Instead of the smile I expected, he gave me scowl. “I asked you to let this go.”
“I don’t understand why you’re upset. I did this for you,” I lied. “Don’t you want to find your mother?”
He didn’t answer.
“Adam, I know better than anyone what it’s like to have your mother bail on you, but don’t you see? This may be the only way to find out who might have killed your father.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I am. Now come with me.” I dragged him back to the office, where I typed Veronica Marie Forbes, Oakland, California into the search bar. We held our breaths, each for our own reasons. The search icon spun and spun. One match appeared: a small newspaper blurb.
Procea Pharmaceuticals, Inc., announced yesterday at their Oakland, California, headquarters that Veronica Forbes, C.P.A., will step in to replace David Reynolds following his resignation. The spokesperson indicated that although relatively new to the company, Forbes comes with years of experience in the field and is the individual first responsible for alerting auditors of inconsistencies in the company’s financial records.
A few more clicks and I had the address and phone number for Procea Pharmaceuticals, Inc. I placed the call and put it on speaker.
A recording answered. “If you know the extension for your party, you may dial it now. Otherwise please remain on the line and an operator will be with you shortly.”
Adam nervously toyed with the stapler in rhythm to the looping melody on the other end of the phone. My stomach tightened.
“Procea Pharmaceuticals Incorporated,” interrupted a young man. “How may I assist you?”
I cleared my throat. “I’d like to speak with Ms. Veronica Forbes, please.”
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Lily McCrae,” I answered, trying to sound like this was a professional matter.
“One moment while I connect you.”
There were two more monotonous rounds of Tom Jones’s “What’s New Pussycat?” before a soft, melodic voice answered. “This is Veronica Forbes.”
I couldn’t find any words. We should’ve thought this through more.
“Hello?” asked the woman, now sounding annoyed.
“Uh . . . hello. My name is Lily McCrae. I’m calling about your son, Adam Lassiter?”
There was a long pause on the other end. “Who is this?” she said curtly. “What do you want?”
This was not exactly the reaction I’d expected. “I told you, my name is Lily McCrae. I’m an acquaintance of your son’s.”
“Listen, I don’t know what kind of sick joke this is, but . . .” Her voice trailed off. The line went dead. We stared at the receiver.
“Nothing more we can do,” Adam said, sounding too much like my father.
“We can’t give up,” I said. “We’re close. I can feel it. If you quit now, you might never know what happened the night your father died or who’s responsible for his death.” And if we didn’t find his mother, I would never know for certain how much of what Adam told me was truth and how much was lies. She held answers for both of us.
“Whoever it was,” I added, “he’s still out there.” Adam’s hand involuntarily drifted to his throat. The harsh red marks had disappeared, but the memory of the assault had not. “Adam, your father’s dead. You could be next. We have to go to Oakland and speak to her.”
“You heard her. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“We won’t give her a choice. We’ll take the train, then catch BART to Oakland.”
“Who’s Bart?”
“BART is not a who. It’s a what. Bay Area Rapid Transit. Don’t worry. I’m going with you.”
He pushed his chair away from the desk. “That’s not necessary. I’ll go on my own.”
I couldn’t believe he was fighting me on this. He knew he’d never find her without my help. I doubted he’d ever used a map before, let alone public transit. “Tell you what: I’ll get you there and back. The rest is up to you.”
He considered my offer, then reluctantly accepted. We made plans to go the next morning. I talked Evan into covering for me in case any calls came in, which, considering how slow business had been lately, was unlikely. In exchange Evan made Adam ride along with him on a pickup—an elderly man had broken his neck tumbling down a flight of stairs. That left me to catch up on various calls: one to the US Social Security Administration, another to the Department of Veterans Affairs, and one to the County Recorder’s Office. As usual, that meant leaving lots of messages and waiting for people to return my calls.
I was jotting down notes when the phone rang. “McCrae Family Funeral Home,” I answered.
“Lily McCrae, please,” said a vaguely familiar voice, but I was having trouble placing the vendor. Then again, it was a terrible connection, and we dealt with so many sales people that it was hard to keep track of them all, especially since the turnover rate was so high.
“Speaking. How may I help you?”
“Actually I’m hoping we can help each other.”
I sat up straight. “How so?”
“I need your assistance with a matter. It’s nothing illegal, mind you, and I’m willing to reward you substantially for your time and effort.” Something in the tone of his voice kept the receiver to my ear. “Interested?”
“I still don’t understand why you need my help.”
“Well, one could say you have a reputation for being both resourceful and discrete.”
