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Before the scandal, b
efore my aunt let fear keep her hidden away from the world, she and I had had such fun. Our favorite thing to do at night and in the dead of winter, was catch a cab and have the driver take us by the monuments in Washington—all lit up and free of crowds. If the weather was nice enough, we’d ask the driver to wait while we got out and read the inscriptions at the Lincoln Memorial.
Barb took me to London, Paris, and Rome among countless other places where I learned the history of the world. My curiosity developed then.
She was a good woman, whose only mission in life, besides raising me, had been to educate people about both the good and the bad. She alone was credited with changing the public perception of AIDS.
My aunt had looked too deep into the wrong thing, and it had cost her life. Was I doing the same thing? Should I accept that some stories shouldn’t be written?
When my tears subsided, Buck reached for the note. “Does anything written in this mean anything to you?”
I took it from his hand and read it silently. “Nothing. And before you ask, TJ stands for Tiffany Joy or Tiffany Jackson. For a while, I think my mom might’ve even called me TJJ. Equally as ridiculous as my given name.”
“It’s a beautiful name.” I looked into Buck’s smiling eyes. “That I promise never to divulge to another soul.”
“Thank you. And thanks for not making fun of me for it.”
“My full name is Roscoe Buchtold Wheaton Jr. I have no business making fun of anyone for their name.”
Buck picked up the envelope. “This was sent the day you found your aunt. Did she send anything like this in the past?”
I shook my head. “Which means she either had a premonition, or someone mailed it for her, like Decker suggested might happen.”
“Someone who knew she was dead.”
“Her attorney knew. Inexplicably.”
“My guess is, this contains a message beyond what’s apparent, Stella.”
“I agree. Like her emails, it’s only a matter of deciphering it.”
“Two things stood out to me,” Buck began. “First, the mention of a vault. Second, ‘Six notes. A singular tune wafts from her small voice.’”
“What do you think it means?”
“Maybe an address.”
“I guess I should start looking for a bank whose address begins with sixty-one.”
29
Buck
Stella and I sorted through the remaining mail that had been forwarded to her. I’d held out hope until we came to the bottom of the pile that there’d be something either from Barb, her attorney, or even a bank statement that would give us a clue of the location of the safe-deposit box. There was nothing besides the note.
We’d just finished when I heard someone banging on the cabin door. When I rushed over to open it, Cope, Ali, and Irish hurried in.
“We’ve heard from Decker,” Irish began. “Something went down in Ireland. He asked if we were all together, and I told him I’d let him know when we were.” Irish tapped his phone several times and opened his laptop. Seconds later, Decker appeared on the screen.
“First of all, Byrne, along with three of his henchmen, is dead,” he began. “There was a hostage situation that culminated in us eventually finding a box that held the evidence he was after.”
“Which was?” asked Cope.
“Nothing that referenced Operation Argead or to link him to anyone from Interpol, past or present.”
Cope looked as though he was about to speak again, but shut his mouth when the rest of us in the room glared at him.
“What we did learn is somewhat shocking. Do you all remember the reporter Veronica Guerin?”
