Chương 7
The detective answered carefully. “The law depends on whether the conversation was private and whether there was a reasonable expectation of privacy. This was a public diner with witnesses and visible surveillance. Prosecutors will evaluate it. I’m not giving you a legal conclusion.”
“So maybe none of it counts.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t say it counts.”
“No responsible person would promise you that today.”
Emily sat back.
Across the diner, Sal spoke to the financial-crimes detective. His shoulders seemed to shrink as he talked. He handed over a ring of keys, then asked for them back because one belonged to his apartment.
At four o’clock, Priya Shah arrived wearing a navy coat and carrying a canvas bag filled with legal pads. She was forty-one, small, brisk, and visibly irritated by cameras.
She introduced herself to Emily, then to Michael.
“I know who you are,” she told him.
“I assumed.”
“That wasn’t admiration.”
“I didn’t assume that.”
Priya looked at the envelope sealed inside an evidence bag. “How much cash?”
“Two hundred thousand,” Emily said.
The detectives had counted it in front of her.
Priya’s expression did not change. “And the confession?”
“It says I accepted money to falsify receiving records and acted without the knowledge of the foundation or diner ownership.”
“Convenient.”
“For them.”
“For everyone except you.”
Emily rubbed her eyes. “Can you help my mother?”
“I can help keep the transfer process honest. That’s not the same as keeping her at St. Agnes forever.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
The question stung because Emily did know. Margaret could not remain in an acute-care bed simply because the alternative frightened them. The hospital had real constraints. Other patients needed care. The fact that Vincent had exploited those realities did not make them unreal.
Priya sat beside her.
“We separate two things,” she said. “Your mother needs an appropriate placement. Vincent Moretti may be interfering with the timing and destination. We challenge the interference without pretending no transfer should ever happen.”
Emily stared at the placemat covered in phone numbers.
“Okay.”
“You’ll need to sleep tonight.”
“I’m working tonight.”
“The diner is closed.”
“I have another job.”
Michael looked at her. “What other job?”
“Cleaning offices.”
“You work nights?”
“Three nights a week.”
“When do you sleep?”
“During your foundation galas.”
Priya glanced between them. “Whatever this is, pause it.”
“There is no this,” Emily said.
Michael said nothing, which made the denial sound less convincing than she wanted.
Margaret learned about the confrontation from television.
Emily reached the hospital at six thirty and found her mother sitting upright, oxygen tubing beneath her nose, watching a replay of the cup breaking. A nurse stood beside the bed with the remote in her hand, looking guilty.
“You threatened a man on Channel Seven,” Margaret said.
Emily dropped her bag onto the visitor chair. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“It’s television. They show it to everyone.”
The clip played again. The cup exploded. Emily heard herself say, Throw one more thing, and I end you.
Margaret looked impressed despite herself.
“You always did have a mouth.”
“You gave me the mouth.”
“I gave you better posture.”
Emily crossed the room and turned off the television.
Her mother’s face had thinned during the last month. The skin around her eyes seemed nearly transparent. Yet her disapproval remained healthy.
“Did they try to move you?” Emily asked.
“A man came with a clipboard. I told him I was contagious.”
“You’re not.”
“He didn’t know that.”
Emily sat down. The room smelled of antiseptic, warmed plastic, and the lavender hand cream Margaret refused to use because it was “too floral.”
“Mom, I need you to tell me everything Elena gave you.”
“I did.”
“No. You gave me the key.”
“That was everything.”
“What about the originals?”
Margaret looked at the dark television screen.
“Mom.”
“They weren’t all in the box.”
Emily felt the day rearrange itself again. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said Elena kept them.”
“She did. Then she got scared.”
“Of Vincent?”
“Of Michael.”
Emily leaned closer. “Why?”
“Because he still loved his father.”
The sentence did not sound like an accusation. It sounded like weather, a condition people had to plan around.
“What did she do with the rest?”
Margaret picked at the edge of her blanket. “She mailed something.”
“To who?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“Don’t speak to me like a child.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re using the voice.”
“What voice?”
“The careful one. I hate the careful one.”
Emily stood and walked to the window. Cars moved along the avenue below. Someone in the building across the street watered a plant on a windowsill.
Behind her, Margaret adjusted the oxygen tube.
“There was a woman,” she said. “A bookkeeper. Elena trusted her until she didn’t.”
“What was her name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You worked for Elena for seven years.”
“I cleaned her house. I didn’t conduct interviews.”
Emily turned back.
Margaret closed her eyes. “Something with a bird.”
“A bird?”
“Her last name.”
“Hawk? Finch? Sparrow?”
“Don’t throw the whole zoo at me.”
Emily sat again.
After a minute, Margaret said, “Crane.”
The name meant nothing to Emily.
It meant something to Michael.
When he arrived at the hospital later that night, he stopped in the doorway.
“Lydia Crane?”
Margaret opened one eye. “You look like your mother when you’re frightened.”
Michael gripped the doorframe. “Was it Lydia?”
“I think so.”
“Lydia was the foundation controller. She disappeared nine years ago.”
“People don’t disappear,” Margaret said. “They leave without telling men who think they deserve an explanation.”
Michael stepped into the room.
Margaret studied him. “You took too long.”
“I know.”
“No, you say that because it sounds humble. Knowing has a cost.”
Emily saw him absorb the sentence without defending himself.
Margaret pointed at the visitor chair. “Sit down. You’re making the doorway nervous.”
May you like
Michael sat.
He took Elena’s sealed letter from his coat, though it was no longer sealed, and placed it on the bed.
