“Why?”
“The pattern of communication between the goombahs has changed,” Max answers. “New voices, more frequent chatter. Same code words but more urgency.”
“The usual signs that something is developing,” Jake adds.
“We’re wondering why,” Max mutters. “What triggered the new activity? Maybe word of what this Diamond chick told you got out somehow.”
“Sapphire,” I clarify.
Max shrugs impatiently. “Yeah, her. Did you send her to the NTSB? If not, how long can you hold off?”
My shoulders sag. “Penelope and I got our wires crossed. She already filed against AAA and Windy City. She’s chomping at the bit to get moving with Sapphire.”
Jake looks annoyed. “Maybe the court filings set Joe off.”
“This Sapphire shit can’t wait a few days?” Max asks tersely.
“Not long, if at all.” I explain Penelope’s fear that delaying may prove fatal to Sapphire and our case.
“That’s a good point,” Max says.
Jake tosses an unused paint-roller sleeve in the air and catches it. “Yeah, it is. The FBI was supposed to pick up Sapphire for safekeeping. Let’s hope they did. Anyway, what’s done is done. Maybe the court filings pissed off Joe, maybe it was something we don’t even know about. The important thing is that something is afoot.”
“What does the FBI think?” I ask.
Jake frowns while he continues tossing the roller sleeve. “We’re not all on the same page at the moment.”
“How so?” I ask in alarm.
“They don’t share our sense of urgency.”
“We’re pretty sure Joe and his people are gearing up to make a move,” Max says. “If we’re right, we need to act now. The FBI isn’t so sure.”
“But I think J.P. is moving our way,” Jake says.
“J.P.?” I ask.
“The FBI agent in charge,” he explains. “J.P. Duclos.”
We fall silent, with Jake and Max presumably thinking next steps and me worrying that they’re moving too quickly. Or the FBI is going too slowly. Hell, I don’t know what I think. I only know that I’m worried sick.
Jake misses catching the paint roller, which rolls under a ladder. He leaves it there. “Let me call J.P. to get the FBI take on things. If something’s going to happen, it’s probably going to happen soon.”
“Like tonight,” Max grumbles.
Tonight? “Then what?”
“We’ll let you know,” Jake replies.
“When?” I ask anxiously. “Not after the fact, Jake. Please.”
He gives me a long look and answers with a noncommittal, “We’ll see. In the meantime, speak to your partner. No more new motions that might set Joe off. Keep this Sapphire news under wraps if you can.”
“I’ll talk to her.” Whether it will make any difference, I don’t know.
Max slaps his hands on his thighs and pushes himself up off the paint bucket. “Probably won’t matter, anyway. Dollars to doughnuts, something is going down tonight. We need to get our asses in gear,” he tells Jake as he heads for the door.
“We’ll be in touch,” Jake assures me as he turns to follow.
“Wait!” I exclaim. “Don’t I leave first?”
Jake nods. “Jesus. I’ve gotta get my head out of my ass.”
I touch his arm as I pass by on my way out. “No harm done.”
As much as the days of uncertainty have been eating me alive, the idea of everything coming to a head as soon as tonight is even more frightening. The finality of that stirs up every fear in my being. I break into a cold sweat. If Brittany is still alive somewhere out there, she may not be by morning.
Thoughts of her pour through my mind as I walk back to the office. Brittany the toothless baby gumming my fingers and then smiling up at me with her little pink tongue lolling about in her mouth. The precocious toddler toddling all about. My little girl, doting on Daddy before it became unfashionable to do so. The self-assured teen she grew into. The damaged teen she became after Michelle abandoned us. The memory of losing her to Michelle and Europe last year still bites hard, as does the fear of losing her again if Michelle and her father get their way.
Those thoughts take me back to Gadsby’s—was it really only a little more than a week ago?—and the happy memory of Brittany going toe to toe with her mother and grandfather on my behalf. Not to mention Pat’s revelation about Brittany wanting to stay in Cedar Heights. The notion of another human being wanting to be with me is almost foreign. Thoughts of my brother’s assessment of me surface but don’t quite take hold, pushed aside by thoughts of Brittany’s support and Trish’s seeming approval. The years of being conditioned—or conditioning myself?—to feel inadequate are proving tough to overcome, but Brittany needs me to be strong for however long she has… be it hours, days, weeks, or hopefully decades to come. I feel so damned powerless. I don’t know what, but there has to be something I can do to help.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
After a restless afternoon at the office during which I failed to distract myself with work, I’ve dropped by Pat’s to feed Deano and take him for a trek around the block. He’s still slower than hell as he hobbles along in the rain, but at least he’s up and around and doesn’t seem as tender when I towel him off. He’s making progress. Physically, anyway, but the poor old guy seems to be down in the dumps. Deano’s probably wondering if he has a family anymore. He’s lapping up water from his bowl when my cell phone rings. I connect the call.
Without preamble, Jake asks, “Where are you?”
“Pat O’Toole’s house,” I reply as I rip a handful of paper towels off a roll mounted on a counter spike. Deano has left muddy paw prints on the floor.
After a
