James Grippando - Need You Now

She offered a few details about his treatment, then added, “I wish I could tell you he was better. But he’s getting good care, and I can say he’s a fighter.”

“That’s something, I suppose.”

“I’m technically not allowed to tell you his new name or location,” she said. “In fact, my supervisor wouldn’t even give me that information. But I’m the curious type. And, frankly, I wouldn’t be much of an FBI agent if I couldn’t pinpoint a prison hospital that just admitted a sixty-year-old white male transfer patient who has non-Hodgkins lymphoma.”

“What did you find out?”

“He’s in Boston,” she said, and then she mentioned the name of the hospital. “His new name is Sam Carlson.”

As per our previous conversation, we were operating on a quid pro quo basis, and I knew this update was not gratis. She wanted something from me.

“I believe it’s time for you to give up the name of the man who opened a certain numbered account at BOS/Singapore.”

She meant the account that was at the heart of the search for Cushman’s money, of course. I said, “As I recall, there was one more condition. You were going to tell me why the FBI is still helping my father, even though your supervisor thinks I’ve been holding out.”

“I’ll be honest with you,” she said. “I don’t know why.”

I wasn’t sure I believed her, which made me want to hold on to the name Manu Robledo until she really gave me something. “That’s not good enough.”

A wisp of wind sent a swirl of white powder across the frozen bocce court. I shifted gears and told her about my meeting with Barber and Lilly. The exchange of data piqued her interest.

“What would it take to get my hands on Lilly’s files?” she asked.

“That’s way beyond the scope of our original deal,” I said, “and it’s confidential bank data. But I might see my way toward sharing it with you if you can tell me what BAQ means.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“One of the files mixed in with Lilly’s data is encrypted on a level that the federal government would use for a matter of national security. The only thing my tech expert can determine is that the letters B-A-Q appear in sequence with unusual frequency. It’s possible that it’s an abbreviation for something.”

“Your tech expert?” she said.

I had no intention of bringing Evan into this. “Don’t ask,” I said.

“The abbreviation BAQ doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“I didn’t expect an answer off the top of your head. Do some digging. Get me an answer, and I’ll give you Lilly’s files. Get it to me quick, and I’ll throw in the name of the man who opened numbered account 507.625 RR.”

It was the first time I’d mentioned the actual BOS account number, and it seemed to buy some credibility.

“Deal,” she said.

Another breeze, which became a gust, cut across the bocce courts. Andie was downwind and took the brunt of it.

I said, “Why don’t you go find someplace warm.”

She brushed the icy powder from her eyebrows, muttered something about a fast plane back to Miami, and then looked me in the eye. “One last thing,” she said. “I shared your father’s new name and location because you wanted to know them. But after meeting with him, I feel like I should add one thing you probably won’t want to hear: don’t contact your father.”

Her bluntness took me aback. “Would you tell me if he was going to pass soon?”

“It’s not imminent, but that’s not my point. I don’t say this to be cruel or to hurt your feelings, but your father was moved and given a new identity at his own request. He doesn’t want you to find him.”

A reunion had never been my stated mission, but Andie’s frank advice made me realize that it had indeed been a subconscious goal. I tried to absorb the blow. “Did he tell you that?”

“Yes. In almost exactly those words.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“He has his reasons.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

She drew a deep breath of the cold morning air as she considered her response. “There are things that he doesn’t want to have to explain to you.”

“That’s pretty vague.”

“He’d prefer it that way. I’m sure of it.”

“Did he kill Gerry Collins?”

“Patrick, I can assure you of one thing. It has absolutely nothing to do with your father’s guilt or innocence.”

“It’s my mother, isn’t it?”

Andie struggled. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but your mother tried to contact your father while he was in witness protection. He’s convinced that’s what got her killed.”

“I didn’t know it, but I always suspected.”

“Now you know.”

“That was a long time ago,” I said. “The Santucci family isn’t what it used to be. Who’s to say it would be anywhere near as dangerous for his children to see him before he dies?”

“He doesn’t want to take that risk.”

Our eyes met, and held. The vibe between us wasn’t about love and romance, but it suddenly occurred to me that I’d worked harder at this relationship with Andie Henning than I’d worked at any relationship with any woman who wasn’t named Lilly. I didn’t always trust her-not by a long shot-but at least, with respect to her advice about my father, I sensed that I could trust her completely.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome.”

There was compassion in her tone, and it was as if she was telling me that hearing the harsh truth was only part of the equation. Now all I had to do was deal with it.

Or, knowing myself, ignore her well-intentioned advice.

M ongoose took the early train from New York to Boston. By nine A.M. he was at Lemuel Shattuck Hospital Correctional Unit in Jamaica Plain.

Finding the right hospital hadn’t been difficult. He’d already confirmed that Tony Mandretti was Tony Martin, who had been treated for non-Hodgkins lymphoma in North Carolina. The number of correctional institutions equipped to render quality treatment was not endless. He’d zeroed in on the facility that had most recently admitted an out-of-state transfer.

“Right this way, Father,” the corrections officer told him.

For purposes of this visit, Mongoose was Father Michael Devane, complete with black shirt, white collar, dog-eared Bible, and rosary beads. At three A.M. it had taken less than thirty minutes to hack into the prison unit’s computer records and add the name of a nonexistent Catholic priest to the approved list of visitors for inmate Sam Carlson.

“Bless you,” said Mongoose.

The correctional unit was on the hospital’s eighth floor, which was at full capacity with twenty-three inmates. Shattuck was a medium-security facility, but medium did not mean lax. Security cameras provided a continuous live feed to the unit desk on the eighth floor and the main desk downstairs. Armed corrections officers were posted at each end of the brightly lit corridor. Others stood guard directly outside the rooms of inmates who presented a heightened security risk or a possible threat to health care professionals. Mongoose followed the officer down the hallway, and they stopped outside an open doorway.

“Wait here,” said the officer, and then he entered the room. Mongoose stood in the hall, opened his Bible, and pretended to read from it as nurses and orderlies went about their business, ignoring him.

“He’s asleep,” the guard said as he emerged from the room. “Not much else to do when you’re on that much pain medication.”

“I’m sure he needs his rest. Don’t wake him. If I can’t pray with him, I’ll pray over him.”