so they understand things better than a five-year-old would. But it’s
still hard. For all of us. Only reason I’m not still bawling is that
I ran out of tears this morning. I sent them to school. I decided it
couldn’t be any worse than sitting around here while a parade of people
came through talking about their dad.”
“You’re probably right.”
“You can only do the best you can. I knew there was always the
possibility. God, Ken was an agent for twenty-four years. The only
time he ever got hurt on duty was when his car got a flat and he
wrenched his back changing the tire.” Anne smiled briefly at this
memory. “He was even talking about retirement. Maybe moving away when
the kids were both in college. His mother lives in South Carolina.
She’s getting to the age where she needs some family close by.”
Anne looked like she might start crying again. If she did, Reynolds
wasn’t sure she wouldn’t join her, given her own mental state right
now.
“You have children?”
“Boy and girl. Three and six.”
Anne smiled. “Oh, still babies.”
“I understand it gets tougher as they get older.”
“Well, let’s put it this way, it gets more complex. You go from
spitting, biting, potty-training, to battles over clothes, boys, money.
About age thirteen they suddenly can’t stand being around Mom and Dad.
That one was tough, but they finally came back. Then you worry
yourself sick over alcohol and cars and sex and drugs.”
Reynolds managed a weak smile. “Gee, I can’t wait. “”How long have
you been with the Bureau?”
“Thirteen years. Joined after one incredibly boring year as a
corporate
“It’s a dangerous business.”
Reynolds stared at her. “It certainly can be.”
“You’re married?”
“Technically, yes, but in a couple of months, no.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Believe me, it’s best all around.”
“You’re keeping the children?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s good. Children belong with their mothers, I don’t care what
the politically correct folk say.”
“In my case, I wonder-I work long, unpredictable hours. All I know is
that my children belong with me.”
“You say you have a law degree?”
“From Georgetown.”
“Lawyers make good money. And it’s not nearly as dangerous as being an
FBI agent.”
“I suppose not.” Reynolds finally realized where this was going.
“You might want to think about a career change. Too many nuts out
there now. And too many guns. When Ken started at the Bureau, there
weren’t kids just out of diapers running around with machine guns
shooting people down like they were in some damn cartoon.”
Reynolds had no answer for that. She just stood there hugging the
notebook to her chest, thinking of her kids.
“I’ll bring your coffee.”
Anne closed the door behind her and Reynolds sank into the nearest
chair. She was having a sudden vision of her body being put inside a
black pouch while the palm reader delivered the bad news to her
bereaved children. I told your mother so. Shit! She shook off these
thoughts and opened the notebook. Anne returned with her coffee, and
then, left to herself, Reynolds made considerable progress. What she
found out was very disturbing.
For at least the last three years, Ken Newman had made deposits, all in
cash, to his checking account. The amounts were small-a hundred
dollars here, fifty there-and they were made at random times. She
pulled out the log Sobel had given her and ran her eye down the dates
Newman had visited the safe-deposit box. Most of them corresponded
with the dates he had also deposited cash into his checking account.
Visit the box, put fresh cash in, take some old cash out and deposit it
in the family bank account, she surmised. She also figured he would
have gone to another bank branch to deposit the money. He couldn’t
very well take cash out of his box as Frank Andrews and deposit it as
Ken Newman, all at the same branch.
It all added up to a significant amount of money, yet not a vast
fortune. The thing was, the total balance of the checking account was
never very large because there were always checks written on the