“But that’s what LifeScreen is supposed to do. Unless you’re saying that LifeScreen doesn’t really work?”
“It wasn’t that.”
“Better not be, because if that’s the case you’ll be spending the rest of your life in federal prison. You’ll lose everything. And I personally, together with my investors, will be the ones taking it from you.”
Ellis gathered in a deep breath. “The algorithm was having issues back then, and I couldn’t afford to continue work on the code. Remember when I told you I needed another infusion of cash? And you told me the well had run dry until I demonstrated concrete results for the board?”
“That’s when you did this?”
“Christine and I didn’t have a choice. We were on a very tight development deadline. Before we met, you our home was underwater from the recession and we’d burned through all our investments. When you said no—”
“You’re blaming me for this?”
“Just stating facts. Bottom line was, Christine and I had too much invested in this. We couldn’t lose it all. What we did, we did for everyone. Me and Christine, you and all the investors. I knew the algorithm would work. I knew we had a viable product. But reality collided with theory. We needed more time to fine-tune it.” He rubbed his eyes. “I found a couple who were as genetically clean as you can be. Christine was implanted with their embryos. It was a difficult nine months. We needed her to go to term without complications and we needed Melissa to be the perfect little girl we hoped she’d be.”
“This couple—” Lira consulted his Pixel. “Amy Robbins? And her husband?”
Ellis nodded.
“And let me guess. Your colleague didn’t ask permission to use their embryos?”
“How could they? No one could know.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“It’s not like you think. We had reason to believe it’d never become an issue.”
“It’s become an issue.”
“I get that. But back when we…did this, it seemed like they’d never be having another child. They had to use IVF to get pregnant. Their extra embryos were cryogenically stored. Frozen in time, for lack of a better term. They were fortunate. Mrs. Robbins got pregnant on the first round. The rest of the embryos were never used. A few years later her husband and daughter were killed in a car accident. The mother—Amy Robbins—went into deep depression, lost everything. Her job, her career, her…well, her sanity. She was in no condition to even consider having another child.”
“But time passes. Wounds heal. What if she got her life together? Did you even consider that?”
Ellis nodded absentmindedly. “That was always possible. Unlikely, we thought, but possible. So Christine…made sure that was not going to be a problem.”
Lira furrowed his brow. “What the hell does that mean?”
“A fire. Confined to a specific area of my friend’s lab. Nothing that would affect his business. The appearance, and fire marshal report, would state that it destroyed a portion of the lab. A storage area. And some embryos. Including the Robbins embryos.”
Lira turned away. “And now Amy Robbins is convinced that Melissa is her daughter.”
“Apparently.”
“How—how’d Robbins find her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does she know about the fire?”
“I have to make a call, let my friend know what’s going on.”
“Your friend’s name?”
Ellis hesitated. He looked away.
“Brandon, is there a problem?”
He stood there, sighed deeply, then met Lira’s eyes. “It’s John.”
“John. Can you give me a little more? John is a pretty common—”
“John Hutchinson. In Boston.”
“You’re not serious.”
Ellis averted his eyes. “Christine asked John not to say anything to you about it. She didn’t want to jeopardize the deal. She said that if we told you we had a problem, well, we didn’t know what you’d do, how you’d react.”
“This isn’t happening.” Lira’s cheeks reddened. He shook his head. “Don’t assume anything. Don’t do anything. We have to keep the press—and the police—away from this. No one can know. If it hits Facebook or—CNN, for Christ’s sake—”
“I understand.”
“Can this Giselle woman be trusted?”
“She’s a good kid. And it’s obviously in her best interest to keep her mouth shut. She’s the one who let this happen.”
“Nice of you to shift the blame. Let’s not forget you were the one who stole this woman’s embryos and committed arson to cover it up.”
Ellis swallowed hard.
Lira thought a long moment. “You did eventually get LifeScreen squared away?”
Ellis rubbed his face between two open palms. “I know, this looks bad. But I’m telling you, it’s just a technicality—”
“There are no such things as technicalities in an IPO. Perception is everything. If it looks like we’re doing funny stuff behind the scenes, manipulating data, or using embryos that were not screened using LifeScreen’s technology, if the government launches an investigation, who’s going to invest with us? We stand to make billions of dollars. Everything needs to be above board.”
“I know. It was a mistake. I—I’m sorry.”
“Sorry.” Lira laughed, then shook his head in disgust. “LifeScreen works? Yes or no?”
“While Christine was pregnant with Melissa, I put in a lot of long nights and saw patients in a colleague’s fertility clinic to get some cash together to pay the programmers and researchers to fix the algorithm.”
“And?” Lira asked, his voice rising. “Did you? Yes or no?”
“Took longer than I thought it would. Than it should have. But yeah. Yes.”
Lira breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Thank God.”
Ellis chuckled sardonically. “I think it’s safe to say that God has nothing to do with this.”
