Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
If I signed, the audit would die, and the missing jewelry, the changed locks, and the empty bank accounts would remain buried forever.
I climbed down from the stool and opened the small wooden nightstand beside the metal cot.
Inside the top drawer, resting on a frayed blue handkerchief, was the small lacquered memory box Gordon had brought back from his trip to Kyoto.
I lifted the lid, placed the gold pendant inside beside his old silver pocket watch, and slid the drawer shut with a quiet click.
At ten o’clock the following morning, Frank Higgins met me at the bank on Kirby Drive. He led me past the safety deposit vault down a narrow corridor to a private booth with wood-paneled walls and two heavy leather chairs. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and placed a thick red folder on the small desk between us. He did not offer his usual polite greeting.
“I had to go directly to the county registrar’s office to pull these,” Frank said, his voice dropping to a slow, legalistic whisper. “They were filed three weeks ago, while Gordon’s estate was still in the initial thirty-day filing period.”
