think of what good we could do with ninety million dollars. You and I can work on it together, leave the FBI out of it, just us.”
She looked up at him for a moment, then turned away from him toward the sluggish flames. “Zoltan believed the poem was the key to finding the Big Take, but you’ve heard it now and you know as much as I do, which is nothing. And I’ve told you I don’t want to pursue it.” She looked back at his face, the lines softened in the firelight. Such a handsome face, she’d thought when she’d seen him that first time at Lincoln Center. She said slowly, “You really want to find those bearer bonds, don’t you, Rich?”
He cocked his head at her. “Well, of course. It’s an immense amount of money. As I said, there is so much good we could do with it, you and I. The letter points back to the poem, the answer’s got to be there—” He broke off, stared at the bubble-wrapped package sitting on the coffee table where Rebekah had placed it. “We need to open the package, see what’s inside, see if that key in the poem is in there.”
“I told you, Rich, I want nothing to do with the bearer bonds.” She picked up the bubble-wrapped package and held it to her chest. “Whatever is inside this bubble wrap is meant for me. Not you. Not us.”
He grabbed her arm. “Rebekah, how can you think you still need to keep his secrets from me? That man lied to you your whole life, and I’m your husband. If you’re concerned about ethics, what about our vows to each other? I hope you’ll honor those, rather than a child’s promise to a dead man. Give me the package, Rebekah.”
She shook her head, held the package tighter.
“Give it to me, Rebekah.”
She shook her head again. “No.”
He moved fast, pulled the package out of her arms, and stepped back. He walked quickly to the marquetry table, picked a pair of scissors out of the drawer, and began cutting the bubble wrap, peeling it away. He said without looking up, “There’s no need to get hysterical, Rebekah. We’re only going to see what your dad sent you.”
He lifted a plaster of paris bust of her father from its nest of padding, held it up to the light. “A bust of your father? Wait, I see now. The poem said the key is in his head.”
Rebekah said quietly, “The bust is mine, Rich, not yours. Don’t smash it.”
“That’s exactly what we need to do.”
“Rich, no!”
He slammed the bust against the marble apron in front of the fireplace. It shattered loud as a gunshot, spewing up shards of plaster.
Rebekah cried out, dropped to her knees, and began to pick through the plaster pieces. He saw the key first, leaned down, and grabbed it. “The key was in the old man’s head. How very fitting. Without the poem, we would never have known it was there, and the bust might have stayed whole forever.” He left her there, on her knees, her father’s bust in pieces around her.
Slowly, Rebekah got to her feet. She watched him examine the key under a table lamp. He looked up, saw her, and smiled. “It’s a small brass key, common, nothing on it, no indication what it’s to, maybe a safe-deposit key, but there’s no ID, no serial numbers.” Still smiling, he carried the key to where she stood stiff, so angry she had no words. “Do you know what this key is to, Rebekah?”
She could make out two tiny wavy lines along the curved top of the key, one red, the other blue, barely visible to the naked eye. She felt her heart leap. She knew, yes, she knew exactly where those bearer bonds were hidden. She looked up at her husband, kept her voice calm, submissive. “It is what you see, Rich, a plain little brass key. I have no idea what it opens.”
“Another secret inside a secret? That’s a lot like him. Will they ever stop?” He paused a moment, studied her face, studied the key again. He said slowly, “But I don’t believe you, Rebekah.”
And suddenly she knew, knew it in her heart. “When did Gemma first talk to you, Rich, ask for your help? At the funeral?”
“What? Are you accusing me of something now? What’s wrong with you, Rebekah?”
She looked up into his face. She saw impatience, calculation. She said slowly, “You and