“I’ll take whatever I can get, if you’re willing to share it.”
He pulled a thick manila envelope from a canvas briefcase slung over his shoulder.
“There’re some records here from when Joe and his brother were born. Some other stuff too.”
“I appreciate this.”
“It’s for Ben,” he said. “Good cop.” He took a step back, gave her a quick, slight nod, and then turned away.
CHAPTER 51
6 Iroquois Way
Yorktown Heights, New York
10:47 p.m.
The boys were asleep, and Aideen’s king-size bed was again a loosely organized surface of papers, reports, photos, and files. Sharing this makeshift war room, bathed in soft, yellow lamplight, were Máiréad and Finster. Máiréad was seated cross-legged beside her mother. She yawned and stretched, clasping her hands over her head, then picked up the mysterious baseball card, still in the plastic baggie.
“Who was this again?” she asked.
“Reggie Jackson,” Aideen said. She had gone to Joe’s house to retrieve the card from his box of work stuff. Joe didn’t know it, but she had also done some light cleaning and aired the place out. The house had never been particularly comfortable or inviting, but it was musty and foreboding in his absence.
“That mustache is terrible,” Máiréad said, frowning. Jackson’s photo was of him in a tight, rounded Yankees cap and sunglasses. Below it was his name in curved red letters and then NEW YORK YANKEES, OUTFIELD below that.
“They were popular then. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Huh.” She flipped it over and scanned the stats on the back, then set it down carefully in front of them. “Where did Joe say he found this again?”
“In a work file. A case file, like the ones I have.”
“I know, but where was he when he found it? In the office?”
“He was in court. He had the file with him for a hearing.”
“What kind of hearing?”
“You know, a hearing for a case. A guy, I guess, who was up for civil management. They call them respondents.”
“Wait,” Máiréad said, her eyes squinting, “like . . . a criminal, right? A guy who had been in prison already?”
“Yeah, that’s what respondents are. They’re people who have been convicted of sex crimes, and they’re back in court because of their mental health.”
“Okay, but who was the guy? The respondent.”
“I don’t know, Mair,” Aideen said with an air of impatience. She was making notes from another report and straining to read someone’s bad handwriting. “Why?”
“Because he’s a criminal, Mom!” Máiréad’s tone accused her of being even more obtuse than usual. “I mean, was this guy, like, anywhere near Joe during the hearing?”
Aideen looked at her daughter over reading glasses. “What do you mean by near him?”
“You know, like, were they close together?”
“There are different tables for prosecution and defense.”
“I know. I’ve seen Law and Order. What about after? How does Joe know that this guy—whoever he is—didn’t slip this baseball card in a file he was carrying around? Has anyone thought of that?”
Aideen stared at her, then down at the card. Indeed, she had not thought of that.
CHAPTER 52
Thursday, August 24, 2017
Anna M. Kross Center, Rikers Island
East River in the Bronx
10:11 a.m.
“Evan Bolds,” Joe said. “It was a case I was working just before I left.”
“It was the Bolds file you found the baseball card inside of?” She looked down at some notes.
“Yeah, why?”
“Máiréad had an idea,” she said, frowning. Then she glanced up with a you-got-me look.
“Wait. Máiréad? Your daughter? What does she know about any of this?”
“Well . . . actually, quite a bit,” she said. The guilty look stuck to her face. “I tried to keep her out of it, but, you know. She comes into the bedroom. She sees me working. She asks questions. She’s getting older.”
“Older? She’s what—fourteen?”
“She’s an old fourteen, and she needs something to focus on, just like me. She thought she could help, okay? And maybe she has. Look, I’ll apologize later. For now, please help me think this through. Is there any way that Bolds could have slipped that baseball card into your file?”