The bank manager watched me with ill-disguised fascination across the glass coffee table in his office. He and the bank’s vice president for customer relations had greeted me at the elevator bank wearing sober, black suits and bearing a huge bouquet of flowers. These had been presented along with two cards—one reading, With Deepest Sympathy; the other, Get Well Soon!—signed by more than a dozen members of the bank’s management team. I was simultaneously touched and a little embarrassed. After the formalities at the elevator, the bank manager turned and led me through a maze of cubicles. No vase was offered. No kindly assistant materialized to help. There was nothing to do but to follow him, three dozen long-stemmed, pink roses cradled in my arms, ribbons fluttering in my wake, like an aging but still regal homecoming queen.
In his office, fortunately, things went quickly. My identification was verified; original documents were photocopied and stamped.
Boone and Sadie Rawson Smith had not left me a vast fortune.
But their house on Eulalia Road had proved a wise investment. The proceeds from its sale had been pooled with the payout from a modest life insurance policy owned by Boone, which Everett Sutherland had claimed and deposited into the Trust Company account in December 1979. The result was a respectable pot of money. A pot of money that had been all but forgotten when Sutherland died in May of 1980. For thirty-four years, the phenomenon that is compounding interest had been allowed to work its magic.
The bank manager tidied the edges of the mound of documents that had accumulated on the table between us. From the top, he pulled one last sheet of paper for me to inspect. He made me initial today’s date, the current interest rate, and the total balance figure for the account.
“Wire transfer? Cashier’s check? We can do either.”
I selected the latter.
Ten minutes later, I exited the bank with an armful of wilting roses and a check for $677,143.27.
? ? ?
BEAMER BEASLEY MET me at a Waffle House on Roswell Road.
“If I’d had warning you were coming, I’d have organized somewhere nicer,” he apologized, gesturing at the red vinyl booths and the chipped plates, the plastic tubs of jelly and creamer.
“Don’t be silly. This is perfect.”
The gray eyes took me in. “You look good. Like a different person from when I met you three weeks ago.”
“Thank you.” I raised my right wrist, waved it around. “No more wrist brace.”
He nodded. “And no more bullet.”
Beasley slid a padded envelope across the faux-wood tabletop. “Speaking of which . . .”
“No!” I gasped. “Is that it?”
“That’s it. Arrived back in the office this morning. Yours to keep now, if you want it.”
I tipped the bullet onto the table between us. It was ugly. A dull, misshapen lump, with scratches and dents visible even to the naked eye. And surprisingly small, to have caused such pain. Such grief. I closed my fist around it.
Beasley laid his hand over mine while I collected myself. “I read in the morning paper that you’re headed to Mexico. Maybe you could take that with you, throw it out to sea, say your good-byes.”
“Maybe.” I bit my lip. “About that newspaper article. I should have warned you before I sent the reporters calling. I hope you don’t mind my breaking your moratorium on talking to them. Didn’t seem to be much point avoiding them anymore.”
“That’s fine.”
“Anyway, I—I wasn’t sure if you all would let me keep the bullet. But I was thinking that if you did, I might actually have it made into a necklace.” I ran a finger over my stitches. They had nearly dissolved; in the mirror this morning I’d observed that the surrounding bruises had faded from angry purple to brownish yellow. “Aside from a pair of earrings that Cheral Rooney gave me, this is the only thing I have that ever touched Sadie Rawson. I want to keep it close. I suppose that sounds weird.”
“Considering this bullet took her life, you mean?” Beasley tapped the metal lump. “I don’t think it’s weird. It’s a physical connection to her. That must feel powerful.”
We sat for a time, Beasley stirring a second and then a third creamer into his coffee, me rolling the bullet back and forth across my palm.
“I came into some money today,” I said finally.
“Oh? How’s that?”
“The Smiths had a savings account. After they died, the money from their house and from Boone’s life insurance was stashed there. There’s a safe-deposit box, too. I’ll fill in the paperwork to dig that out one of these days. The box got drilled, and the contents handed over to the state years ago.”
“They’ll have liquidated anything personal. Love letters, photographs, jewelry, anything like that.”
“So I’m told. And the personal stuff is all I would really care about at this point. There was more cash than I’ll ever need in the regular savings account. Enough to . . . Well. Enough to open up some interesting possibilities.” I took a sip of weak tea. “I keep thinking about what you said. About justice being what you aim for in a case like this. And it occurs to me that I’m sitting here rolling a bullet between my fingers that ten days ago was inside my neck. Also, I’ve heard from all kinds of nice people who knew my birth parents and loved them. I’m planning a -memorial service in their honor. That’s . . . well, it’s not a conviction, -obviously. Not closure from a criminal-justice point of view. But it’s something.”
“Mm-hmm.” Beasley studied me. “So why do I get the sense this still isn’t over for you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you really going to Mexico?” His eyes were now suspicious slits.
“Of course. Probably the best therapy for me at this point is a pitcher of margaritas and some sun and—”
“And you’re completely at peace and eager to move on. I know. I told you, I read your quote in the newspaper.”
“Well, there you go.”
“You’re also quoted as saying that whoever killed your parents is probably dead now himself.”
“I stole that line from you.”
We looked at each other. Both of us were working hard not to mention the name Ethan Sinclare.
Beasley caved first. “I’ll talk to him. I’ve set up an appointment through his secretary, for end of this week. I’ll raise some of the . . . -coincidences that were bothering you. But without the bullet, without any new evidence, I don’t see . . .”