sealed it and dropped it into another plastic bag just to be safe.
She told herself she was saving the Army a bit of work. Of course they'd be grateful, but still, she tucked the double-bagged envelope into the back of her trouser's waistband, letting it lie smoothly against the small of her back. She pulled her shirt and jacket down over it, just in case they weren't so grateful.
CHAPTER
12
Patsy Kowak tucked the package under her arm and examined the postage-due envelope. Roy, their mail carrier, would never hold back a piece of mail. He was good about that. But this was embarrassing. The return address was her son's office. Maybe that new assistant. Still there was no excuse. Almost two dollars due.
She slipped the envelope inside her denim jacket as she glanced down the long dirt driveway. No sense in upsetting her husband, Ward. As it was, they were barely speaking.
Patsy took in a gulp of the crisp morning air and tried to clear the tension from her mind. She listened to a distant train whistle and the cawing of crows on their way to feed in the fields. She loved this time of year. The river maples and cottonwoods that surrounded their ranch no longer hinted at fall, but were lit up with red and gold. She could smell smoke from their fireplace, a soothing scent of pine and walnut. Ward insisted it was too early to turn on the furnace, but he was good about getting the chill out of the house with an early-morning fire.
Yes, she loved this time of year and she loved her walks to the mailbox, a daily ritual that included filling her pockets with peppermints for Penny and Cedric. This morning she included apple slices for the duo. Ward grumbled about her spoiling and pampering the two horses who had long been retired, yet he was the one who brought home the three-pound bags of peppermints from Wal-Mart. Her gruff-and-tough rancher husband had a soft spot he rarely showed. It came out more often with their granddaughter, Regan, and sometimes with Patsy, and always with the animals. But hardly ever with their son, Conrad.
She shook her head remembering their latest argument about Conrad. It seemed to be the only thing they argued about anymore. The boy was a successful vice president of a large pharmaceutical company. He held a master's degree in business, owned his own condo, had access to the company's private jet, and yet, Ward Kowak would have none of it. Her husband's idea of success? Having something precious to pass on. Like this land. Like your good name.
She shook her head at the reminder. It had only been the beginning when Conrad legally changed the spelling of his name from Kowak to Kovak. He said it was important that business associates pronounced his name correctly, and since the 'w' is pronounced as a 'v' sound in Polish, what did it really matter? That was their son's reasoning, his explanation. Their son with the master's degree and the VP after his newly spelled name. How could he not know something like that would hurt his father?
The name change had only been the tip of the iceberg. The sinking of the
It didn't matter to Patsy. She just wanted her son to be happy. But Ward seemed to take it as another personal affront, yet another defiance by his son to somehow blacken the family name. Her husband was being childish and Patsy had told him so.
As she neared the house she found herself relieved that Ward's pickup was still gone. He muttered something over breakfast about having 'some errands to run in town.'
On her way up the steps she patted Festus, their old German shepherd, lounging in the patch of sunlight on the porch. The dog used to go with her on her walks to the mailbox. She didn't like to think about how much he was slowing down since his years measured her own.
As soon as Patsy came into the house she tossed the mail on the kitchen counter. Except for the package. She retrieved a pair of scissors from the junk drawer and slit open the brown padded envelope then slid the contents onto the counter.
No letter, not even a note. That was her son—Mr. Organization at work, but it didn't transfer to his personal life. He was always on the run, throwing things together at the last minute, even when he was trying to make a point. That had to be the case, since the last time they talked to Conrad, Patsy remembered Ward complaining about the hike in airline tickets as if that would be excuse enough to not attend the wedding. Money didn't matter to Ward, though Conrad believed it did. He had called his father 'cheap,' not understanding the difference between cheap and thrifty. This had to be Conrad's point. Why else would he send a Ziploc bag with what looked to Patsy like several hundred dollars in cash?
This was ridiculous. Her son was being just as childish as his father. She simply wouldn't allow this family feud. Instead, she'd have to stash the money somewhere so Ward wouldn't see it.
CHAPTER
13
Tully knew as soon as they turned onto the street. Even Ganza stopped chewing, a wad of tuna sandwich still stuffed in his mouth while he muttered, 'Son of a bitch, they beat us here.'
A guy with short cropped hair, an athletic frame and confident gestures waved the FBI's plumbing van away from the curb to make room for a white panel truck. Tully recognized the way the man moved, the way he held himself, a taut jawline, steady eyes that captured everything around him. He was a commanding presence and although he wore blue jeans and a leather bomber jacket, Tully knew this guy was a soldier.
'They're sending our lab techs home,' Tully said, pulling his own car over to the side, a half block away.
Ganza threw his sandwich on the dashboard and started digging through his pockets. Tully stared at the sandwich crumbs scattered and falling all over his car. He remembered the coffee spills from that morning. It seemed like days ago instead of hours. Ganza was punching a phone number into his cell phone while Tully watched the soldier direct the panel truck up onto the lawn, guiding it as it backed all the way to the rear of the house. He bet this guy never had a half-eaten sandwich on the dashboard of his car or coffee stains on the upholstery.
'We're right outside,' Ganza was saying into the phone. 'They're sending away our van. What are we supposed to do?' Ganza's monotone didn't give away his urgency. He left that to his long, bony fingers, tapping the console between them.
Another white truck passed alongside them. This one had Virginia Water and Sewer printed in black on the sides. The truck was too white, too clean. From where Tully sat he noticed the tires showed little wear. Two men got out of the truck, dressed in white jumpsuits, logos on the pockets, polished black boots, not a speck of dirt. They started taking construction-crew sawhorses from the back and blocking off the street. Neighbors might believe the house in question had a water main break or a gas leak. That is if they didn't notice the clean boots and new tires. The old man raking his front yard stopped to watch, but Tully didn't think he looked alarmed or even interested. After a few minutes he went back to raking.
The FBI's plumbing van passed through the narrow opening between the sawhorses. It pulled up beside Tully's car and the driver's window of the van came down. Tully opened his window, too. The agent inside was familiar to Tully though he knew him only by sight and not by name. It didn't matter. He looked past Tully and over to Ganza when he said, 'It's a military-slash-Homeland Security operation now. Nothing we can do about it.'
'What about collecting evidence?' Ganza was still on the phone, responding to both the agent and whoever he had on the line. Tully wondered if it was possible Ganza had a direct line to the FBI director.
'Secure and protect,' the agent said. 'That's their priority. They're treating it like a terrorist threat, not a crime scene. And we're not invited to the party.'
'But we've got two agents inside,' Tully said, looking back at the house, realizing Maggie and Cunningham weren't with the SWAT team climbing into the second plumbing van. 'They're still inside, right?' Tully glanced at the agent, who now looked away and rubbed at his jaw.
