Damaged (38 page)

I'm not negotiating anymore.

Mary burst through the front doors, hit the sidewalk, and took a left, heading toward home. She lived only fifteen minutes away and she walked through Rittenhouse Square every night on her way home, so the familiar route helped her feel vaguely normal. The sidewalk was filled with businessmen and women making their way to their apartments and houses after a long and busy day, lugging backpacks, messenger bags, and shopping totes.

The sun was setting behind the Dorchester, one of the taller of the apartment buildings on the west side of Rittenhouse Square, and the air was turning October crisp. She would be married soon. She hoped.

That's not what I want anymore.

Mary wished she could call Anthony, tell him what happened, and complain to him, but she had lost track of where he was and she knew that was the worst thing to do. She kept walking home, collecting her thoughts on the way. She couldn't begin to process what had happened with Machiavelli, but one thing was for certain. The pressure wasn't about to let up on Patrick, so she had to get busy.

Mary tried to rally. The sooner she cleared Patrick of any wrongdoing, the better it would be for him, and the sooner she could be named his guardian. She'd lost in court today, so she was down, but she was by no means out, especially after what happened with Machiavelli.

She pulled her phone from her purse and pressed in Abby Ortega's phone number, her fingers still trembling. “Hi, Abby,” she said, when the call was answered.

“Hey, Mary,” Abby said, her tone sympathetic. “How you doing? Are you taking it okay?”

“Sure, no problem,” Mary answered, her chest tight. This wasn't the time to whine. She had to get in gear. “Abby, can you please get me in to see Patrick tonight?”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Mary took a left on Twenty-second Street past the cool boutiques and storefront restaurants, heading for home. “I want to see Patrick as soon as possible and tell him what happened in court today, so he's not expecting me to take him home soon. I also want to talk to him about what happened the night Edward died. I have to get to the bottom of this thing with the insulin, if I want him clear of any suspicion.”

“You're right. You sure you feel up to it?”

“Absolutely. I'm going to grab something to eat, grab my car, and I'll be good to go. I'm free anytime.” Mary fell into step with a hipster carrying a bouquet of wildflowers.

Abby hesitated. “The problem is I have to go with you and I have other cases to deal with. I'm behind because I was in court all day.”

Mary knew the feeling. She was pointedly ignoring her email. “I hate to put you out. Can't I go up without you? Could you call the foster family and make an appointment for me to go alone?”

“No, I think I should be there. I'll give you private time with him, but I'm erring on the side of caution, for the record. It makes sense when you're dealing with DHS, especially after today. They'll be watching our every move.”

“Do you mind going with me tonight? I'll work around your schedule.”

“Okay, I hear you. I'll call the foster family and get back to you. We can meet at the house, it's in the Juniata area.”

“Thanks,” Mary said, grateful. She crossed the street, passing a harried working mother who held a toddler by the hand, trying to move him along more quickly.

“I'll call or text you back the address. Okay?”

“Perfect. Thanks. Bye.” Mary hung up, feeling stronger now that she was back in control of something, at least. She was just about to check her email when her phone started ringing again in her hand. She glanced at the screen, which read
KATE SAND RIDOLFI, FAIRMOUNT PREP
, so she took the call.

“Mary? It's Kate from Fairmount.”

“Right, yes, hello.” Mary's mind raced through the possibilities of why Kate would be calling, but none of them was very good. She turned onto Spruce Street, where the shops segued into a more residential neighborhood, with tall rowhomes divided into apartments.

“Mary, I have to ask you a question. Didn't you tell me that the name of the dyslexic fifth-grader you wanted to enroll was Patrick O'Brien?”

“Yes, that's him.” Mary knew where this was going. Kate had read the newspaper story.

“He's not the same Patrick O'Brien that's suspected of killing his grandfather, is he? I assume it isn't and I know it's a very common name, so I wanted to check.”

“Kate, he did nothing of the sort.”

“Whew, I thought so. So it's not the same kid.”

