It had only been a hunch. One that he had felt compelled to follow. So, a month ago, after they’d finished their meeting with Rebecca Schuster at her office, he’d asked Frank to drive Margaret back to the hotel because there was something he had to do.
Call it Déjà Vu or whatever, but instinctively, he knew he’d met Rebecca Schuster before. And as he’d driven through the streets of Park Slope that night the where and how he’d met her crystallized in his brain.
She stayed at the fringes of the small gathering rarely talking to anyone but Kate. As he recalled, the young woman he’d met was big brassy and bold and moved like a lumberjack. He remembered his old friend Dave had tried getting her phone number but had come up empty handed, calling her a dyke.
It was the red hair. Rebecca Schuster had attended his wedding as a girl named Mary Ellen. Lord, how he hoped he was wrong. Especially, since Kate had told him the girl was one of her relatives.
At the stop light, he’d loosen his seat belt momentarily to remove his wallet from the breast pocket of his jacket. He was looking for the number to the Discreet Detective Agency. As he thought, their offices were located in downtown Manhattan. It was already late in the evening, but he understood their offices stayed open ‘till nine. He’d just make it.
If Rebecca and Mary Ellen Schuster were indeed one in the same, he had some questions that needed answering. How long had Kate known Rebecca? What was their relationship? Was Rebecca the person who had sent the bomb that had killed Kate? And why?