by Rex Bolt
He assumed that’s how it worked, you gave Gedmatch a file to work with, that supposedly separated you from billions of other humans worldwide, and they went to town with it trying to link you to that special someone in your family tree.
Which in Chris’s case of course, was the special someone he prayed he wouldn’t to be linked to.
Meaning . . . bottom line, in the unfortunate event law enforcement gathered some genetic material he might have left at a scene . . . and in the substantially more unfortunate event they turned it into a profile and ran it through this same Gedmatch database . . . you weren’t crazy about them finding a long-lost relative of yours, that you didn’t even know you had . . . and them working backwards then to finding you and giving you the death penalty or whatever.
That was the point of Mark’s involvement. He was going to look around Gedmatch, same way the cops would, using Chris’s DNA profile -- and if there were any long-lost Uncle Wilhelms in there -- Mark would try his best to hack them the fuck out of the database.
Fortunately (and this was all relative) the police currently seemed so enamored of how they caught the Golden State Killer guy, using this exact new method for the first time last year -- that they were focusing top-heavy on their cold cases.
You didn’t so far read in the paper about a guy who robbed a bank a month ago being apprehended by family-DNA. But no doubt it was coming, and you needed to make a preemptive strike.
So at least you had that going, the actual file in your hand, and you’d make a quick first stop at Mark’s when you got to San Francisco, before you embarked on the more unpleasant task of checking West Marin for Kenny.
It was still bugging him who the guy was that cleared the decks there in the lab, with the Hi, how are you today? The emphasis on the you was what bothered him, implying the guy knew him previously, and Chris couldn’t picture running across that guy in the lab the first time, and all he could think of was maybe he spoke to him once in the checkout line at Ralph’s.
Driving back to Manhattan Beach Chris took a different route. He was going to swing by Barnes and Noble, see if they had a new Harlan Coben mystery, since you’d invariably have stretches on the road where you had downtime, and there’d been another article recently -- and of course he’d seen it on Facebook, which twisted the concept -- but the gist was that humans really are re-wiring their brains with all the electronics interaction.
The Cobens he’d read were a bit predictable, and the sub-plots seemed to be variations of each other, but the guy did give you a good honest effort, and that was worth something.
So he headed that way from the Foster Freeze but got into a both right lanes must turn right situation and then got a little twisted around by the one way streets -- and long story short ended up in Lawndale, and there was the Bayside Medical Center on West El Segundo, pretty extensive operation, big leafy grounds too, almost like a college campus.
He remembered coming out of the hospital in Reno, and that was an attractive exterior as well, a few layers of terraces and a couple stone sculptures and a fountain, and the mountains pretty vivid in the near distance.
He’d been on the move then of course, couldn’t give the aesthetics his full attention . . . but he was thinking now about that nurse.
What was her name, even?
Zeroing back in on that whole episode a little more . . . there’d been a bit of a connection, hadn’t there?
Chris remembered starting off in ER the night before, and that took forever, and finally at 5 in the morning two orderlies showed up with a new doctor who explained he was admitting him, using the standard line ‘as a precaution’.
There were two beds in the room and the other one was empty and soon the nurse, or assistant -- that’s true even now, Chris wasn’t sure which -- showed up and she was cute, bubbly personality, big mop of blond hair piled up high on her head.
Chris came up with it now, her name was Kay, and the first thing he asked her, pulling his usual BS, that he’d buy her dinner if she let him out of here.
Kay took it in stride, called him a nut, but she was having fun . . . and then you had the development where Chris started offering her money to drive him to Manhattan Beach . . . and when it reached a serious amount, like four thousand dollars, and Chris started counting down going once, twice like an auctioneer, you could tell she was thinking he actually might mean it.
She didn’t bite of course but a few minutes later it dawned on Kay that someone with ill intentions could be looking for Chris, which is why he was so fidgety to get out of here . . . and Chris hadn’t thought of that, but it wasn’t bad, and he went with it . . . and Kay sort of looked the other way while Chris disappeared down a stairwell.
Something else too, she kept calling him Ken, so that would have been what Chris used in the ER, not sure of the last name he gave, but it might have been Holmes, his old friend Ray’s last name, which he’d employed more than once.
Then later . . . when things were semi resolved and Chris was having a nightcap back in Weatherby’s on Chestnut, Chris mentioned this nurse, and how you never know . . . and Shep had said, “Call her up sometime. Life’s short.”
So hmm . . . yeah, screw it, what’s there to lose . . . and Chris found the medical center okay but wasn’t thinking clearly, all the safeguards in place that shielded the personnel -- and dang, if he even knew her last name he might get lucky in the old-fashioned Reno-area white pages, but you didn’t even have that.
Chris spent a few minutes on the medical center website, trying to concoct different ways to work it, and decided they were all too fancy, and dialed the number for the emergency room.
Someone friendly said if this is a real emergency please call 911 -- but otherwise can we help you?
“Hey there,” Chris said. “This sounds out of left field probably. I was a patient there in early December. I unfortunately got smashed in the face and so forth, and your ER department was kind enough to admit me overnight . . . and my caregiver upstairs, she suggested some therapy for my neck . . . and the darn thing’s still bothering me, and I didn’t pay enough attention to her instructions.”