Mary couldn't mislead her. “Well, it is the same kid, but he did nothing like that.”

“Mary, is it the same kid or not?”

“It's the same kid but he did
not
kill his grandfather—”

Kate gasped. “The police say he did. My assistant read it online.”

“He hasn't been charged with a thing. It's a mix-up. Patrick sometimes administered insulin injections to his grandfather to help him out. It was completely unintentional, I swear to you.”

“Mary, are you
serious
?” Kate asked, incredulous.

“Yes, trust me. I know what I'm talking about. He's a great kid, and I'm dying to get him in. Please, work with me on this. I swear to you, you'll see I'm right.”

“Mary, I can't take him if he's under a cloud of suspicion about something as serious as
murder
. I have a Board of Directors to answer to, and parents.”

“He has not been charged with murder, I promise you.”

“Mary, when you called me, was the grandfather dead?”

“No, it just happened.”

“So who's his guardian?”

“He's with DHS now, but I'll be his guardian, when we have an adjudication hearing. Just give me a few days and I promise, I'll have this confusion cleared up.”

“I don't know.” Kate paused. “You're asking me to go out on a limb here. We have a waiting list for admission, and I put you at the top, out of consideration for our friendship.”

“I know, I appreciate that. I've never let you down before and I won't let you down now. Please, hold his space open, Kate. He'll be squeaky clean, I swear it.”

“Okay, but you have to send me a deposit of $5,000, non-refundable. I can't hold the space without a deposit in the circumstances.”

“Fine, I'll make a phone call and get the deposit wired to you, tomorrow.”

“Good. Email me when it's set up and I'll ask my assistant to send you the bank and routing information.”

“I will. Thank you so much, Kate. I really appreciate it.”

“Don't let me down, Mary.”

“I won't. Good-bye now.” Mary hung up quickly before Kate changed her mind, then she scrolled through her phone, found the cell-phone number for the executor, James Geltz, and pressed
CALL
.

The phone rang three times, then he picked up. “Hello?” James said vaguely, and Mary assumed he hadn't added her to his cell phone because he didn't know who was calling.

“James, hello, this is Mary DiNunzio, Patrick O'Brien's lawyer.” Mary didn't get into the niceties of legal guardianship because she didn't want to delay. Until somebody stopped her, she was going to act as Patrick's lawyer, especially in the special education case.

“Oh yes. Mary, you caught me at a bad moment. I was just about to go out.”

“Sorry, I'll make this fast. I'm calling to let you know that I need $5,000 to be wired to Fairmount Prep to reserve Patrick's spot for admission.”

“I'm not sure where the funds are. I have to check.”

“I can tell you that.” Mary tried not to be impatient, though she got the impression that James hadn't followed up. “Did you call Dave Kather, the stockbroker?”

“No, not yet, but I will. As I say, I have to go.”

“Wait, just to remind you, Edward doesn't have much in the bank and we still need to pay for the funeral, so we will have to sell some stock for the Fairmount tuition. Could you call Dave Kather and authorize that, then wire the $5,000 deposit to Fairmont Prep? I can email you the routing information tomorrow. Remember, it's ultimately reimbursable by the school district, so it's not as if I'm depleting the funds of the estate.”

“Fine. I'll look into those accounts and get back to you. I really have to go.”

Mary realized that James hadn't mentioned the news that Patrick was suspected of murdering Edward, so he must not have seen it online yet. She wanted to get ahead of the story, so she could explain to him it wasn't true. “James, one other thing, you're going to be seeing news about—”

“Mary, I really have to go. I'm late. I'll talk to you tomorrow, good-bye.” James hung up the phone, leaving Mary annoyed. She hung up and slipped her phone back into her pocket. She'd email James about the newspaper story, but it concerned her that he wasn't paying the case enough attention. She doubted if he'd followed up on Edward's Mass and funeral, because if he had, he would've learned that Edward's body wasn't being released until next week, delaying any funeral arrangements.

