He shrugged one shoulder. “Like father, like son.”
“And she got angry at you.”
“Said I was wasting my talents.”
“Are you?”
His gaze met mine. “Are you wasting yours?”
I smiled. “Touché.”
We both picked up our coffee mugs. He didn’t add anything, so I said, “You never lost touch with her.”
“I checked up on her,” he said. “She wasn’t young and she lived alone.”
“I’ll bet she appreciated that.” I blew on my coffee, wishing I hadn’t tinged that sentence with sarcasm.
“You got it. She hated it. Not that it made any difference. She still died horribly. Worse that I would have expected.” He sighed. His sadness and regret were palpable.
Yet the thought of him just discovering that hidden room today didn’t ring true. He had known all along that it was there.
“So she took you into her private office before,” I said.
He shook his head. “I’d seen her go in it once, but I’d never gone in myself. I just thought she had some paperwork stored in the back of the pantry, until today.”
“What made you get me?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, not meeting my gaze. “I guess I always figured you and her as kindred spirits.”
I started. Had he known what she was doing? “Why?”
“The stubborn independent streak, maybe,” he said. “The willingness to go against female norms. The way that you both believe men are unnecessary.”
“I never said that.” I sounded defensive. I liked men. Or, at least, I used to.
“She never said it either. It was just the attitude—don’t help me, don’t do for me, there’s nothing you can do that I can’t do.” He shook his head. “She was a cussed old broad.”
His voice broke on the last word.
He loved her. He really should not have been in charge of this investigation, and yet he was. I doubted he would have been able to relinquish it to anyone.
And yet, because he loved her, he couldn’t go along with the fake investigation. He had to know why, and it might cost him his career.
I almost said something to him, warned him, but it wasn’t my place. It angered me when he told me what to do; I was certain my warning him would make him just as angry as it would have made me.
So I decided to approach the entire idea sideways. “Do you know what she was working on?”
He took a deep breath, ran a hand over his face, and sighed, clearly gathering himself. “You mean besides the charities.”
I nodded.
“No,” he said. “But you do.”
I got up and took the Polaroids out of my pile. Then I held them before showing them to him. Showing them to anyone almost felt like a betrayal of her trust—this woman I hadn’t known, and hadn’t met, who was, as Kaplan had so astutely seen, a kindred spirit.