Suspicion by Joseph Finder Read Free Book Online Page B

He wanted to make sure it was really there. That it wasn’t an illusion. It was there, and it stayed there.
    It was real. Tom Galvin was as good as his word.
    Fifty thousand dollars
. A lot of money. Not enough to pay off everything he owed, certainly. That would be like trying to put out a house fire with a glass of water. But it would quench enough of the fire to clear a path out of the house, to let him escape the burning wreckage.
    Most important, to protect Abby.
    He called the Lyman Academy and asked to speak to the bursar, Leah Winokur. The woman whose calls he’d been avoiding for weeks.
    She sounded surprised to hear his voice, and not pleased. He told her he was going to drop off a check when he picked Abby up in a few hours.
    Haltingly, Leah Winokur replied, “I’m sorry, but today’s the deadline. Five o’clock today.”
    “And I’ll see you at two thirty.”
    “I’m afraid that’s going to be too late, Mr. Goodman. Technically, the funds have to be received in the school’s bank account by five o’clock today. A personal check won’t clear in time. Unless it’s a cashier’s check, or—”
    “I’ll wire it to you right now,” he said. “Will that do?”
     • • • 
    On the way home from school, he said, “Abby, I wanted to set your mind at ease. I got things straightened out with the bursar’s office.”
    She let out a breath. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh, thank you, Daddy. Oh my God. Thank God.”
    No, thank Galvin,
he thought but didn’t say.
    “I love you, Daddy,” she said in a small voice, barely audible.
    “I love you, Boogie.”
    At home, Abby disappeared into her room to do homework, while he sat at his laptop and tried to work on the book.
Distracted, he Googled the name of the cigar Galvin and he had smoked in his study. A limited edition Cohiba Behike from Cuba. Maybe he’d buy Galvin a box as a thank-you gift.
    He did a double take. Only four thousand of these particular cigars had been produced.
    They cost over four hundred dollars
each
.
    He had smoked a cigar that cost four hundred dollars, and he didn’t even like it.
    Then he Googled the single malt Galvin had poured, the 1939 Macallan 40 Year Old. And did another double take.
    Over ten thousand dollars per bottle.
    Abby emerged from her bedroom around seven. “What’s for supper?” she said.
    “How’s pasta?”
    She shrugged. “Whatever.”
    The phone rang, and Abby picked it up.
    “Daddy, it’s for you.” She covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “Someone from something to do with . . . stamps?”
    He took the phone. “Yes?”
    “Is this Daniel Goodman?” A man’s voice, cordial and professional.
    “Who’s this?”
    “Mr. Goodman, my name is Glenn Yeager. I’m with the United States Postal Service in Boston.”
    “Um . . . yes?” he said warily. “What’s this about?”
    The man laughed. “I’m with the postmaster general’s office, and one of my responsibilities is administering something called the Citizens’ Stamp Advisory Committee. You may have heard of it?”
    “No, I’m sorry.”
    “Well, I’ll keep this brief. The committee meets four times a year to decide what goes on postage stamps.”
    “There’s a committee for that?”
    “Quite an illustrious committee, in fact. It’s made up of fifteen prominent citizens—artists, musicians, writers, corporate leaders, historians. Public figures. The meetings are held in Washington, and of course all your expenses are covered. And there’s a generous per diem for expenses.”
    “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What does this have to do with me?”
    “Well, Mr. Goodman, Doris Kearns Goodwin had to drop out at the last minute—a tight book deadline, I think it was—and your name came up. We wanted a writer with expertise in American history.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “The reason I’m calling at this late hour is that we need to fill this vacancy immediately. We were wondering whether you might be able to come by