Page 122 of The Picasso Heist
And this was Amir’s way of sayingApology accepted. He and his wife took me in after my mother’s suicide, and once he learned the truth behind the scam, he was all in on engineering my father’s release. “I want to be there for your dad,” Amir told me from the start. It was only fitting that on this particular day, he would literally show up for him.
So off we went in his Rolls. For the record, it rides like silk.
“Do you mind if Fred here takes it for a quick spin?” my father asks.
“Of course not,” says Amir, tossing Fred the keys.
It’s no surprise that Fred, the only security guard who truly looked out for me—and my father—over the years, is the one who escorted him out of the prison. Early on, Fred whispered to me, “The walls have ears,” right before I was about to head into the visitation room. It’s the best tip-off I ever got.
Fred laughs in his deep baritone voice. “I really can’t,” he says, about to hand back the keys.
“Of course you can,” says Amir.
“Yeah. C’mon, Fred,” says my father. “Trust me, you only live once.”
That seals the deal. Fred witnessed the heart attack that almost claimed my father. It resonated even more with him because Fred’s own father had died from one.
“Okay, maybe just a quick spin,” says Fred. We’re outside the walls of the prison; he’s got no one to guard. He climbs behind the wheel and pulls away, flashing the world’s biggest smile.
Make that the second-biggest smile.
My dad’s got him beat. “Today’s a good day,” he says, hugging Skip and me again. “A very good day indeed.”
Unlike Elise Joyce, the FBI agents were true to their word. If Skip and I did as we promised, they said, our father would be released. Of course we knew Joyce would renege, which was why it was part of our plan.
There’ll be no declaration of a mistrial. No need for a new one either. Officially, it’s “time served” for Mr. Conrad Greer, inmate number 47296. That’s what the paperwork says. What it doesn’t say is that the FBI, when duly motivated, has extraordinary pull with the penal system.
My father turns around to take one last look at the prison that’s now behind him in every sense. He’ll never get those years back, none of us will, and all that time he spent inside will stay with him for the rest of his life. But at least starting today, he gets to decide where that will be, the place he’ll call home, and I guarantee you there won’t be a cinder block in sight.
“Who’s hungry?” my father asks. “Fred tells me there’s a good diner a few miles south of here. Big menu, they make everything.”
“What are you in the mood for?” I ask.
My father looks at me. We both know he’s scheduled to have a stent inserted in his right coronary artery in two days, and we both know I’m not about to give him a hard time about fat and cholesterol, given the moment. He smiles again. “Did I ever tell you what my favorite Jimmy Buffett song is?”
“We don’t have to speak in code anymore, Dad,” says Skip.
“Maybe not, but I’m going to order the same,” I say.
“Me too,” says Amir. “And I don’t even know what it is yet.”
Fred returns in the Rolls, thanks Amir, and turns to my father. Guards aren’t supposed to hug prisoners upon their release but Fred doesn’t seem to care too much about protocol today. “Screw it,” he says, wrapping his big arms around my father. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
“You too.”
And off we go, taking Fred’s suggestion and going to the diner down the road. It’s only a few miles away, but to my father it feels like another planet. We grab a booth in the back and start chipping away on all the things we have to catch up on—what’s happened and what lies ahead. I’ve still got another thing on my plate but that’s for another day.
“What’ll you have?” asks the waitress.
“A cheeseburger in paradise,” says my father.
Make that four.
EPILOGUE
AUTUMN RHYTHM
CHAPTER105
