Finished with the bag, Lee sat in a chair next to Kate. “So tell me,” she said, “what’s it like to be filthy rich?”
In a somber voice Keith told her what had happened, Kate filling in the details that were still sketchy for him. Lee listened, white as a ghost.
When he was done Kate said into the silence, “I’m going to try calling my boss again.” She’d told Keith earlier about her chat with Morris. “Before Steve gets here.”
Keith said, “Do you think it’d help to talk to him in person?”
“Yeah, maybe, but…”
Lee looked back and forth between them, puzzled.
Keith said, “So why don’t you take a run home. I’m in good hands here. If you think it’ll help you get your job back, you should go.”
Lee said, “I’m lost. Who’s Steve? And honey, you got fired?”
Keith said, “Lee, I’ll explain it all later.” And to Kate, “Have you got enough money for bus fare?”
Lee said, “To Sudbury? On the bus? Forget it, honey, if you’re going you can take my car. And don’t worry about your dad. I’m staying right here. I can nap in the family room, I already checked. When Dale gets hungry enough, he’ll eat. I’m more worried about the dogs.”
Kate said, “Then maybe I will,” thinking how good her father was at reading her. “Morris is an ass, but I need that job. And I can get us some clean clothes and stuff while I’m there.”
Keith said, “Yeah, bring my shaving gear. And my trades, I need my magazines.”
“All right,” Kate said. “Thanks, Aunt Lee. If I can set something up with Mo for tonight I’ll leave right after I file the claim.”
Lee said, “Now who’s—” just as Steve walked in.
“I’m a little early,” he said, his eyes on Kate. He’d been wandering around the lobby drinking coffee, watching the clock, thinking how slowly time passed when you wanted it to.
Standing, Kate said, “Aunt Lee, this is Steve Seger. He’s with the O.P.P.”
Lee stuck her hand out and smiled, her curiosity stretched to the limit now. “Oh. Hello, Steve.”
Steve shook her hand and said hello.
“Okay,” Kate said. “You two have a nice visit. I’ll be back in an hour or so for the car.” She looked at Steve and smiled. “Shall we?”
When they were gone, Lee said, “Oh, my. Sparks flying there.”
* * *
In the hospital lobby Kate said, “Would you mind if I made a quick call?” and Steve said, “Of course not. I’ll bring the truck around and meet you out front. It’s a green Cherokee, lots of rust.”
She went to a bank of public phones near the tuck shop and used her calling card, dialing Mo’s office number from memory. His wife Roxanne picked up.
“Panther Courier, Roxanne speaking, how can I help you?”
“Rox, it’s Kate.”
“Kate, hi. Please tell me you’re coming back to work.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I already talked to Mo and—”
“I know, believe me, I heard about it. I love the man, Kate, but he’s full of shit. You know that.”
“I was thinking about driving home today, maybe meet with him?”
“That’d be the way to do it.”
“You think he’ll see me?”
“I’ll make him. Seven months pregnant he’s got me driving a goddam truck. What time suits you?”
“I was thinking six-thirty, seven o’clock.”
“Meet him at Eddie’s at seven. Buy him a beer, nod your head and I’ll do the rest.”
“Thanks, Rox.”
“Don’t thank me, thank you. How’s you dad?”
“Pretty wracked up right now, but they tell me he’s going to be fine.”
“Glad to hear it, Kate. Gotta go.”
Kate hung up and walked outside, her arm starting to ache inside the cast. Steve was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps, opening the passenger door.
* * *
By nine o’clock that morning Yaghi’s Market had become an official crime scene, the entire block barricaded off, a half-dozen cop cars angle-parked in front of the store. A forensics team was busy doing its thing, shooting pictures of the body, dusting for prints, whatever else those guys did. Yaghi watched them with patient disinterest. He stood in his usual spot, thinking he’d never have to work the till again or freeze his ass off in that cooler, never have to wait for some old granny to count through her pennies or chase those mangy dogs out of the garbage out back. The thought filled him with the sweetest serenity.
Hunkered down at his side, viewing the footage of his encounter with Marty Small, was a beefy homicide detective by the name of Jack Cullen. Yaghi had liked the man right away. Huge guy, towering over Yaghi’s slight frame, but not the least bit intimidating. His hand shake had been friendly and warm and, considering his size, surprisingly gentle. Unlike most of the cops Yaghi had come in contact with since moving to this country, all swagger and attitude, this guy didn’t make him feel like a criminal.
