I hate that your job is so dangerous.”
He let the lie stand: that two prisoners jumped him at bed check. Not that Adrian Wall had almost killed him, then inexplicably chosen to let him live. “What do you want to do this morning?”
“I don’t know. What do you want to do?”
He slid pancakes onto a plate, and she forked a bite.
“Car in the driveway.” She pointed with the fork.
He saw it, too. “Shit.”
“Daddy!”
“You stay here.” He went to the door and took the gun with him.
The warden was already out of the car. Jacks and Woods stayed by its side. “You’re supposed to be at work.”
“I thought—”
“I know what you thought.” The warden pushed into the house. “You thought a few bruises bought you a day off. This is not that day.”
Olivet closed the door and trailed the warden into the kitchen. His daughter stopped eating when the warden pointed. “Isn’t she supposed to be in school?”
Olivet placed the gun on the counter, but kept it close. “It’s okay, honey. Why don’t you take breakfast upstairs and watch TV.”
The girl disappeared upstairs, and the warden watched her go. “The limp is barely noticeable. How many surgeries was it? Four?”
“Seven.”
“Still in remission?”
“I don’t like it when you come here.”
“I’m offended.”
“I don’t like you bringing them here, either.”
“See, this has always been the problem with you, Stanford. You think you’re above this somehow, that your money and conscience are somehow clean. What’s your share, now? A half million dollars? Six hundred thousand?”
“My daughter—”
“Don’t use her as an excuse. How much did that boat in your driveway cost, or the watch on your wrist? No. You’re no kind of hero.” The warden dipped a finger in the syrup and licked it. “We’ve been doing this for a lot of years, you and I. The money and drugs, the dirty prisoners and their dirty little crumbs.”
“Don’t talk about that here. Jesus. My daughter is right upstairs.”
“I don’t give a shit about your daughter.” The voice was like ice. “You let Adrian Wall kill my best friend.”