22
Keller hung up from a call with Lira and now had a more complete picture of what was going on. He located Robbins’s address from leasing records and headed to the apartment. It was around the perimeter of the lake, in the Ivy Hill neighborhood on the southeast side.
It was 11:00 PM and although Ivy Hill was a safe area of Oakland, it was not far from the sketchier locales. At night, a block or so in the wrong direction, and violent crime and armed robberies were the order of the day.
Keller parked fifty yards or so from the complex. He seated his compact SIG-Sauer and checked to make sure the folding Tanto was within reach, protruding slightly from the small pocket of his black 5.11 tactical pants. He grabbed a few small electronic devices, shoved them in his jacket, and headed out.
Upon arriving at Amy Robbins’s apartment on the third floor, he took a swift accounting and saw no security cameras—not even ghost cameras…those that looked like functioning devices but in fact were empty—no electronic guts. Cheap, but effective, deterrents.
Keller found number 52 and put his ear to the door. Nothing. He pulled out his lock-pick kit and five seconds later entered the place, ski mask pulled down over his face. Thin black gloves were stretched tightly over his fingers. He had bought them in Venice, custom made by a man who had operated a kiosk near the canals for thirty years, a master craftsman who took precise measurements of both hands. Keller wanted them to hug his digits to allow for maximum dexterity, the finest supple, sheer, and formfitting Nappa leather that would allow for breaking and entering, operating a firearm, strangulation—anything that might arise. Admittedly, he did not mention the strangulation requirement to the artisan.
With his phone flashlight, Keller did a quick search, then went back to the kitchen. He opened Robbins’s laptop and expected to find it password protected—but it was not. That made his job easi
er—and less risky.
He inserted his high capacity USB flash drive and launched the AllClone imaging utility. Robbins had a 125GB SSD, so he figured the time to copy her computer’s contents would be around twenty minutes. The tool confirmed his estimate. While he waited, he resumed his search, looking for information he might be able to use to locate Robbins should she not return home…checking the refrigerator for notes, business cards lying around, opened mail, and credit card statements. He found each of these and took photos.
By the time he was finished, the cloning app had just about completed its task. He unplugged his device, shut down her laptop, and left the apartment.
He peeled the backing from an adhesive sticker on a miniature sensor and reached to the top of the door. He pushed it against the metal surface of the jamb and affixed its magnetic mate an inch to the right.
Keller walked thirty feet away to the stairwell and checked the app on his phone. The cellular signal was strong. When the magnetic seal was broken by Amy Robbins entering her apartment, he would be alerted immediately. It would take him less than a minute to get there from where he was parked.
Back at his car, he gave a look around, taking in his surroundings. He got in and made himself comfortable, reclining the seat and keeping his right hand on the SIG’s handle. The Lincoln’s windows were tinted a shade darker than what was legal, making it difficult to see in, particularly at night.
Practicing a skill he had mastered in the military, he fell asleep within minutes.
23
Amy had faked another call to Giselle around dinner time, then told Melissa that Giselle was still busy helping her grandma, and that her parents had late meetings for work.
“That happens a lot,” Melissa said. “’Selle and I eat apple—um, it sounds like a doggie. A poodle.”
“Strudel?”
“Uh-huh. And we put on our PJs and watch movies. Or read books.”
“Would you like me to read a book to you?”
“In the car?”
“No, silly. Later, after dinner. Once I figure out where we’re going to sleep tonight, we’ll read one of my favorite stories.”
“We can go home. You can sleep in the guest room. We can have a pajama party when ’Selle’s done with her grandma.”
Smart kid.
“They didn’t want to be disturbed,” Amy said. “Their work is very important and the meeting’s in the house.”
Melissa fell quiet. Processing all that? Amy wasn’t sure—but if she did not have to field any more difficult questions—for which she did not have adequate answers—that was fine with her.
On the way to dinner at Zachary’s pizza in Berkeley—Zach liked to joke that he was an early investor in the restaurant, and its name was proof—Amy debated whether she should call him and Loren. But what would she say? I’ve kidnapped a little girl and I need your help? There was no way her sister-in-law could get involved. She’d be fired at best—and thrown in jail alongside Amy if she helped in any way. And endangering Zach, leaving the kids with no parent…no, she could not place them in danger for her stupidity and irrational behavior.
Am I being irrational? Melissa might be—probably is—my daughter.
Is she?
Amy almost screamed in the middle of the restaurant. She rubbed her twitching eye.
“Amy, I have to go potty.”
She shook her head and focused on Melissa. “Sorry. Let’s go do that. Leave your napkin on the table.”
By the time they returned, their pizzas had arrived. Melissa saw them a dozen yards away and ran to the table. She put her nose above the pies, taking in the aroma, then bobbed up and down in her chair. “Mommy doesn’t ever let me eat pizza. But Giselle sneaks me some on Special Fridays.”
“Special Fridays?”
“Pizza and ice cream for lunch.”