“Jesus,” Cullen said now, watching as a grainy, black-and-white Marty Small did a half gainer into the candy rack. “You sure tagged his ass.” He stood, his knees popping like firecrackers.
Yaghi said, “I got any trouble for this, officer?”
Cullen smiled. “I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it, Mister Yaghi,” he said. “Heck, if I get my way they’ll pin a medal on you. You’ll have to come down to headquarters, of course, make a statement, but with this video footage we should be able to get you back on the street in a matter of hours.”
Yaghi nodded gratefully, his hand going to his shirt pocket of its own accord, touching the bounty inside. At Cullen’s request he retrieved the video cassette and handed it over into evidence. Then Cullen told him to get his coat. It was time to go downtown.
––––––––
The Lottery Corporation was located on Bloor Street, ground floor of the Xerox building. Kate was surprised at how unspectacular the place was: a cramped waiting area with a row of chairs against one wall, the word WINNERS suspended above them in foot-high silver letters; a pair of red-velvet ropes slung between brass posts forming a cordon for customers to file their way up to the semicircular cashiers’ counter; and, as a nod to the season, an artificial tree and some cheesy looking Santa faces strung across the low ceiling. Kate didn’t know what she’d expected, but this sure wasn’t it.
At the moment there was only one cashier on duty, a rail-thin brunette in her twenties, and they had to wait behind an old guy with a stack of winning tickets, one of which was hefty enough to warrant a check. During the five or so minutes it took to cut the check the old guy told the cashier about his dead wife, his condo in Palm Beach and how lonely it got down there sometimes, all that sand and sunshine and no one to share it with. While they waited Kate and Steve made whispered bets, how long it would take the old boy to invite the girl down to Florida. Disappointing them both, a balding guy with a Zorro mustache brought out the check and interrupted the proceedings. The old man took his winnings and left.
Steve said, “Too bad. I think she was ready.”
Kate said, “Please. You’re making my skin crawl.”
“Can you picture it? The two of them on a beach towel in the moonlight—”
The cashier said, “Can I help you?”
Kate stepped up to the counter, trying to erase an image of that bandy-legged old dude and this young, gum-chewing clerk naked together on a Daffy Duck beach towel. She shook her head and bit back a grin. For the first few seconds she couldn’t look the girl in the eye.
She said, “Yes, I was wondering what the procedure is for claiming on a lost winning ticket. Stolen actually.” The cashier seemed uninterested until Kate said, “It was the Saturday draw.”
“Hold on,” the cashier said, serious now, “I’ll have to get my supervisor.” She got out of her chair. “Can I have your names, please?”
“I’m Kate Whipple and this is Steve Seger.”
The girl nodded, eyes raised for a beat as she logged the names into memory. Then she hurried off into a back hall lined with offices, leaving them alone at the counter listening to synthesized Christmas music. She was back a minute later saying, “Come this way,” lifting a hinged section of the counter to let them in.
Steve said, “You want me to wait here?”
“Would you mind coming in with me?” Kate said.
Steve said of course not and followed her through the gap in the counter.
The girl led them to a small back office and got them seated in front of a plain metal desk. “Mr. Tasker will be right with you,” she said and made a quick exit, pulling the door shut behind her. The air in here was stuffy, stale cigarette smoke and cologne. There was a framed photo on the desk of three bland, unsmiling children, a phone and not much else.
Kate whispered, “I feel like I’m in the principal’s office.”
“Nervous?” Steve said.
“Mm-hm.”
“Makes sense, there’s a lot at stake. But remember, you’re in the right here. You and your father won that money fair and square and you were robbed. You’re only claiming what’s rightfully yours.”
Kate gave him a grateful smile, realizing only then that she
had
been feeling oddly ashamed about being here. Like she was begging or about to plead some hopelessly pathetic case.
Tasker came in then, a big ex-linebacker type with a flashy PR smile and a firm handshake, which he promptly bestowed on each of them, leaning over Kate to do Steve first. He addressed them by their first names, like they were old pals, introduced himself as Jim Tasker, “Call me Jim”, and Kate thought,
Oh boy, I can see how this is going to go
.
