parents still lived in his, I supposed, although I didn’t know for sure since they didn’t speak to me anymore. Or to Rico. Not since he’d come out of the closet.
“Damn,” I said.
“Damn straight.”
“It’s too big, Rico.”
“Then leave it be until you’re bigger than it is.”
We sat in silence, tethered to each other by the past and the phone line. Finally, he sighed. “We done reminiscing now?”
“Yep. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Wanna hear what I found out about your dead guy in Florida?”
I sat up straight. “You found something?”
He laughed. “I knew that would cheer you up.”
“Rico—”
“DiSilva was a pretty vanilla dude—no criminal records, no wants and warrants, no divorces or paternity suits. Only one soft spot. He had a whole set of e-mails linked to the same IP address in Jacksonville. Each had a separate registration name, each would be active for a while and then deleted.”
“He had an alter ego?”
“More like a new identity every six months or so. Now some people do legitimate business under a pseudonym, but that looks a whole lot different than this.”
“This looks like a scam artist.”
“It does.”
I drummed on the dashboard. “Black market antiques maybe, to supplement the retirement?”
“Dunno. You said you talked to the cops down in Jacksonville?”
“Garrity did.”
“Nobody said nothing about this?”
“No. You think I should put them on it?”
“I would. Your old guy may have died innocent, but I’m thinking he didn’t live that way.”
Chapter Fourteen
When I got back to the hotel room, the first thing I did was download and print the files Rico had sent. The mass of new, neatly organized paperwork on the desk told that that Trey had come and gone again. He’d also rearranged the sofa cushions and re-made the bed with surgical precision. Our golf bags now stood sentinel in the corner of the bedroom, not sprawled next to the sofa, and my shoes were lined up in a soldierly row in the closet.
I sighed. Sometimes that man…
I changed out of my khakis and golf shirt and ducked into the shower, leaving my phone on the countertop where I could hear it. I turned the water as hot as I could stand it and stuck my face in the spray. I knew why the memories rose—I was in the cauldron that created them. I’d underestimated their power, however, like I’d underestimated a lot of things.
The KKK, for example. I was not naïve—I knew the Confederate cause was dear to the racist heart. People dismissed my reenactor clients as crazy for running around in fields, eating from cast iron pots, sleeping in primitive tents. But they were living a memory the rest of us were trying to forget.
So was the Klan, in their own way. A memory we didn’t deserve to forget, not yet.
I wrapped up in one of the hotel’s robes and pulled my copies from the printer. Trey’s desk now sported fresh sketches from our golf game—the front nine, the clubhouse, the parking lot. In the middle of the desk sat a stack of file folders, including surveillance system installation materials from Secure Systems. New maps too, a multitude of them making a pastel patchwork.
I turned the Hutchinson Island map around to see the details better. The hotel and the convention center stood side by side, sandwiched between the acres of manicured golf courses on the northern border and the gray skein of the Savannah River to the south. Undeveloped scrub land lay to the east and west, with the twin buildings like paired jewels not yet set into a crown. But they would be, and soon. The cranes were already in place.
I sat on the bed and dumped out my tote bag, sorting the research into four piles—one for Hope, one for Winston, one for Vincent DiSilva down in Florida, and one for the Harringtons. I knew I’d need a fifth pile eventually—for the KKK—but I didn’t want to think about that yet.
My phone rang. I checked the number, then took a deep steadying breath.
“Damn,” I said.
“Damn straight.”
“It’s too big, Rico.”
“Then leave it be until you’re bigger than it is.”
We sat in silence, tethered to each other by the past and the phone line. Finally, he sighed. “We done reminiscing now?”
“Yep. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Wanna hear what I found out about your dead guy in Florida?”
I sat up straight. “You found something?”
He laughed. “I knew that would cheer you up.”
“Rico—”
“DiSilva was a pretty vanilla dude—no criminal records, no wants and warrants, no divorces or paternity suits. Only one soft spot. He had a whole set of e-mails linked to the same IP address in Jacksonville. Each had a separate registration name, each would be active for a while and then deleted.”
“He had an alter ego?”
“More like a new identity every six months or so. Now some people do legitimate business under a pseudonym, but that looks a whole lot different than this.”
“This looks like a scam artist.”
“It does.”
I drummed on the dashboard. “Black market antiques maybe, to supplement the retirement?”
“Dunno. You said you talked to the cops down in Jacksonville?”
“Garrity did.”
“Nobody said nothing about this?”
“No. You think I should put them on it?”
“I would. Your old guy may have died innocent, but I’m thinking he didn’t live that way.”
Chapter Fourteen
When I got back to the hotel room, the first thing I did was download and print the files Rico had sent. The mass of new, neatly organized paperwork on the desk told that that Trey had come and gone again. He’d also rearranged the sofa cushions and re-made the bed with surgical precision. Our golf bags now stood sentinel in the corner of the bedroom, not sprawled next to the sofa, and my shoes were lined up in a soldierly row in the closet.
I sighed. Sometimes that man…
I changed out of my khakis and golf shirt and ducked into the shower, leaving my phone on the countertop where I could hear it. I turned the water as hot as I could stand it and stuck my face in the spray. I knew why the memories rose—I was in the cauldron that created them. I’d underestimated their power, however, like I’d underestimated a lot of things.
The KKK, for example. I was not naïve—I knew the Confederate cause was dear to the racist heart. People dismissed my reenactor clients as crazy for running around in fields, eating from cast iron pots, sleeping in primitive tents. But they were living a memory the rest of us were trying to forget.
So was the Klan, in their own way. A memory we didn’t deserve to forget, not yet.
I wrapped up in one of the hotel’s robes and pulled my copies from the printer. Trey’s desk now sported fresh sketches from our golf game—the front nine, the clubhouse, the parking lot. In the middle of the desk sat a stack of file folders, including surveillance system installation materials from Secure Systems. New maps too, a multitude of them making a pastel patchwork.
I turned the Hutchinson Island map around to see the details better. The hotel and the convention center stood side by side, sandwiched between the acres of manicured golf courses on the northern border and the gray skein of the Savannah River to the south. Undeveloped scrub land lay to the east and west, with the twin buildings like paired jewels not yet set into a crown. But they would be, and soon. The cranes were already in place.
I sat on the bed and dumped out my tote bag, sorting the research into four piles—one for Hope, one for Winston, one for Vincent DiSilva down in Florida, and one for the Harringtons. I knew I’d need a fifth pile eventually—for the KKK—but I didn’t want to think about that yet.
My phone rang. I checked the number, then took a deep steadying breath.
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