Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO LIED FOR HIS DEAD BROTHER
“Patrick Russo was my brother in every way that mattered,” Desmond said. “And you're going to explain why you were touching the car that killed him.”
Frankie didn't defend himself.
He stood beside the desk with his hands hanging at his sides.
“I was checking for a tracking device.”
Desmond's wheelchair moved forward.
“Who told you there was one?”
“Patrick.”
That answer stunned everyone.
Frankie swallowed.
“He came to me that afternoon. Said somebody had been following your movements for weeks. He'd noticed the same delivery van outside three different places you visited.”
“What van?”
“White. Blue lettering. Registered to Lakeshore Medical Services.”
I looked up sharply.
The company on the payment receipt.
The company that supplied equipment to St. Agnes.
Desmond saw my expression.
“Keep talking.”
“Patrick told me he thought somebody had put a tracker underneath the SUV. I checked it while he went to find you.”
“And?”
“I found one.”
Frankie reached into his jacket.
He removed a small black plastic device.
The casing was scratched.
One corner had been melted.
“I pulled it loose. There were other wires beneath the vehicle, but I thought they belonged to the alarm system.”
Desmond looked at the device as though it were poisonous.
“You didn't tell me.”
“I meant to. Then Patrick came running across the parking lot. He was shouting for you to get away from the car.”
Frankie's voice broke.
“I saw him grab your shoulder. Then everything went white.”
I watched Desmond's face.
For six months, he had believed the explosion had come without warning.
Now he knew Patrick had recognized the danger.
“Why keep this hidden?” Desmond asked.
Frankie's eyes filled.
“Because I was the security chief. I missed the bomb. My brother died trying to fix my mistake.”
“So you let me believe nobody could have stopped it?”
“I couldn't stand hearing you say you trusted me.”
Desmond looked away.
The silence lasted long enough for me to hear the grandfather clock downstairs.
Finally, I spoke.
“Frankie, give that device to the police.”
He shook his head.
“Nora—”
“Not another drawer. Not another private investigation. Evidence.”
Desmond looked at the small transmitter.
Then at Frankie.
“Do it.”
Frankie appeared surprised.
So was I.
An hour later, I was cleaning Desmond's pressure sore when he finally said what had been bothering him.
“Patrick was twenty-two when my father hired him.”
I continued applying the prescribed dressing.
“He started as a driver?”
“As a mechanic. He repaired the first truck I ever bought without charging me a dime.”
“Why?”
“Because I'd paid for his mother's surgery.”
I glanced up.
“That was decent of you.”
Desmond's mouth tightened.
“I also used that truck to move things no decent man should have been moving.”
There it was.
The part of his life everyone in the estate pretended not to see.
“You don't have to tell me,” I said.
“Yes, I do.”
I secured the dressing.
“Then tell me when you're ready to tell the truth, not when you're trying to punish yourself.”
He stared at me.
“You always talk like that?”
“Only to difficult patients.”
“I'm your employer.”
“And a difficult patient.”
He looked down at his legs.
“I used to walk into a room and people stood up.”
“Now they still stand up. They're just scared you'll throw something.”
His mouth twitched.
Then his expression grew serious.
“I think somebody wanted Patrick dead as much as they wanted me.”
“Then we need to find out what he knew.”
Desmond nodded.
But I noticed something else.
For the first time since I'd met him, he hadn't covered his legs immediately after treatment.
He was beginning to tolerate being seen.
That afternoon, Evelyn Gallagher arrived at the estate.
She was nothing like I expected.
Tall.
Elegant.
Dark hair pulled into a neat twist.
A navy coat that probably cost more than my car.
She kissed her brother's cheek before looking at me.
“So you're Nora.”
Her voice was polite.
Her eyes weren't.
“And you're Evelyn.”
“I understand there's been an accusation.”
“Against me, yes.”
“Then I'm sure you understand why your presence here has become complicated.”
I folded my arms.
“Your brother still needs nursing care.”
“We can arrange someone else.”
“Like the four nurses who quit?”
Her face hardened.
Desmond watched us quietly.
Evelyn turned toward him.
“Martin called me. He's concerned.”