Tasker sat behind his desk, glanced at the photo of the kids with a look Kate couldn’t read, then folded his hands on the desk in front of him. Kate noticed the clunky team ring on his finger.
Jock, all right.
Tasker said, “Sandy tells my you folks are here to file a claim on a missing ticket?”
Steve flashed his badge. “That’s correct, Mister Tasker. I’m Constable Seger. An associate of mine, Detective Sergeant Brown, spoke with a Ms. Harris yesterday morning regarding—”
“Yes, of course,” Tasker said. “I was off yesterday. MaryLou—Ms. Harris—told me about it this morning. We’ve agreed to detain whoever shows up with the ticket.” He pulled an official looking document out of a drawer and set it on the desk, squaring it with those big hands. “I’ve got the declaration form right here. I should ask you though, is the ticket in question yours?” Speaking to Kate now.
“Well, officially it’s my father’s, but—”
“See, there’s our first problem. To start a case, to actually initiate a claim, we need to deal directly with the ticket owner. If not, we’re into power of attorney, privacy restrictions, that sort of thing.”
“My father’s in the hospital right now, Mr. Tasker. We were involved in a serious traffic accident.” She showed him her cast. “He won’t be available to come in here probably for weeks, so he’s asked me to act on his behalf.”
Tasker said, “I understand, Kate, and I’m not saying we can’t discuss the specifics, you know, familiarize you with the procedures involved. But to actually get the ball rolling—there’s a whole investigation that needs to be done, a number of official bodies that have to consider your claim based on specific points of evidence—for that we need the ticket owner, in this case your father, or legal proof that you are empowered to act on his behalf.” All of this in his annoyingly cheerful sports announcer’s voice.
Kate said, “That shouldn’t be a problem. Though it does seem an unnecessary delay. It would be nice to…get the ball rolling before too much time has gone by.”
“Frankly, Kate,” Tasker said, “even if this whole thing pans out in your favor, the Corporation won’t pay out on this claim for a full year from the date of ticket purchase. Unless, of course, the ticket turns up.”
“Okay, let me put it this way,” Kate said. “Say I come back in an hour with power of attorney. What happens then?”
“You’ll fill out and sign the proper forms, then we’ll ask you to provide us with all the information you have about the ticket. Stated bluntly, Kate, to convince us the ticket is yours. By the way, did your father sign the back of the ticket and make a photocopy? The instructions are clearly stated on the back of all our ticket stock. And the retailer’s machine should have issued a claim form when the ticket came up a winner.”
Kate could feel herself blushing. “My father’s paranoid about those machines. He doesn’t trust them. He always checks his tickets by hand, from the store display or the newspaper.” And she was willing to bet he’d never read the back of a ticket in all the years he’d been playing the lotteries. She never had. Those tiny red letters, almost illegible. He probably had no idea he was supposed to sign the damned thing. Everyone played, but who ever really expected to win? And even if he did know, in all the excitement he’d probably just forgotten. “But he plays the same numbers all the time,” Kate said. “Some are family birth dates, others correspond to other important dates in his life. And he always buys them at the same store, unless we’re out of town for some reason. The guy who runs the place is a friend of his, he could tell you.” She shook her head. She was spinning her wheels here. She glanced at Steve, but his eyes were fixed on Tasker.
Tasker said, “All right. Here’s the situation from our end. As you know, we’re talking serious money here. To protect ourselves we have to rule out the possibility of a fraudulent claim. It only makes sense.”
“Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Tasker?”
“No, Kate, of course not. All I’m saying is, it happens. Everything’s been tried, from the sublime to the ridiculous, believe me, but because our security measures are so strict the Corporation hasn’t yet lost a dime to fraud. If what you’re telling me is true, it’s understandable that you’re upset—”
Kate said, “I’m not upset, Mr. Tasker, but if you suggest one more time that I’m a liar, I will be.”
Tasker began to fidget. “Okay, Kate, let me start over. Look, here’s what I suggest. Arrange for power of attorney, as we’ve already discussed. Then come back, we’ll complete the necessary paperwork and you’ll be allowed to build your case. If we feel there’s validity to your claim, it will be passed on to a group of senior people in the Corporation who form a claim review committee. They will then decide whether or not the claim should be paid. How does that sound?”