The Blood of Patriots Read Online Free

for the Fryingpan Savings and Loan.

C HAPTER T WO
    Ward parked and entered the bank with no clear idea what he wanted to ask or say. He didn’t know Earl Dickson, wouldn’t know him if he saw him, but he wanted to know more about what had happened here. He wanted that because he was a detective and detectives asked questions and observed people and drew conclusions. Even if it were just an exercise, he needed to move those muscles. Until now, he hadn’t realized how much just a few days alone in his apartment, ostracized by all but his team, had compacted and crushed him.
    The tellers were busy and there were several people sitting on cheap vinyl sofas beside the door. There were three officers. Two had cubicles and the third had an office. Two were busy with clients; the other, an older woman, was on the phone. Ward didn’t have to read the nameplate on the door to know who the office belonged to. The door was shut and there was a middle-aged couple inside. The woman was touching a handkerchief to her eyes. The man’s shoulders were rounded. They were losing a home or a business. Earl Dickson was showing them where to sign papers.
    Ward studied the man. He was stout, balding, with close-cropped graying hair on the sides. He was wearing a three-piece suit and a grave expression. It was set, a mask, like the simulacrum of grief worn by a funeral director.
    â€œCan I help you?”
    The woman who had been on the phone was walking over. She was tiny, older, with sparkle in her voice. Her eyes, though, seemed tired.
    â€œI’m waiting for Mr. Dickson,” Ward said.
    â€œHe may be quite a while. They’re all waiting for him.” She indicated the others on the sofa.
    Ward looked down the line. “None of these folks look very happy.”
    â€œMy name is Deb,” she said, ignoring the comment. “Perhaps there is something I can do?”
    â€œActually, I just wanted to introduce myself. My name’s John Ward. His daughter used to babysit my daughter—just bumped into her down the street, thought I’d say hi.”
    The woman seemed surprised. “You’re Megan’s father?”
    Ward nodded.
    â€œWe read about you,” Deb said.
    â€œOh?”
    â€œIn the New York Times online.”
    That figures , Ward thought.
    â€œYou had a run-in with some Muslim man in the park,” she went on. “I’m glad they let you out.”
    â€œOf what, New York?”
    â€œNo, I mean—” she seemed embarrassed now. “I understood from the article you were in trouble for that.”
    â€œIt’s only trouble if I let it be,” he said. “It’s sort of complicated.”
    â€œI see,” she said, though her confused expression said she didn’t. “Well, if you’d care to have a seat—or perhaps there’s a number where he can reach you?”
    â€œY’know, I’ll just come back some other time,” Ward said.
    â€œAll right,” she said.
    There was a moment before she turned when Ward felt she wanted to say something else, or take his hand, do something supportive. But she obviously thought better of it and went back to her desk. Ward watched her go and headed for the door. He paused beside a young man sitting on the edge of the sofa. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans. A manila folder sat on his lap, his hands folded on top of it.
    â€œGood luck,” Ward said.
    The man snickered. “With the gunslinger?”
    â€œThat bad?”
    â€œYou must not owe him anything,” the man said. “If you’re behind two months, you go in that office and beg for your life looking into the barrel of a twelve-gauge. And when you’re done he pulls the trigger, like he’s doing with the Pawleys. They’ve got a fishing supply store and not enough fishermen.”
    â€œWhat about you? Home or business?”
    â€œMister, I got the trifecta. Home, business and truck. I’m