“Well, the handwriting analysis of the signatures on the deposit slips were pretty conclusive.” Wren paused. “Why do you think she did it, Simon?”

Simon Lawrence shrugged. “I can’t begin to answer that question. You’ll have to ask her, if she ever resurfaces from wherever she’s gone to ground.”

“Maybe John Ross can tell us something.”

Simon pursed his lips sourly. “He’s gone, too. He left this. It was on my desk when I came into work this morning, tucked into an envelope.”

He reached into his desk and produced a single sheet of white paper with a handwritten note. He handed it to Wren, who pushed up his glasses on the bridge of his nose and began to read.

Dear Simon,

I regret that I am unable to deliver this in person, but by the time you read it I will already be far away. Please do not think badly of me for not staying. I am not responsible for the thefts that occurred at Fresh Start. Stefanie Winslow is. I wish I could tell you why. As it is, I feel that even though all the money will be returned, my continued involvement with your programs will simply complicate matters. I will not forget the cause you have championed so successfully and will endeavor in some small way to carry on your work wherever I go.

I am enclosing a letter authorizing transfer back to Fresh Start of all funds improperly deposited to my accounts.

John

Wren looked up speculatively. “Well, well.”

The coffee arrived, delivered by a young volunteer, and the two men accepted the cups and sat sipping at the hot brew in the silence that followed the intern’s departure.

“I think he was as fooled as the rest of us,” the Wiz said finally.

Wren nodded. “Could be. Anyway, there’s no one left who can tell us now, is there?”

Simon put down his coffee cup and sighed. “If you want to have dinner tonight, I can try to fill you in on the details of this mess so you can keep your article for the Times as accurate as possible.”

Wren smiled, relinquished his own cup, and rose to his feet. “I can’t do that, Simon. I’m flying out this afternoon, back to the Big Apple. Besides, the article’s already written. I finished it at two this morning or something like that.”

The Wiz looked confused. “But what about …”

Wren held up one chubby hand, assuming his most professional look. “Did you get all the money transferred back to Fresh Start out of Ross’s accounts?”

Simon nodded.

“And your own?”

Simon nodded again. “First thing this morning.”

“Then it’s a story with a happy ending, and I think we ought to leave it at that. No one wants to read about a theft of charitable funds where the money is recovered and the thief is a nobody. It doesn’t sell papers. The real story here is about a man whose vision and hard work have produced a small miracle—the opening of a city’s stone heart and padlocked purse in support of a cause that might not gain a single politician a single vote in the next election. Besides, what point is there in writing about something that would serve no other purpose than to muddy up such beautiful, pristine waters?”