“Your name please?” the phone person said, and Chris hoped for the best and gave Kenneth Holmes, and he got lucky that he had it right. The early December part he wasn’t positive about, but piecing it together with the Bingham scenario, that sounded in the ballpark.
You could hear the keyboard going. “I’m not seeing any remediations on your chart. Do you have our Patient Continuation Packet? Normally that contains the inserts pertinent to your condition.”
“I tossed it right in the garbage outside the hospital,” Chris said. “Now I’m paying the price. This sucker’s killing me today.”
In that case, the person said, please stop in and we’ll be happy to re-examine you, and Chris said he was in Bakersfield though . . . and after one more delay they put him through to the 3rd floor nurse’s station.
“Kay please,” Chris said, and there was the clunk of the receiver, and son of a bitch, a minute later there she was.
“It’s Ken,” he said, “the guy who tried to extort the big bucks from you?”
There was a pause but it didn’t take long and Kay said, “I remember . . . I’m afraid to ask, but what’s your latest shady proposition?”
“You meet me in San Francisco tomorrow, is all . . . Or it could be Oakland, even San Jose, that would work too.” Thinking of the three airports in the Bay Area.
“What on earth for?” Kay said, but Chris detected that same bit of playfulness from back in December, looking up at her mostly from the prone position . . . and before he could think of a good come-back line she said she had to go but might call him back, you never know.
He’d kind of forgotten about it by the end of the day, and he was taking a walk in the hills, currently on 10th Street and North Poinsettia Avenue, and she called back.
“Everything still good?” she said. Kind of a backwards question, but Chris supposed
you rolled with it.
“What I don’t care for,” he said, “they blend the architecture around here. Indiscriminately. You have a minimalist place on the corner, does sort of fit a beach town, but then two houses in is something out of a Roman holiday.”
“Columns, you mean, that style?” she said.
“Exactly. And a whole lot more.”
“I have girlfriend in San Francisco. So I guess.”
“Hold on, just like that? You guess?”
“Unh-huh.”
And this little hunt for Ken just got a bit more interesting.
Chapter 9
Chris figured he’d tried to out-smart the traffic enough times, once leaving at 9, right after rush hour supposedly subsided, and that was totally messed up, the 405 bumper-to-bumper all the way to Westwood, so forget that . . . and then he tried leaving at 1 in the afternoon, in between the morning and evening logjams, and that was slightly better, except from Los Banos north for whatever reason you were in trouble.
So this time he left at 4 in the morning, sharp, assuming nothing could go wrong except you’re a little tired . . . and wouldn’t you know it, middle of March, today the 21st to be precise, they get a freak dusting of snow overnight on the Grapevine, and you’re crawling over the thing in the dark, wondering if you should have put on chains or something . . . and you don’t end up at the bottom until a little after 8.
Chris tried to be organized this time, armed with the recommended stops on Highway 5 between Gorman and Tracy as announced by some blogger. One of them was here, near a bunch of outlets, all that stuff dead to world still this morning but a simple McDonald’s and and a steaming cup of coffee sounded good.
So that worked, and it was uneventful from there, except for the one trucker giving him the finger when Chris rode the guy for being in the fast lane, the trucker obviously feeling he had to be there to pass a few underperforming other trucks.
But 162 miles from the first stop you had the recommendation of a town called Volta, and this maybe was an error by the blogger, not much here unless you actually followed another road off the interstate, which you never wanted to do. But there was a gas station with a convenience store and a little stand-up counter in there . . . and Chris fingered around in his pocket for a second and started to panic . . . where was the DNA thingamajig?
And he pieced it together, quite unfortunately, that he’d stuck it in the center console of the Camry under his elbow -- and then like an idiot, to be safe, he brought it into that McDonald’s, at least in his pocket.
Something must have gone haywire in there, Holy Mackerel, could it have got tangled up with his change or something when he added a small fries to his order . . . and what the heck.
Unreal. You could call the place maybe -- but then what? You make an about face and tack on an extra 325 miles, round trip, just to get back to this convenience store . . . and what if the person on the phone misunderstands you, and it’s not there anyway?
Chris reminded himself, when this business with Ken was settled, that you had to relieve yourself of all these balls in the air, the different forces swirling around . . . where you don’t complete the main, simple task at hand.
Could you have the lab overnight a duplicate to Mark?
Didn’t sound the greatest, something like that, you’d be attracting extra scrutiny for one, and it would likely require special approval, and you had enough trouble getting out of there with the dang profile the first time.
Chris could picture it -- you’d probably have to start all over, different lab, different fake name that this time you had ID for to back it up . . . and whoopee.
So check Mark off the list, even though you told him you were coming and he’s going to be pissed.
Of course another reason it would be dicey to go back to the McDonald’s is, we’re talking 5 hours of extra driving now, and you’d blow it with Kay. Who was scheduled to arrive at SFO on Southwest at 4:12, and you better move your ass.
***
“You look different,” Chris said, and she did.
Kay said, “You wouldn’t have spotted me, you mean? If I didn’t raise my hand?”