Mary powered forward down the sidewalk, troubled. She needed James to give Patrick top priority or she would lose the space at school. She wished she could advance the $5,000 herself, but that was frowned upon. Lawyers paying debts for clients or otherwise commingling funds was considered bad practice, if not unethical.

Mary picked up the pace. She couldn't wait to talk to Patrick and figure out what had happened the night Edward died. It wouldn't be easy for Patrick to go back to that night, but she had no choice. The suspicion of murder could be as damaging to him as if charges were actually filed.

Scaring you is not my intent, my dear.

Mary picked up the pace, then broke into a light jog, not knowing whether she was running from something, or to something.

 

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

It started to rain, so Mary parked in front of Patrick's foster home and waited in her car for Abby to arrive. Patrick had been placed with foster parents named Jane and Ray Stackpole, a couple who lived in Willow Park, a neighborhood fifteen minutes away from Juniata but considerably more run-down. The Stackpoles' rowhouse was one of the nicer ones on the block, but most of the rowhouses were in poor repair and some were vacant, their windows boarded up with graffitied plywood. Among the parked cars, two were stickered abandoned. The streetlights were all out, plunging the street into a gloomy rainfall. A plastic bag and other trash floated in water in the gutters, and broken glass glinted on the sidewalks.

Mary glanced around, feeling vaguely unsafe. She looked around reflexively for the brown Subaru, but she didn't see it. She glanced in the rearview mirror to see headlights approaching, though she couldn't tell the make or model of the car. She stiffened momentarily, but the car was white and small, a coupe. In the next moment, the coupe parked, and Abby emerged from the driver's seat, popping the hood of a yellow rain slicker over her head.

Mary flashed her high beams, and Abby hurried to meet her because they'd planned to touch base before they went inside. Mary leaned over and opened the passenger-side door, and Abby got in with her heavy bag, easing wetly into the seat and slipping her hood off her head.

“Yikes, what a downpour,” she said, with a grin.

“I know, thanks for coming up.”

“No worries.”

“Can I say it's not that nice a neighborhood?”

“I hear you, but I asked some of my caseworker friends about the Stackpoles, and they have a pretty decent reputation. They're retired and the father, Ray, used to work in corrections.”

“You mean the prison system?”

“Yes. He worked at Graterford.”

“That's maximum-security,” Mary said, surprised. It wasn't exactly warm and fuzzy, but she kept an open mind.

“The mother, Jane, was a stay-at-home mom, and their kids are grown up. They've been through DHS's program for troubled and violent children and they've been fostering for the past nine years. Their home environment is safe, which is the main thing.”

Mary thought it was a low bar, but didn't say so. “Do they have any other foster children right now?”

“Yes, two brothers, age twelve and fifteen.” Abby touched Mary on the arm. “Look, I know it's not ideal, but it's only temporary.”

“Really.” Mary didn't get one thing. “Can I just ask you one question? Why would a retired couple take potentially violent children into their home on a regular basis, for almost ten years?”

“Some foster families do it out of the goodness of their hearts, just like you. You stepped up for Patrick out of unselfishness, and most foster families do it for that reason. I don't want to take anything away from them.”

“It sounds like there's a ‘but' coming.”

“But some people do it for the stipend.” Abby pursed her lips.

“So, money. How much do they get?”

“About $300 or $400 a month per child, depending on a couple of factors, like they get more if the child has special needs.” Abby shrugged. “But the way I look at it, even if their motive is money, that doesn't mean they won't do a good job. From what I hear, the Stackpoles do a very good job, and I have the impression that they do it as a kind of a home business. But that's not a bad thing, right?”

“Right.” Mary tried to get back on track. “Did you see that the newspapers have the story about Patrick being suspected of his grandfather's murder?”

“Yes, how much does that suck?”

“Machiavelli leaked it.”

“You're kidding me. What's that guy's deal?”

“You don't want to know.” Mary didn't want to go into it now. She'd been trying to forget about it since it happened.

“I made the Stackpoles aware of it. We both agreed it was best to keep it from Patrick.”