The Law of Second Chances

EPILOGUE

A month after Benny’s trial, Jack was back in New York for a visit. He met Frankie O’Connor for breakfast at Pete’s. Frankie brought along a friend, Nick Walsh. The two men shook hands. Throughout the entire investigation and Benny’s trial, Jack had never spoken with Nick Walsh except on the witness stand.

“I asked Nick to join us for breakfast, Jack. He wanted to personally pass along the results of the information you provided to us.”

Jack had given Frankie Molly’s telephone number, hoping it would be useful to the police in some way. Apparently, Frankie had turned the information over to Nick.

“She obviously ditched the phone when the trial was over,” Nick began. “However, I was able to persuade her phone company to give me the last month’s billing records. They were very interesting.”

“Who was talking to her?” Jack asked.

“One of my personal favorites,” Nick replied. “And as I understand it, one of yours as well-a little peacock named Spencer Taylor.”

“I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch,” Jack replied. “He was in on it all the time.”

“I don’t get a hard-on for too many people,” Nick added. “But I’m going to love watching this guy go down.”

“Do you have anything specific on him yet?” Jack asked.

“Not yet,” Nick said. “I’ve just been watching him. There was, for sure, a boatload of money involved in a deal like this, and sooner or later I know he’ll be spending it.”

“That could take a long time,” Jack replied.

Nick just smiled. “Yeah, it could. However, Taylor just booked a flight to the Caymans. I strongly suspect he wants to see his money and count it. I’ll be there when he does.” Jack looked at Frankie, who was smiling as well.

“That’s beautiful,” he said.

“Once we catch him, he’ll start squealing like a pig,” Nick continued. “We won’t ever get to the people on top, but maybe we can cut a few legs off and make them think twice the next time.”

“It’s a constant battle,” Frankie added.

Back in Bass Creek later that same week, Jack lifted his head from the pillow and glanced at the clock on the night-stand next to his bed. It was 5:35 a.m. He rested his head back down for a moment and took a deep breath before swinging his legs over the side and sitting up. Ten minutes later, he was out the front door, dressed only in running shorts and a T-shirt.

This was his time now, the early morning when nothing stirred except the night owl and the crickets, and the moon and the stars were on center stage. He followed his and Pat’s familiar path into the woods, armed with his flashlight. Five minutes into his run in the deepest foliage, as a possum ran across his path and almost sent him reeling, he heard her voice in his head: Keep that flashlight up so you can see where you’re going. He smiled to himself. Maybe it was an illusion. Maybe he was just plain crazy. It didn’t matter, though, because it was his own personal craziness, a warm feeling in his heart that he didn’t share with anybody. Nor was he troubled that she had seen him with Molly. In all probability there would be others. Pat was above that now-a spirit devoid of human frailties, unburdened by time and space-free at last.