The Buck Stops Here (16 page)

I didn’t tell Tilly it was her son on the phone. I simply agreed to come, set the time for noon, disconnected the call, and then wrapped up my conversation with her. Between seeing the blue sedan and hearing from James, I was feeling thoroughly rattled and eager to be on my way.

In the end, my encounter with Tilly left me feeling sad, confused, and yet in some way a little bit healed. I think it was the same for her. As we said goodbye, for some reason we hugged, and the hug was spontaneous and genuine.

After I left there, I stopped off at a home improvement store, bought a $1000 gift certificate, and delivered it to the pastor at the Church of the Way. I told him it was to be an anonymous gift to Tilly Sparks, and that my hope was that a group of parishioners might band together, use the money for supplies, and donate the labor to fix up Tilly’s house. The man seemed astounded and grateful. Apparently, Tilly’s situation weighed heavily on his heart, but until now he hadn’t really been able to think of a way to reach her.

After that I drove across town and got a room at the same motel I had stopped in earlier. I brought in everything I might need for the night from my car, and then I double-locked the motel room door and slid the table up against it as an extra safety measure. As I did, I kept trying to figure out how the blue sedan could have possibly caught up with me here in Albany. Was it just a coincidence that the same color and model of car had driven slowly past us today? If not, then obviously whoever that driver was, he wasn’t working alone but as some sort of tag team. If so, though, who were the other members of that team? I had been on the lookout constantly, and I had never spotted any other vehicle doing anything even remotely suspicious.

For now, I would have to table that question. It looked as though all that was left for me to do was to pass the time until noon tomorrow when I would get to see James Sparks again and learn the truths that had thus far been hidden from me.

I watched television for a while, flipping channels with the remote, but I clicked it off when I couldn’t stand the noise anymore. I wondered absently how my dog was faring without me and how angry Harriet might be that I hadn’t yet checked in with her. It struck me that there wasn’t a soul on earth who knew where I was right now, with the possible exception of whoever was tailing me in the blue sedan. And though I kept going to the shaded window and peeking outside, I didn’t see any signs of anyone observing me.

I sat back on the bed and stared at the phone, wanting to call Tom, thinking about calling my mom, knowing I ought to call Harriet. I did nothing but sit there and stare. Finally, a surge of pure loneliness pierced my heart, and before I knew it, I had doubled over from the pain.

It hurt so bad! I clutched my pillow and closed my eyes, tears suddenly flowing down my cheeks. Up until today I had held out hope for my relationship with Tom—despite the fact that he had abandoned me in Florida, despite the fact that he had something to do with the death of my husband. At this point, none of that mattered. His sister had been James Sparks’ wife. His nieces were James Sparks’
children!

I sobbed, rocking back and forth, deep, heaving sobs that left me breathless and gasping. I wasn’t crying for Bryan, really—that wound had been healing for a while. I was crying for Tom, for all the dreams I had allowed myself to have about our future. I was crying for myself, that I could have been so utterly and completely deceived.

Bryan had been a good man, a good husband, but everything he was had died that day in that river. Truly, a big part of me had died as well. At that time, I knew one thing for certain; I would never love anyone that way again.

But then, eventually, there was Tom. Our relationship had grown slowly and steadily, for a long time in friendship and then, much later, in love. I thought it was love.

I didn’t know it was a complete and utter lie.

Still crying, I leaned over onto the bed and held my pillow tightly to my chest, curling into a fetal position. As I had cried over Bryan’s death so many times, I now cried over the death of my relationship with Tom. In my mind, the two men’s faces blurred together, two men, both gone from me in their own way. I fell asleep, finally, the bedside lamp still on, my eyes swollen shut from crying.

I slept for nearly eight hours, waking a little before 4:00
A.M.

I sat up in the bed, my head pounding, my nose completely stopped up. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, I climbed under the spray of a hot shower, the water soothing away the tension in my neck.

I hadn’t cried like that since last fall, I realized. Surely, there would come a day when there were no more tears left, when my memories brought me only a dull sadness.

Right now, the pain was as sharp as glass. Saddest of all was the realization that the entire focus of this investigation had now shifted—and something in my heart had frozen into solid ice. This was no longer about learning the truths so I could move forward in my relationship with Tom.

Tom had betrayed me.

No, now this investigation had one single purpose: to learn the truth about Bryan’s death, for Bryan’s sake. If I did one thing with what I was about to learn, I would make sure that every single person involved in the death of my husband received full justice for the life they had taken away.

Seventeen

Clipping the tags from the last of my new clothes, I got dressed and went out into the predawn darkness in search of breakfast. A new boldness had taken hold of me, and I almost welcomed an encounter with the blue sedan, but it was nowhere in sight.

I found a nearby coffee shop that was open 24 hours, so I bought a newspaper and took a seat by the window and ordered my usual breakfast of poached eggs, whole wheat toast, and hot tea. On second thought, I had the waitress bring me a plate of blueberry waffles and coffee instead. Somehow, today I just couldn’t face the routine.

The paper didn’t really hold my interest, other than to remind me that while my world was falling apart, everywhere else life was rolling along, business as usual. I was finished with breakfast before 6:00, and the sun was just starting to appear along the horizon as I came back out to my car. I couldn’t believe I would have to wait six hours before I could see James Sparks. Of course, driving there and getting inside would use up almost an hour, but otherwise the morning stretched before me like an eternity.

I returned to the motel, determined to use part of that time to get myself organized and answer my e-mail. As I opened my laptop, I decided to start by creating a database for this case, as I always did. Certainly, I needed to sort out the facts I had gleaned thus far.

