Patricia Webb lived above a dry cleaning business in Hoboken, a small woman in her fifties with her father’s sharp eyes and none of his apparent taste for secrecy.
“He kept everything,” Patricia told Claire and Olivia, over coffee in a kitchen that smelled like dry cleaning chemicals and cinnamon. “Files going back fifteen years. I had no idea what half of it meant. When he died, I just boxed it all and put it in storage.”
“Did anyone contact you about the files after he passed,” Olivia asked, with the particular gentle warmth that made her excellent at conversations like this one.
Patricia nodded slowly. “One person. About six weeks after the funeral. A woman. She said she was a colleague of my father’s, that he had been holding some documents on her behalf and she just needed to colle
