Parkes introduced himself and then dove right in. “We’ve arranged with Grandview General for you to take a leave of absence. You’ll need to drop in on the Costa mansion every day, and once you’re back home, you’ll write up your notes on a secure server we’ll provide for you.”
My mouth felt dry, but I asked, “What am I reporting, exactly?”
“Listen in on everything he and his son, Nero, discuss. If household staff is chatty, be casual about what the family doesfor a living. According to them, they operate a shipping company aboveboard.”
“Do you need shipment times or product specifications?”
He shook his head. “We have access to that information. It’s about as useless as one would expect.”
“Because it’s all a ruse,” I said.
“Yes,” Lauder interjected. “We don’t expect them to be comfortable enough around you the first few days to let anything slip. Don't get discouraged.”
“And in exchange . . .” I let the words trail off.
“I’ve already brought the file boxes up from storage,” Lauder responded. “I have a brand new agent, top of their class, going over the evidence for anything missed the first time.”
For ten years, that box had been gathering dust. In the beginning, they pretended they wanted answers as badly as I did. Little by little, they focused on more pressing cases until my parents were nothing more than faded ghosts.
As soon as we wrapped it up, I took a deep breath and typed the address of the Georgian-style mansion into my phone’s map. The Costas sure did live large, but I suppose that was true for anyone involved in organized crime.
Showing off what they claimed they didn’t do.
There was a man at the gate who took my credentials and did some sort of check. The hospital had recommended me, and they knew I was coming. My heart beat too hard, my throat constricting a bit too much as I pulled through the gates.
A uniformed staff member opened the double doors as I pulled up, waiting for me to approach before stepping aside and pointing to the closest room. “Mr. Costa is in the den.”
“Thank you,” I replied, my voice thin.
The man in question rested in a hospital bed set up in a downstairs room holding shelf after shelf of books, leather clubchairs, and a massive desk pushed to one wall to accommodate the new occupant.
“You’re the doctor?” he wheezed, wiping at his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.
“Dr. Wentworth,” I answered him.
“Let me get a look at you.”
I moved closer, pulling out my stethoscope and sphygmomanometer. “I assure you, Mr. Costa, how I look holds no bearing on how I do my job. May I take your vitals?”
Staring silently up at me, the man who must have once been robust and intimidating coughed into the handkerchief. “Call me Benito.”
“If you wish.” Taking his pulse and blood pressure, I checked them against the vital signs written on a nearby chart. “You’ve previously had rotating nurses checking in on you?”
“That’s right.”
His lungs sounded awful, as was expected. Glancing around, I spotted the incentive spirometer on his side table. “Do you use that regularly?”
He averted his eyes. “Sometimes.”
“Three times a day, Mr. Costa,” I said sternly. “It strengthens your lungs, among other things, and it’s imperative that you use it. Assuming you want to get better.”
“Of course I do.”
“Good, then you’ll follow all the instructions you've been given.”
He grumbled something, but I saw the edges of his mouth tilt up.
“Why didn't you tell me the doctor was here?” I heard a deep voice say from behind me.
