The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [41]
“Who’s Gerald?” a female voice interrupts.
“E-Excuse me?”
“Hiya there, Wes, this is Lisbeth Dodson from the Palm Beach Post. How’d you like to have your name in bold?”
20
Washington, D.C.
The left front tire dove into the pothole at full speed, slicing through the puddle of melted snow and unleashing a jarring punch that shook the black SUV. With a twist of the steering wheel, the car jerked to the right. A second punch pummeled the car. The Roman cursed to himself. D.C. roads were bad enough. But southeast Washington was always the worst.
Flicking on his wipers, he brushed a light dust of snow from the windshield and made a sharp left onto Malcolm X Avenue. The burned-out cars, overpiled trash cans, and boarded-up buildings told him this wasn’t a neighborhood to be lost in. Fortunately, he knew exactly where he was going.
Within a mile, the car bucked to a halt at the light where Malcolm X intersected with Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue. The Roman couldn’t help but grin to himself. For eight years, he’d relied a great deal on peaceful coexistence. But now, with Boyle’s reappearance . . . with Wes as a witness . . . even with O’Shea and Micah closing in . . . sometimes there was no choice left but the tough one.
It was no different eight years ago when they first approached Nico. Of course, not all three of them were there. For safety, only one went. Naturally, Nico was hesitant—even belligerent. No one likes seeing his family attacked. But that’s when Nico was shown the proof: the records from his mother’s stay in the hospital.
“What’s this?” Nico had asked, scanning the sheet of paper filled with room numbers and delivery times. The single word Dinner was handwritten across the top.
“It’s the hospital’s meal delivery log,” Number Three explained. “From the day your mother died.”
Sure enough, Nico saw his mother’s name. Hadrian, Mary. And her old room number. Room 913. And even what she ordered. Meat loaf. But what confused him was the handwritten notation in the column marked Attempted Delivery. On the sheet, every patient had a different delivery time: 6:03 p.m. . . . 6:09 p.m. . . . 6:12 p.m. . . . Except for Nico’s mom, where it simply said patient deceased.
Nico looked up, clearly confused. “I don’t understand. This is from her final Sunday . . . from the day she died?”
“Not exactly,” he told him. “Look at the date in the corner. September 16th, right?” As Nico nodded, he quickly explained, “September 16th was a Saturday, Nico. According to these records, your mom died on a Saturday.”
“No,” Nico insisted. “She died Sunday. Sunday, September 17th. I remember, I was— We were in church.” Staring down at the meal delivery log, he added, “How could this happen?”
“No, Nico. The real question is, why would someone do that?”
Nico shook his head furiously. “No, there’s no way. We were in church. In the second row. I remember my father coming in and—”
Nico froze.
“That’s the great thing about church, isn’t it, Nico? When the whole town’s packed into the pews and watching your concerned father praying with his two young kids . . . it really is the perfect alibi.”
“Wait . . . you’re saying my dad killed my—”
“What was it, three years since she’d lapsed into that coma? Three years with no mom. No one running the house. Every day—all those prayers and visits—her illness consuming your lives.”
“He’d never do that! He loved her!”
“He loved you more, Nico. You’d already lost three years of your childhood. That’s why he did it. For you. He did it for you.”
“B-But the doctors . . . wouldn’t the coroner . . . ?”
“Dr. Albie Morales—the neurologist who pronounced her dead—is the worshipful master in charge of your father’s Masonic Lodge. Coroner Turner Sinclair—who filed the rest of the paperwork—is the deacon of that same Lodge. That’s what Masons do, Nico. That’s what they’ve done throughout histor—”
“You’re lying!” Nico exploded, cupping his hands over his ears. “Please be lying!”
“He did it for you, Nico.