It was true; we did get the occasional referral from past clients who appreciated the extra care I’d given to a loved one, but resourceful and discrete? Sounded like false flattery to me. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Think about it.” He had me write down his number, which I scribbled onto my napkin from breakfast. “If you want to save your business, give me a call. If not, well, your choice.”
“Excuse me, but I didn’t catch your name.”
There was a click and the call ended. How did he know our business was in trouble?
RULE #23
TRUST THE DEAD.
THEY NEVER LIE.
Morning arrived veiled in a thick, ghostly fog. In swirling breaths, I told Adam it was two miles to the station. We’d have to pick up our pace if we were going to reach it in time. We walked without speaking, Adam’s silence no more readable than the corner street signs. I had my own worries—like whether I was leading us down a rabbit hole that was better left ignored.
We had barely stepped onto the platform when the train to Millbrae pulled into the station. Commuters swarmed aboard like angry worker bees, sweeping us along. We made it into the last car and ended up honeycombed between a toothless woman who smelled like egg salad and a man whose briefcase swung into my leg each time he shifted his weight.
Twice Adam nearly exited at the wrong station. Each time I reminded him how lucky he was to have me along. It was a hard sell made harder after I missed our stop and we had to double back, costing us at least a half-hour delay. Oddly we were not the only ones; briefcase man and another guy made the same mistake. I might not have noticed the other man except his hair was much too dark for his complexion. It was the kind of DIY dye job I’d be all over fixing given half the chance.
At last we reached the correct station. We transferred to a BART train. This time we clung close to an exit, our backs pressed hard against the metal paneling of the car. With a lurch the train left the station. Adam grabbed hold of the nearest stanchion as though to yank it from its moorings and spike it through a window.
“You all right?” What a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t.
“Can’t breathe.”
The people closest to us took a step back. One woman murmured a bit too loudly to her husband, “I think he’s on something.”
“Ignore her,” I said and pointed to the map overhead, hoping to distract him. I explained that the green route
was ours and began tracing it with a finger. Without warning, the train tunnel plunged beneath the bay. The daylight vanished, and the view became a stream of concrete rippling past, faster and faster.
Wide-eyed and frantic, Adam clawed at the door. “Let me out! Neil, let me out!”
“Adam. Adam!” I tugged at his jacket. The strangers penning us in drew back as far as was possible. “What are you staring at?” I snapped at them. “Adam, don’t look out the window. Look at me.” He turned to face me, and I gazed into his beautiful, terror-filled eyes and smiled. It worked. His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. “Good. Now take slow, even breaths. That’s it. We’re almost clear.”
A moment later the train resurfaced. The cool light of a dull day filled the car.
“Twelfth Street,” announced a disembodied voice. The train slowed. The doors opened, and Adam leaped for the platform and kept on going. It was all I could do to keep up with him. He didn’t stop until we were out of the station and on the street.
“Hold up,” I panted. “I need to catch my breath.” I guided him toward the alcove of a dress shop, where we took a moment to collect ourselves and get our bearings. “So what happened back there? A little claustrophobic, are we?”
“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But I’m better now. Thank you.”
“No problem.” I checked my watch. “All right then. It’s nearly noon, and we’ve got about eight blocks to go. We have to hurry if we want to catch Veronica before she goes to lunch.”
The streets were bustling with coffee-chugging, phone-chatting, laptop-lugging workers, all scurrying like lemmings to who knows where. After three blocks my left leg began to ache, and I was noticeably limping. Adam offered to stop, but I insisted we keep going.
At last we saw it: a gleaming tower like some obsidian monolith. Corporate intimidation honed to its finest. We scaled a broad stone staircase to the glass entry and went inside, where a half dozen boxed palms surrounded a grand fountain. A guard in a well-pressed blue suit sat behind a massive desk. Behind him, brushed-chrome letters spelled out PROCEA PHARMACEUTICALS, INC., WHERE LIFE MATTERS.
I approached the desk. “Could you direct us to the office of Veronica Forbes, please?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” I admitted, “but I believe she’ll want to talk to us.”
“Your name?”
“Tell her Adam Lassiter,” I said. I figured that would get her attention.
“One moment.”
He called up to her office as Adam’s fingers drummed out a jittery beat on the desktop. The guard glared in irritation, and I nudged Adam’s foot to stop. We looked suspicious enough without him tapping it out for all to hear. But I understood his nervousness. What if she wouldn’t see us? Would she recognize him? Would meeting her jog Adam’s memories?
He dug his hands into his front pockets. “I want to see her alone.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry,” interrupted the guard, who did not appear at all apologetic. “She’s not answering. Would you like to leave a message?”
“No, thank you. Well, Adam, looks like we came all this way for nothing.”