“Martin Vale can tell me that himself.”
“He says your medication hasn't been managed properly.”
“Because Nora discovered problems with it.”
Evelyn glanced at me.
I noticed the tiny pause.
“You've been changing his prescriptions?”
“No,” I said. “I've been making sure they're actually his prescriptions.”
I opened the medication record.
Three evening doses had been documented as routine muscle relaxants.
But the tablets in one bottle carried a different imprint from the medication listed on the chart.
I'd already isolated the bottle and requested pharmacy verification.
Evelyn went pale.
“Who prepares these?”
“The private medication service Dr. Bernard Cole uses,” I answered.
“Bernard has cared for Desmond for years.”
“Then he should appreciate someone checking his work.”
Desmond gave a low chuckle.
Evelyn didn't.
Instead, she placed a leather folder on his desk.
“There's something else.”
Inside was a notice from Gallagher Logistics.
An emergency board meeting.
Martin Vale wanted Desmond's voting authority temporarily transferred to an independent trustee.
The justification was printed in cold, professional language.
Medical incapacity.
Impaired decision-making.
Risk to company operations.
I looked at Desmond.
His jaw had tightened so hard that I could see the muscles moving.
“They want to take your company?”
Evelyn answered.
“Temporarily.”
Desmond laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“I survived a bomb. Now my own board wants to bury me.”
“They're worried about you.”
“Then they can visit.”
Evelyn lowered her voice.
“Desmond, please. Don't make this harder.”
I looked at her.
“Did Martin tell you to bring that?”
She didn't answer quickly enough.
And suddenly I understood something.
“You arranged my hiring, didn't you?”
Desmond turned.
“What?”
Evelyn's expression changed.
“I reviewed the agency's recommendations.”
“No,” I said. “Your brother requested a senior nurse. The agency sent me instead. Someone overrode his request.”
“That happens.”
“With four nurses already gone? When my name had appeared in a bombing investigation?”
Desmond's eyes settled on his sister.
“Evelyn.”
She looked away.
Finally, she said, “Martin mentioned her.”
The room went silent.
“He said Nora had worked at the fundraiser and might remember something useful. I thought if we brought her into the house, perhaps we could finally understand what happened.”
I stared at her.
“So instead of asking me questions, you hired me to care for your brother?”
“I didn't know about the accusation against you.”
“But you knew my name six months before we met.”
“Yes.”
Desmond struck the armrest of his wheelchair.
“Enough.”
Evelyn flinched.
“You brought a woman into my home without telling either of us why. You let her daughter become part of this mess. And you thought that was acceptable?”
Her eyes filled.
“I was trying to help you.”
“Then start by telling me the truth.”
She remained silent.
Desmond moved closer.
“What did Patrick tell you before he died?”
Evelyn's face drained.
I had asked the right question without even realizing it.
Slowly, she opened her handbag.
Inside was an old gray overcoat.
The fabric was worn around the cuffs.
One sleeve had a brown stain.
Blood, perhaps.
“Patrick left this in my office the morning of the fundraiser,” she whispered. “He said someone might come looking for it.”
Frankie entered just as she unfolded the coat.
He recognized it immediately.
“That was my brother's.”
Evelyn nodded.
“I was supposed to give it to Desmond after the event. Then Patrick died, and Martin told me it belonged with the investigation. I couldn't bring myself to hand it over.”
“Why bring it now?” I asked.
“Because Martin called me this morning asking whether I'd destroyed it.”
Nobody moved.
Evelyn reached into the lining.
The seam had been opened and stitched closed again with uneven black thread.
She removed a yellow claim ticket.
The number was handwritten in blue ink.
417\.
On the reverse side were three words:
ASK FOR ORIGINALS.
Desmond looked at Frankie.
“Where does that ticket lead?”
Frankie read the address at the bottom.
Then he closed his eyes.
“Fulton Street Storage.”
Evelyn whispered, “Patrick said he had proof someone was stealing from the children's fund.”
Desmond's face went white.
May you like
Because the Gallagher Children's Fund was the one business he had always insisted nobody was allowed to touch.
And someone had been stealing from it while he sat in his wheelchair.
