It’s rarely a good idea to have a face-to-face with my mother when I’m not at my peak, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until she explained why my stepfather’s medallion was clutched in the skeleton’s hand. As I merged onto I-95, I ran possibilities through my mind. After a twenty-minute drive to the swanky Singer Island high-rise, I still couldn’t come up with a single scenario that explained where I’d found the medallion. As usual, I parked right in front of the polished, deco-styled, twelve-story building. In the spot clearly marked DELIVERIES ONLY, ALL OTHERS TOWED, I felt a resurgence of irritation as I glanced down at the tow receipt on the passenger seat. Cutting the engine, I decided it was a statistical impossibility that I would get towed twice in the same night. Besides, I almost always used this spot. It was a convenience and an excuse not to have to walk all the way from the visitor’s lot. It was just to the right of the polished stone steps that encircled the beautiful, lighted fountain and led up to glass doors with heavy brass handles.
