Think Twice

But more recently, probably because several years had passed and she felt somewhat safe, Grace Conte risked using her Social Security number to open a cash management account with Bank of America. She was still careful. The account had been opened online, and the address used was a post office box in Charlotte, North Carolina, right near the bank’s headquarters — clearly a move to hide her whereabouts on the rare chance someone would discover the account.

It took a bit more digging and triangulating locations and history. Your life is on your mobile phone. Most people realize this by now. It’s not much of a shock. But perhaps we don’t quite recognize the depth of that technology. Companies know everything. All movement. Bo used burner phones, so he was somewhat less conspicuous. It made sense. Bad guys like Joey the Toe were searching for him. His brother Spark was more of an open book. He traveled a lot, but it almost exclusively fit into the Amherst College basketball schedule. If the team was playing Bowdoin, his phone showed that he was in Brunswick, Maine. When the team played Middlebury, Spark was in Vermont.

But there was no reason for him to have visited Pine Bush, New York, three times.

The rest fell into place. Grace Conte never wrote checks. She never used the credit card that came with her account either. But she did make cash deposits at a variety of bank branches in Newburgh and Poughkeepsie — both larger towns near Pine Bush. Grace Conte also owned car insurance for a blue Acura RDX. She used the North Carolina address, but now that they had zeroed in on Pine Bush, it was just a matter of time.

Myron hadn’t gotten an exact address yet, though judging by Spark’s phone, she lived on a large rural plot of land off Route 302. He’d driven by it and spotted two possible driveways that could lead up to a house that might match the coordinates. One had a chain-link gate blocking the entrance. The second was open, so Myron risked driving up. Near the house, he spotted four cars — none of them a blue Acura RDX — and he figured that with that many people and that many non-Acura cars, this was probably not the right house. He took another look at the chain-link fence property from a distance. There was a camera attached to a tree.

Hmm.

He texted the address to Esperanza. She texted back.

Back to you within the hour.

No reason to wait here and look conspicuous. Myron drove back to the “hamlet’s” center to grab something to eat. He chose Larry’s Chinese Restaurant and Bar because it had over four hundred Google ratings and 4.5 stars and because, to quote Elton John singing “Levon,” he “likes the name.”

Myron took a seat at the bar. Larry’s reminded him of the Shanty Lounge in Havre, Montana. It didn’t look the same, other than the neon beer signs, but local American taverns all have the same feel. There is a comfort for the regulars and a try-to-be-comfort for the strangers, but he still felt like a tourist and that was okay. The menu was, as expected, Chinese, but there was also more classic Irish-pub fare like buffalo wings and burgers.

Chinese food at an Irish pub. Who said Myron wasn’t willing to take risks?

A big burly man behind the bar introduced himself as “your host and barkeep, Rick Legrand.” Full name. Odd. Myron asked Rick for a recommendation. Big Rick suggested a Chinese dish called Charlie’s Angels. Myron asked what was in that. Rick Legrand made a face and said, “Do you want a recommendation or do you want me to read you the whole menu?” That, Myron thought, was a fair point. He ordered the Charlie’s Angels and whatever beer was cold on tap. Rick wearily told him all the beers on tap were cold. “What, you think we keep warm beer here?” Then Rick shook his head and asked whether this was Myron’s first time in a bar.

Everyone’s a wiseass.

Myron spun the barstool around to check out the clientele. Hey, he could get lucky again. Maybe Grace Conte would just be here. His eyes scanned the place. Myron could hear the sizzle from a wok. The place reeked of MSG. Myron could almost feel his arteries harden. He checked all the faces.

Nope, no luck.

But when the bar door swung open again, allowing sunshine and a brief view of the outside, perhaps even greater luck hit him.

He spotted a blue Acura RDX.

“Rick Legrand?” Myron said.

Rick turned toward him. “Sup?”

“Cancel my order,” Myron said.

“It’s almost done.”

Myron dropped two twenties on the table. “Give it to someone worthy.”

Rick shrugged. “I’m almost on break.”

“Then I deem you worthy, my man.”

Myron hustled to the door and pushed it open, blinking into the sunlight. The blue Acura RDX was parked across the street in front of a place called, according to the sign, the Blush Boutique, the kind of shop Myron’s mother would have described as “cutesy.”

Now what?