Oh yeah. The ice cream truck. Amy cringed.
After serving a plain slice for Melissa and a deep-dish spinach and mushroom piece for herself, Amy started thinking again about what her next moves would be. As a litigator, she always prepared a game plan, along with contingencies depending on what actions her opposing counsel could take. But now she felt like she was flying by the seat of her pants.
Because she was. And that had to stop because she had committed a serious crime. She knew that now. And if Melissa was not her genetic progeny, stolen from her in a criminal act…Amy was in a heap of trouble. She would have to find an attorney who could negotiate her surrender. And if Melissa was her child…Amy shook her head. Either way, what would happen to Melissa?
If Amy had any say in the matter, putting the girl back in an abusive environment was not an option.
They finished their pizza and Amy left cash on the table to cover the bill, then led the way back to their car. It was dark, nearly 9:00 PM by the time they got to her Subaru, and almost certainly past Melissa’s bedtime.
A few minutes later, with the heat blasting, Melissa was asleep. Amy used the quiet to think. But she had an ongoing sense of unease. She could not work things through as she used to—her sense of reason seemed obscured by fog.
Hard to believe several years ago she was a high-powered attorney, mind as sharp as anyone’s, quick of wit and even faster with a comeback argument. She felt like a shell of her former self.
In so many ways.
After driving around Berkeley and Piedmont for a couple of hours, she decided she could not wait any longer. She needed to know where she stood—what her future, and Melissa’s, was.
Amy pulled into her Ivy Hill neighborhood and circled the block a number of times to look for police or unmarked cars surveilling the area. Waiting for her.
Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she pulled into her complex and gathered Melissa in her arms.
“Shh,” she whispered in the girl’s ear. “Go back to sleep.”
She held Melissa close to her body as she yanked the mail from her box and then made her way up to the apartment. Amy struggled to fish out the key from her wool coat and unlock the door while supporting the girl in her left arm. She stepped inside and found that all was quiet. No police waiting to arrest her. Everything the way she left it.
Amy leaned backward slightly to keep Melissa against her torso as she dropped her purse and keys on the kitchen table. She stood there a moment, the smell of the girl’s hair strangely comforting, the slight rhythmic rise and fall of her chest taking her back in time to her rocking chair in Lindy’s room: reading books and gently gliding to and fro until she fell asleep. Amy would stay there another ten or fifteen minutes cherishing the closeness, those special moments when a mother marvels at the gift she holds against her body—which grew inside her body.
Melissa’s weight roused Amy from the memories. She swung toward the living room couch when the front door popped open. A man stood there, dressed in a dark sport coat and turtleneck.
“Who are you?” Amy asked.
Police. Had to be.
Amy swallowed hard, adrenalin pouring into her veins, sending her body into a frenzy.
The man flicked his foot and the wood door arced closed behind him. “Oakland PD, Ms. Robbins. Slow and steady, now. Show me your hands.”
Amy fought to compose herself. She gripped Melissa tightly and backed away but hit the kitchen chair. “ID?”
He reached into his inside pocket and held up a shield, then quickly put it back from where it came.
“I didn’t see it.”
“Didn’t see what?”
“Your shield.”
The man eyed her. “Amy Robbins, you’re under arrest for kidnapping a minor.”
“No,” Amy said, her voice rising. She shifted Melissa’s body in her arms—but no way was she handing her over.
“No?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Nothing to under
stand. Put her down on the couch and put your hands on the back of your head. Interlock your fingers and—”
“No.” Amy’s tone—and volume—were getting harsher, louder. “You can’t have her.”
Melissa stiffened, waking up and squirming—which made it difficult for Amy to hold her. She dropped to a knee and pulled the girl against her body.
“Ms. Robbins. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be. I need you to do what I said.”
“Get out!”
The man drew a handgun from beneath his sport coat. “Back away!” His tone had changed. Anger, frustration. “Now. Back the hell away from Melissa.”
Amy stiffened. “You’re not a cop, are you?”
“Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.”
Amy’s jaw tightened. “You’re not gonna shoot me while I’m holding Melissa. You won’t.”
KELLER STEPPED FORWARD. He had misjudged the woman’s resolve. Her courage and resilience.
“I’m only interested in the girl,” he said. “Put her down and I’ll let you go, talk to the DA, have him go easy on you.”
“Like I said, you’re not law enforcement.”
How was she so sure?
The question must have registered on his face because she said, “The DA is a woman.”
Keller squinted. Amy Robbins works in a bakery. What are the odds she would know the gender of the district attorney?
“Give me the girl.”
“No.”
Dammit. I’m not in control here.
He reached behind his back and pulled out a set of handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent.”
“You’re not taking her from me. She’s mine, she’s my child!”
Keller advanced on her, now three feet away, SIG in his right hand and handcuffs in his left. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I told you. You don’t understand. She was stolen from me. I’m her mother.”
The Lost Girl (A Mickey Keller Thriller Book 1) Page 10
