“In his winter coat,” I said.

“Buried deep in the lining.”

Frank nodded once, his expression giving nothing away.

“If you want to find out where that money came from, we’ll have to check the state registry in Columbus,” Frank said.

“That takes time, and it takes money.”

I met my father at the Route 4 Diner at one fifteen.

He was in his usual corner booth by the pie case, tapping his wooden pipe on his palm while the waitress poured dark coffee into his mug.

“Dad,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him.