Henry Wade had not called by the time I left for school the next morning. My elementary school, a small one in a village north of town, had been in session for two months, but it was the first week for volunteers like me. That day I worked with Travis and Angelina, both eager readers, and I was glad that I had the time to do it, since I could schedule my work calendar around my school commitments. It was a good break from whatever I had on my mind.
When I returned home, an email from Henry was there, acknowledging my call and requesting a return phone call, or a visit in the next week to talk about the case. Preferring a visit, I emailed a suggested day and time when I had planned to be in Denver anyway researching a new pottery outlet, and then viewing a friend’s photography exhibit at a gallery. I usually tried to gang up Denver errands as a reason to endure the increasingly difficult, accident-strewn drive down there, so adding a visit to Henry Wade’s office would be doable.
On the job site that afternoon, as Liz Burzachiello, the crew, and I finished the project we’d been working on for weeks, I had a feeling of satisfaction, not only from the completion of the job, but also from the fact that Barry Correda’s accident had been a sham, that the persona presented to others was not the real Barry; that my instincts had been correct. Sounded a bit cold, I knew, but it was the truth.
Liz was stunned when I told her what I’d seen. “He’s alive? He was at the game? What? Why didn’t you text me? We could have tried to see him, you know—ID him?” she sputtered.
“No use, Liz,” I said, “I was watching a recording, remember? The game was probably almost over by the time I spotted him. You all were probably already gone by then.”
She admitted they had left after the eighth inning to avoid the traffic because the Rockies were losing the final game anyway. She and I discussed the change in events as we spread the final layer of mulch, the fine red-brown dust and fiber from it covering our arms.
Liz was still shaking her head in disbelief. “I gotta text Louie and Emma! They’re gonna bust a gut when they hear.” She pulled out her phone and accomplished that in a very few keystrokes.
As Liz and the crew did the final clean-up, I cleaned myself up for the big reveal with the client. I kept a clean shirt in the car, and could at least wash my face and hands. I liked to do the presentation of the project while Liz, Jorge, and the crew were still there as they were a large part of the process, and I liked for the client to know that, and for the crew to know I acknowledged and appreciated their efforts. The client loved the details of the finished work, and we all left pleased with our accomplishments, and well paid to boot. At that moment, Barry Correda was very far from my mind.
That quickly changed with a call from Isabelle McWilliams after I got home. She had been mulling the case over in her head all day, I could tell, and wanted to talk about it ad infinitum. Despite my elation over finally finishing the project, I was tired, needed to eat dinner, and get some rest. When I let Isabelle know that, I could tell she was disappointed, and she then broadly hinted that she go with me to visit Henry Wade. Why not? I thought. I trusted Isabelle’s listening skills; she could help me remember everything that was said. Besides it would be fun to have her on my little art trip swirled into a CBI interview.
Suggesting that plan to Isabelle, I said, “Probably one of the few times ‘fun,’ ‘art,’ and ‘CBI’ are used in the same sentence.” We laughed, and set up a time for her to meet me.