I Already Had the Keys

Headlights crossed the front windows.

Three sets, arriving in sequence, pulling into the driveway and along the curb in the space the three unfamiliar cars had occupied. I watched Melissa's face as she recognized the light pattern, the specific movement of headlights turning in rather than passing. She went to the window and looked out.

Frank Okafor's car was the first. He came up the front walk with two associates, both of whom were carrying document cases, both of whom had the unhurried pace of people who are arriving at something they were told to expect. Behind Frank's car was a second vehicle carrying a man named Gerald Strand, who had been my financial advisor for three years and who I had called during the forty minutes between Frank's call and the arrival, because there were joint accounts and property matters that were going to require documentation of present circumstances before they could be appropriately addressed. The third vehicle was a woman I had called two weeks earlier, not because I knew this specific evening was coming, but because I had known something was coming and had taken the step that careful people take when they sense an approaching storm.

Her name was Patricia Cole. She was a private investigator who had been building a secondary file for fourteen days.

Melissa turned away from the window.

I watched her make the calculation that people make when the situation has become larger than they expected and the exits have closed. The three men in the entry hall were making similar calculations, though with less information and considerably more urgency.

"Charlie," Melissa said. Her voice had changed again. This was the version she used when she needed something from me, the soft version, the one that had worked for six years. "Whatever you're thinking, we can talk about this. You don't need to—"

"I'm not thinking anything," I said. "I already thought it. This is the part where I act on it."

Frank came through the front door I had left unlocked and surveyed the room with the professional assessment of a man who has walked into complicated situations before and understands how to read them quickly. He looked at Melissa. He looked at the three men. He looked at me.

"You have the recording?" he said.

"Twenty seconds," I said. "Clear audio and video."

"Patricia's file?"

"I haven't seen it yet."