Delgado was a careful, step-by-step thinker, which was one of the reasons for his success. He never tried to jump from A to L without filling in all the letters in between. So he did not try to form any tentative conclusions. Instead, he flipped open the notebook and wrote “MOTHER” in block letters. Ms. Caprino had said she thought Riley cared about his mother. Well, most boys did. And they’d been close even before the mother’s stroke. Had she taken an active role in his identity change? More than that—was Riley’s mother his criminal mentor? That might mean she had a criminal record somewhere—something to check when he found their original name. Next to where he’d written, “MOTHER,” he wrote in, “Record?”
In any case, Mother had clearly gone along with the identity change. To think that she was either ignorant or disapproving of it was ridiculous. She would have had to have a driver’s license and so on in the name of Mrs. Wolfe. If she was not a criminal herself, why would she help out with forging documents?
Delgado thought about it for several minutes, unconsciously chewing on his pen. When he found her legal name, he could check for a criminal history. But if there was none . . . Why would a straight mother help her son commit some serious crimes?
That was easy. To protect him, of course. From what? Something even more serious. There was no way to know what, any more than he could guess what had caused mother and son to move to this frigid, remote town and change their names. But the more he thought of it, the more Delgado thought it was probably the same traumatic event. That made sense, more than thinking it had been two life-changing calamities in a row.
So what had been that traumatic event? It was vitally important to find out—it had been the cause of a relatively normal young boy changing into a devoted criminal. The first step in the career of Riley Wolfe. But there was no way to know what had happened—not yet. At the moment he didn’t even know where.
Delgado chewed the pen some more until he tasted ink and, with a start, realized what he had done. He pulled a fresh pen from his briefcase. This time, he merely tapped it against his blued teeth as he went back to his train of thought.
All right: Putting the cause aside for a moment . . . the boy and the mother are close. The mother has a serious stroke. The boy drops out of school to take care of her. And soon after they move away.
Delgado realized his teeth hurt and then understood why. He frowned and put down his pen. The mother would need full-time care. She would still need it, if she was still alive. It might make sense to track her down. And then wait for Riley to visit her, which he would—IF she was still alive and IF they were still close. And, the biggest IF of all, IF he could find out what name she was using.
But that could be anything. And so far, he had no leads to finding it. He shook it off and went back to his notes.
The next item he thought was important was the “big house on hill.” Delgado wrote that down, then underlined it. After all, Riley had pummeled a boy for mocking it. He didn’t think that house was here in Watertown. This part of upstate New York did not have a lot of hills, and even fewer with big houses on them. Aside from that, he was already known as Riley Wolfe when he got to high school here. That would have been a near-impossible trick if he’d lived here all along under another name and then suddenly changed it.
Delgado tapped the page with his pen. He did not have enough information to guess where Riley had come from before Watertown, so there was no real point in beating his brains out about it. But he underlined “big house on hill” again, before dropping down two more lines and writing “books.” He had no idea where that bit might lead, but if it had been a big part of Riley’s youth, it might prove important.
Delgado thought a few more minutes, going over all the English teacher had said. When nothing else jumped out at him as important, he looked over what he’d written. It was a good start.
Delgado closed the notebook, started his car, and drove east.
* * *
—
Jimmy Finn had a car up on the rack and was taking off the tires with a pneumatic wrench. But when Delgado showed his badge, the young woman behind the counter practically sprinted into the service bay to fetch him. There was a window between the office and the work area. Delgado saw the woman waving her hands excitedly and Jimmy looking over at him, obviously worried. For a moment it looked like he might bolt. But he took a deep breath, put down his wrench, and followed the young woman back into the office. He came directly to Delgado and then jerked to a stop. The young woman bumped into him from behind, then took a half step ba
ck and watched anxiously. Finn stood there, clenching and unclenching his hands, until Delgado took pity on him.
“Mr. Finn? If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions,” he said, trying to sound mild.
“I, I—about what?” Finn said, looking like he might hyperventilate. “I mean—because my parole officer said—”
“You’re not in any kind of trouble, as far as I know,” Delgado said. He tilted his head toward a doorway that led to a waiting room. “Can we talk in there? It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“But then why—I mean, if it isn’t me, then, you know. What?”
“Let’s go sit, maybe have some coffee?” Delgado said.
The young woman spoke up anxiously. “I made it fresh just like an hour ago,” she blurted out.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Delgado told her, pointedly adding, “I don’t want to keep you from your job.”
She gulped but didn’t move. The phone began to ring.
“Mr. Finn?”
Finn looked at the doorway, then at the woman standing so close behind him. Then he turned back to Delgado and blew out a loud breath. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Go on, Ellie,” he told the woman, and she scurried back behind the counter and picked up the phone.
Delgado followed Finn into the waiting area. There was a coffeemaker, a stack of magazines, and a wall-mounted TV blasting a midday show, five women all talking at once. Delgado reached up and turned it off. He poured himself a cup of coffee and raised an eyebrow at Finn. “Want a cup?”
“Yeah, no, no, I don’t,” Finn said. “Look, I’m not gonna rat anybody out or— I mean, I don’t even know anything worth shit anymore—”
Delgado nodded and gestured to a chair. “Have a seat,” he told Finn. He waited until Finn sat, then took a nearby chair. He sipped his coffee. It was terrible, worse than what they’d given him at the high school, but it was hot.