Martha sat in the armchair next to me, her winter coat draped over her knees. She checked her wristwatch, her brow furrowed in a familiar line of worry.
“How long does a bank search take?” Martha asked, finishing her sentence with her usual rising tone. “Should we have heard by now?”
Gary did not answer immediately. He was staring at a stack of printed spreadsheets that had just come off his laser printer.
A yellow legal pad sat between us on the desk, covered in Gary’s neat, slanted handwriting.
“We have stopped the immediate transfer, but we need to know how far this goes,” Gary said, repeating the words he had muttered earlier.
“Did you find the construction accounts?” I asked.
Gary took off his glasses again, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked at Martha, then at me, pausing between his words for emphasis.
“Ben’s old contracting firm went bankrupt three years ago,” Gary said. “But he did not lose all the equipment.”
“What do you mean?” Martha asked.
“He transferred four dump trucks and a front loader to a private holding company,” Gary said. “The company is registered under an alias.”
“Whose name?” I asked, my heart sinking.
“Benjamin Cole,” Gary said, sliding a corporate registration form across the desk. “The same name on that airline ticket to San Jose.”
Martha leaned forward, her face tightening. “So he has been hiding assets from his creditors all this time?”
“Yes,” Gary said. “And there is a bank account linked to that company with thirty thousand dollars in it.”
“Where did that money come from?” I asked.
Gary tapped his finger on the paper. “It was deposited last month, right after he received his first diagnosis letter from Dr. Paulson.”
The room was silent except for the ticking of the wall clock. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, but the picture they made was terrifying.
Martha reached over and held my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. She did not say anything, but her touch was the only warm thing in the room.
Gary pulled a fresh folder from his briefcase and began typing on his computer. “I am preparing the formal request for the medical board.”
The hospital corridor smelled of lemon floor wax and reheated broth when I walked into Room 312 the next morning. It was early, the autumn light just beginning to cut through the heavy gray clouds outside the double-paned window, throwing long shadows across the linoleum.
Ben was sitting up in bed, his grey hair combed back with water, a small tissue-wrapped package resting on his lap. He looked remarkably alert compared to the night before, his shoulders squared against the stack of white pillows.
“I was hoping you would come early,” he said, offering a small, tentative smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
I set my canvas purse on the vinyl armchair and cleared my throat, a habit that had returned to me every time I had to speak of difficult matters.
“Gary is drafting the formal request today, Ben,” I said, keeping my hands clasped in front of me so I would not twist my father’s brass signet ring. “He says we need to be thorough with the hospital administration.”
