“Oh, come on. We all have a cross to bear. His life was tough, but his problems were self-generated. The Marfan was the least of them. Most were the result of his basic dishonesty, which is something you can’t fix.”
“He didn’t need fixing. He needed to get back to who he was before he lost track of himself.”
“Too late for that now.”
“No, it’s not. That’s what you’re here for, to tie up loose ends.”
“Wait. Excuse me. This is about him. It has nothing to do with me.”
She seemed to be enjoying herself, her manner animated. “You said it yourself. We ‘do much the same job. We study people’s lives, determine what went wrong, and try to make it right.’”
I laughed. “You’re quoting me back to myself? That’s a low blow. I was referring to the two of us. You and me. Not Pete and me.”
“He left work undone. Whatever his plan was, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“I’ll figure it out? I don’t think so. Since when is this my problem?”
“Since the day he died,” she said.
I shook my head, smirking, as though her comment warranted no legitimate response. Then I noted my body language. I’d crossed my arms over my chest, which I thought she might misinterpret as stubborn and defensive. I uncrossed my arms and then couldn’t think what to do with them. I leaned forward and put my elbows on the desk. “No offense, Ms. Sizemore, but you are full of shit.”
She reached for her bag and rose to her feet. “We’ll come back to this. Right now I have a client coming and I have to run.”
18
“Who asked you?” I called after her. The rejoinder was not only weak, but she’d already left by the time I delivered it.
I turned and peered out the window, catching sight of her as she retreated down my walk. She waved over her shoulder, confident she was having the final word. Well, wasn’t I cranky and out of sorts? I thought therapists were supposed to keep their opinions to themselves. I wasn’t even a client and there she was challenging my view of Pete’s character when I’d known the man for years. I was the one who’d witnessed his moral failings. The idea that I was going to come along in the wake of his death and tidy up his unfinished business struck me as ludicrous. What especially annoyed me was the fact that I’d already been planning to unearth the remaining women on the list and see what they could tell me. In Taryn Sizemore’s analysis, that was tantamount to taking on Pete’s investigation, which was certainly not the case. I had work of my own to do. Sort of.
I had intended to file a police report about the breakin, but what was the point? I could picture writing out my complaint about an intruder unraveling a roll of toilet paper. This would not be compelling to officers whose sworn duty was to battle crime in our fair city. I might have legitimate grounds, but in the larger scheme of things, this was chickenshit. I did a circuit of the inner and outer offices, testing locks and righting the remaining disorder Ned had created. Took all of three minutes. I had no proof it was him in any event, so scratch that idea.
I returned to my office proper, and I’d no more than crossed the threshold when I stopped in my tracks.
Where was the banker’s box with the X on the lid?
I stared at the floor as though I’d already registered the empty spot. The box should have been sitting near the door where I’d left it, but there was no sign of it. I knew I’d brought the box to work with me. I’d removed the padded mailer from its hiding place, crammed the pouch into my floor safe, and set the box aside. I’d meant to go through the contents a second time, but now it was gone. I felt a sharp pang of regret, grasping at alternative explanations. I hadn’t left it at home, had I? I remembered toting it to the car and then bringing it into the office.
Feeling anxious, I pulled back the carpet, ran the combination to the safe, and opened it. The manila mailing pouch was still there. I pulled it out, opened it, and eyed the contents. Everything was accounted for. I returned the pouch, then closed and locked the safe. I made another circuit of the bungalow, knowing I wouldn’t find what I was looking for. I sat down at my desk and stared out the window, trying to come up with an explanation other than the certain knowledge that someone had stolen it. “Someone” being Ned Lowe.