Most puzzling to me, I thought as I began entering data, was what Tilly Sparks had said to me about James’ personal history. The man had worked with a group of computer experts, created a product, and then sold it to a country that was prohibited by the U.S. government. This caused an FBI investigation and eventually a conviction for violating export restrictions. He had acted alone, earning five million dollars for the secret trade. Unfortunately for him, not only did he have to give up the five million dollars upon his conviction, but he was also sentenced to five years in Keeplerville Federal Prison.

From there, he must have somehow earned an early release—and not told his mother—because the next thing she knew he had gone to Virginia, stayed in a vacation home, and accidentally killed my husband with a speedboat. After that, bogus facts about James hit the newspapers, and a falsified criminal record appeared on the police computers, tied in with his fingerprints. Everyone involved with the death on my end had been told that James Sparks was a drunk driver who was given 16 years for manslaughter. Now, however, I had learned that he had no history of drunk driving and he wasn’t at Virginia State Penitentiary as we had been told, but was instead at a male minimum security federal facility located within an hour of his hometown. When his mother had questioned him about the odd facts and incorrect information that the media was presenting, he had told her simply to keep quiet.

There was something big going on, and though I didn’t want to believe it, my mind kept flashing “Government cover-up! Government cover-up!” like a billboard.

I wasn’t one for conspiracy theories. I wasn’t one to suspect the hallowed halls of the FBI or the NSA of nefarious activities. Certainly, I knew there were questionable decisions made at all levels of government from time to time—not to mention rogue agents like the man I had dealt with last fall in a case that involved the Immigration and Naturalization Service. But by and large I trusted the entities who watched out for our nation’s security. I really didn’t want to believe they had somehow buried the real facts of this case among a bunch of lies.

Still, there were records missing. Falsified information had shown up on the police computers. Someone somewhere was playing fast and loose with the facts.

As I finished inputting everything I knew, I simply sat and stared at the puzzle in front of me, knowing there was a single glimmer of hope: Maybe today James Sparks would tell me all that I needed to know, and my investigation would be over.

Giving up for the time being, I closed out the database and then went online and scanned through my e-mail, cringing at the number of urgent notes that had piled up from Harriet. I read them all, variations on the same theme of “Are you okay?” “Where are you?” and “What’s going on?”

I wrote her back a heartfelt apology, telling her I would understand if she was furious with me. I said I was sorry that the conversation at the meeting had been confidential and I couldn’t tell her about it, but that the foundation was not in danger of being closed down, and that I was traveling for personal matters, not J.O.S.H.U.A. business. I ended by saying it might be a while longer before I could get in touch again but not to worry about me, that I was fine.

Once I had answered all important mail and deleted the junk, I signed off and decided to clear out my briefcase. Inside was a manila envelope, and as I picked it up, I remembered that it was my next assignment for the foundation, the one Tom had handed me as we were saying goodbye. Now I opened it with a heavy heart, knowing there was probably no future for me at the foundation. I doubted I could work any longer for a man who had so deceived me. Still, I pulled out the contents of the envelope and set everything down on the table in front of me.

On top was the cover sheet detailing the charity’s name, address, and phone number, its function, and the amount Tom was hoping to donate. In this case, the amount was $50,000 to a place called Family HEARTS. Under the cover sheet was a brochure, and I skimmed through it, trying to get a feel for their mission. Apparently, the place served as a sort of nationwide support network for families of children who had rare diseases and disorders.

“It’s hard enough to see your child suffer,” one parent was quoted as saying, “harder still when no one has even heard of the condition that is causing their suffering.”

I had never thought about it, but I imagined that to be true. At least with juvenile diabetes or muscular dystrophy, there was a certain knowledge level in the general public. But the kids in this brochure suffered from conditions I had never heard of: mucopolysaccharide disorder, hyperinsulinism, juvenile dermatomyositis.

Under the brochure was more standard paperwork: an audit report, the mission statement, minutes from a year’s worth of board meetings.

I didn’t see a grant application, which was odd, because it was kind of hard to approve a grant when I didn’t even know what they wanted the money for. It wasn’t until I reached the last page that I caught my breath. Under the title of “Contact Information” was a list of names of the board of directors and, below that, contact information for the staff and volunteers. One of the volunteers was named Beth Sparks.

James Sparks’ wife.

Tom’s sister.

Holding my breath, I reviewed the page again, and this time two other names also jumped out at me: Irene Bennett and Veronica Wilson. Irene, Tom’s mother, was on the board of directors, and Veronica was the director of the program. Whether this was the same Veronica who had been Tom’s high school sweetheart and one-time fianceé, I wasn’t sure. I had never learned her last name—but Veronica wasn’t all that common of a first name. I had a feeling that it was, indeed, her. I turned back to the cover sheet, surprised that I hadn’t even noticed where the charity was located: New Orleans, Louisiana.

Tom’s hometown.

I closed my eyes and tried to recall Tom’s demeanor when he handed me this file. At the time I had been so preoccupied with all that had happened at the meeting that I hadn’t really paid much attention. Now I thought back, realizing that there had been something in his face, something odd as he gave it over to me. “I’d like you to look into it,” he had said. When I protested, he repeated himself.
I’d like you to look into it
.

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 8:00
A.M.,
which made it almost 5:00
A.M.
in California, far too early to call. Still, at this point, I didn’t care if I woke Tom up or not. I dialed his number but hung up halfway through, remembering suddenly the cell phone he had slipped into my pocket just four days before, after our meeting at the foundation.
If you have to call me, that’s the phone to use
, he had said. I had stashed it in my briefcase once I took off on my long drive to Virginia. Now I dug it from the pocket of the case where I had shoved it, turned it on, and studied it.