Not All Road Trips Lead You Home
Somewhere over Colorado, we make a plan.
I spread my father’s will and the police r eport on our tray tables, Sam powering up his laptop. He shifts the
computer screen so I can see too.
“There’s a lot of shared files at the company, so I have some access even remotely. See? The calendars and
scheduling are all shared. That’s how I knew about the meetings with the lawyers...” He motions toward a
date on his screen. “And here’s Inez’s event from last month...”
“So all of Dad’s commitments were shared on here?” I ask. “Not all, but a lot of them were. Certainly
anything that conflicted with something important that was happening at Noone,” he says. “His desktop might
have a more complete inventory.”
I motion to Sam’s laptop. “Did Dad also have a laptop?” “Y ep. Everyone on the executive team does.”
“Would that be at the office?” “Should be,” he says. “It certainly wasn’t at Windbreak. I combed through that
office. Now Clark has too.”
He clicks through to his most recent i Messages. Clark has sent along several photographs he’s taken of our
father’s Windbreak office, as well as a detailed inventory of what’s still in his desk, on the shelves. He’s
confirmed for us what we suspected: our father’s cell phone isn’t at Windbreak, either.
“So, let’s assume we can’t find his actual phone,” I say. “Where would we be most likely to find the
backup to his phone? Was there a company server? Could it be downloaded on his work computer?”
Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know. If it were on the company network, I should have access on here and I
don’t.”
“Who would have access?”
“To his personal laptop? Uncle Joe, probably. Though he’s a dead end as you saw.”
I nod, trying to go through it in my mind—my father’s inner circle, his trusted advisors: Joe, who isn’t
talking, at least to us; Grace, who is no longer here. Which is when I hit on my father’s general counsel again.
Jonathan hadn’t been working with my father for as long as Grace and Joe, but he had certainly been there
long enough to have access to things we don’t.
“What about Jonathan?” Sam shakes his head. “Steel box.” “Why? Attorney-client privilege?” “For one
thing. Also, every time I try to touch on anything about Dad, he ke eps saying there is nothing to know that I
don’t already know...”
“Those are opposite statements.” “Exactly.” He shrugs, turns back to my computer. “He’s a lawyer, and
he’s good at it. If there was anything sensitive that he knows about, he’s not offering it up. I mean, the day
after Dad died, Jonathan had a new lock put on Dad’s office door that only a few people can open.”
“Isn’t that extreme?” “Jonathan’s extreme. It’s why he’s good at his job.” I make a note on the police
r eport about my father’s cell phone, his computer.
“Could Tommy help ease things?” I ask. “Why would Tommy be able to help ease things?” “I don’t know.
They’re both lawyers. Thought maybe they connected about that. How does Jonathan feel about Tommy?”
“How does anyone feel about Tommy?” I turn and look at him. “Okay. I’m done with all of your veiled
insinuations. What is going on with you two?”
“He’s on-site upstate. We’re finishing the build-out on a new property in Columbia County.”
“That wasn’t my question.” He doesn’t answer me. He doesn’t even look my way.
“Why are there so many secrets in this family?” “I don’t know,” he says. “You do what came before.”
“What does that mean?” Sam turns back to his laptop. “None of this started with us,” he says.