“You didn’t raise your hand, technically,” Chris said. “You had like a little bear in it. You still do.”
“Yes, you being late and all, I was able to take advantage of the gift shop. It was a bit pricey, but my girlfriend’s daughter, she’s a cutie.”
“Wow, a daughter.” Chris hadn’t considered it, but you never know, so he said, “You have any kids yourself?”
“Not yet,” Kay said, and Chris picked up her suitcase and they exited the baggage claim, and yep, he was late, nothing works like it should, and you could apologize and make excuses, or keep your mouth shut . . . and he opted for the latter.
Kay’s friend lived on Alabama Street in the city, Noe Valley he was placing it, but actually the other neighborhood, Bernal Heights, not quite as solid -- and you had a mix of gentrified yuppie-Millenials with some street people and shady types . . . and as a native San Franciscan Chris had the radar up for the parts of town that the current crowd didn’t seem to worry about . . . but what could you do?
“I’m dropping you,” Chris said. “And that’s it? Or there’s more.”
Kay said she’d catch up to him later, and the friend was out front now and Chris popped the trunk and they grabbed her stuff, and Chris gave a little wave and Kay may have waved back but if she had it sure wasn’t much.
So . . . this was different at least . . . and Chris questioned what he was doing, but the one thing, it did get you up here today, having a little motivation tacked on, even if things kind of fizzled out at the moment.
He drove cross town to the northside, more artificial these days than the niche neighborhoods like Bernal Heights, but that’s where he was comfortable, and after a few minutes’ deliberation he checked into one of the Lombard Street motels, since no way you could impose on Gloria again over in Presidio Heights.
It was around 6, but plenty light, Daylight Savings had kicked in last weekend. From here at least you could look around the old neighborhood, and he passed the Broderick sublet, and so far so good, the place hadn’t burned down or anything, and a few blocks further the Marina Green, and he figured what the hay, might as well to go to Fort Point and back for old times’ sake.
But a couple hundred yards into, on a bench at Crissy Field facing Alcatraz, there was a couple arguing.
Stereotypical young folk who Chris guessed moved to the Marina district after college -- often an Ivy League one, or an elite private school like Duke -- and worked that high-powered first job either south of Market, where all the startups were, or maybe down in the Silicon Valley.
He had noticed last time there was in fact a shuttle bus that stopped at Fillmore and Chestnut, right in front of where New Joe’s used to be, that went directly to Santa Clara.
Right now the guy on the bench was saying, “Darlene. Give . . . me . . . the . . . phone.”
And Darlene was ignoring him, and she had the phone up to her face, two hands on the thing, like she was scrolling through stuff.
And this was disconcerting of course, but also really weird. Since there’d been something in the news recently, a Giants baseball executive allegedly having the same sort of issue with a woman he was having coffee with, and no one got hurt or anything -- but the point being she too had apparently had that guy’s phone and wasn’t giving it up.
The guy stood up and faced Darlene, Chris thinking the reason was unfortunately to get some leverage, and he put his two hands on it -- and she didn’t let go for the life of her, feisty gal, and she slid off the bench and the guy didn’t miss a beat, he squatted down with her, both of them still locking four paws around the dumb device.
Now the guy tugged and it started to get ugly, Darlene sliding along the sand parallel to the front of the bench, the guy imploring her in a real bellow now to let go of the goddamn thing.
Chris was thinking you had the San
Francisco Bay right in front of you, maybe you bearhug the guy, and try to persuade his ass into the water?
And Jeez, another water situation? And then what, you’re fair game too at that point, and worst scenario, he knocks you out or drowns you, and best case, you’re soaking wet.
Chris yelled, “Hey!”
They both looked up, but the battle for the phone kept raging.
“Friend,” Chris said. “If you’re cheating on her, how about you just tell her . . . You wouldn’t be the first.”
“Now what’s that supposed to mean,” the guy said, and he had let go and was straightening up, and Chris didn’t like it that the dude looked bulkier than he thought, not to mentioned heavily fueled with adrenaline.
The woman herself was saying, “Carl, take it easy, remember what happened.” And Jeez, the implication being this guy had a history of mixing it up, and who knows what Darlene was referring to, maybe the guy got himself clocked that time . . . but odds are he was going to get the better of Chris, if it came to that.
But . . . Chris couldn’t resist sticking a little more needle in. “What, you leave your cozy text messages on your phone? At least screw around thoughtfully. Don’t leave a stream of residue trailing out of your backside.”
And Chris knew this was the thing. Kind of a fatal flaw, or at least an Achilles heel. Fine . . . you didn’t want to just walk away, with the woman being dragged around in the dirt . . . but you almost had it under control, you at least said something to get the dude to stop . . . so why the need to escalate this kind of activity?
Carl didn’t take it well, Chris’s last commentary, and he stood there with his hands on his hips and let fly a stream of expletives . . . and he wasn’t quite in bull-rush mode yet, but Chris was afraid that would be soon enough, and now Chris was set to get the heck out of there, and the question was which way do you go, toward Fort Point or back toward the Marina Green . . . and the big unknown -- could this maniac run you down?
