Chapter 5 - The Clearance of the Title
The street outside the restaurant was cool, the air carrying the clean, damp smell of the river that ran behind the financial district. Two state vehicles—plain, grey sedans with municipal plates—were idling by the fire lane, their exhaust pipes throwing small plumes of white steam into the evening light.
Daniel was sitting in the back seat of the first car, his charcoal jacket folded over his lap, his chin resting against the glass of the window as if he were trying to read the signs on the buildings across the street. He didn't look at me when I walked past the door. He didn't look at his mother, who was currently arguing with a junior investigator by the canopy of the hotel next door, her voice rising into a sharp, thin shriek that was swallowed by the sound of the city traffic.
Agent Miller walked me to the corner of the block where my old blue station wagon was parked beneath the shadow of the rail bridge.
"The house is secure, Mrs. Caldwell," he said, his hand resting on the frame of his clipboard. "The lien will be vacated by the circuit court on Monday morning once the forgery indictment is filed. You won't need to clear the bank accounts; the state has placed the entire Meridian reserve into an escrow hold until the restitution hearings begin."
"Thank you, Agent Miller," I said, my fingers finding the cold iron key to my car in my purse.
"Your father would've liked the ledger work," the agent added, his thin mustache twitching in what might have been a small, professional smile. "He always said the third-tier routing was where they got lazy. He was right. Daniel used the same password for his corporate account that he used for his golf club registration."
"I know," I said. "He never was very good with the details."
I got into the front seat of the wagon, the old vinyl smelling of the dog hair and cedar chips I had left there during the winter. I started the engine, the four-cylinder motor catching with a low, unhurried hum that was completely different from the sharp, synthetic purr of Daniel’s sedan.
As I backed out into the traffic lane, I looked in the rearview mirror.
May you like
The glass walls of Le Petit Chateaux were bright against the dark brick of the block, the small candles on the tables looking like a row of yellow teeth through the window panels. The waiter was still standing by the private room door, holding his linen cloth in his hand, looking down at the white damask table where the venison loin was slowly turning cold in the blackberry grease.
I shifted the car into second, turned the wheel toward the valley road, and let the city lights drop down behind the ridge. The small house by the mill race was four miles away, and for the first time in five years, the keys were entirely in my own pocket.