“I told you it was a waste of time.”
“Okay, you were right. Happy? I know this was a dumb idea, but I was trying . . .”
There was a ping, and an elevator opened to the left of the guard’s desk. Three men and a woman all dressed in tailored suits emerged.
“That’s her,” said Adam.
“Are you sure? I thought you had no memory of her.”
“I don’t. I mean, I didn’t think I did.” He rubbed his head, confused. “But that’s definitely . . . her.”
“Ms. Forbes,” called the guard. “These two young people are here to see you.”
She kept walking but cast a token glance over her shoulder. “Do I know you?”
“This is Adam Lassiter?” I volunteered.
She stumbled forward like she’d suddenly caught a heel. One of her colleagues caught her by the arm. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. Go on without me. I’ll catch you later,” she answered, her nails digging into her leather clutch as she examined Adam’s face more carefully. She scanned the lobby, waiting for the three men to leave, then tipped her head toward a side exit. “There’s a boulangerie down the street. We can talk there.”
If possible, Adam seemed even more tense now. He tried persuading me into meeting him in the Procea lobby in an hour, but I had sunk my teeth too deep to let go now. He was hiding something, and had been since I first laid eyes on him, half-dead from starvation. It was the one thing standing between us, the one thing I couldn’t ignore.
Veronica checked her watch. “I have a meeting in forty-five minutes. I’m leaving now whether you two are coming or not.”
“We’re both coming,” I said, with an emphasis on “both.” Adam clearly was not happy about it.
It was the lunch-hour peak, and the restaurant was packed with people dressed as though they were all on their way to an internment: drab-colored slacks and pleated skirts, stiff black-leather shoes, crisp-pressed shirts with pointy collars. Veronica secured a booth toward the back, and as soon as we were seated a server plunked a basket of bread on the table. Veronica asked for a glass of wine and a side salad. I ordered two iced teas and a ham and cheese to share.
“Okay,” Veronica said before either of us could explain why we were there. “Cut the crap. You two are working for Devlin, aren’t you?”
“Who?” Adam asked, confused.
“Admit it, because if he sent you . . .”
“I have no idea who Devlin is,” insisted Adam. “And—”
“And it’s nothing like that,” I added.
Veronica very deliberately set her reading glasses aside. “Then who are you? Because we both know you can’t be Adam Lassiter. My son is dead.”
I’d seen the grave, traced the letters engraved in the marker, and read her letter. This was exactly what I’d expected her to say. That didn’t mean I hadn’t left the door open to the possibility that it was some weird coincidence. That door had slammed shut.
What I did not expect was for Adam to be so crushed by her response. He was doing his best to mask it, but I knew him well enough by now to see beyond his blank stare and calm demeanor. I could sense the hope draining from him as he let out a long breath. He’d never lied to me. He simply didn’t know his circumstances—and he still didn’t. Worst of all, he’d been hoping this woman was his mother.
I slid out of the booth. “I’m so sorry. When we found your letter we thought, maybe . . . but I see now that we have the wrong person. Come on, Adam. We’ve taken enough of her time.”
Adam rose from his seat, but Veronica’s French-manicured nails darted out and latched onto his wrist. “Letter? Tell me, who was it addressed to?”
“His father. Neil Lassiter,” I said. “Again, we’re sorry.”
“Sit,” she ordered, releasing Adam’s hand. We hesitated a moment, nodded to each other, and retook our seats. “So Neil sent you.”
“No. He’s . . .” I stared at my fork.
“Deceased,” Adam finished for me.
She bit her lip and gave a nod. “I was too late, then.”
“No,” said Adam, more calmly than I would have believed possible. “Your letter arrived in time to warn him.”
“Then how . . . ?”
“I don’t know exactly,” he answered. “That’s why we’re here. One of the reasons. A month and a half ago, Neil received a letter we believe you sent. He . . . well, let’s say he found a safer place for me to stay. There was an explosion, and he was killed. Investigators claim it was an accident. I have my doubts.”
“What do you believe happened?”
“I believe he was murdered, but I can’t prove it—not without your help. They said someone left the oven on. But Neil and I never used the oven.”
“I don’t doubt that. Neil was a brilliant chem
ist, but the worst cook imaginable.”
“Yes,” Adam agreed. “He once tried to convince me that the eggshells in my omelet were good for me. He said they were loaded with calcium for strong bones.”
“I remember those omelets. Like leather. Awful.” She paused. “Go on.”
The server interrupted with our drinks. Veronica went straight for her glass of wine, downing at least a third before Adam could continue. “Like I said, there was a letter, and Lily—”
“Lily? The girl on the phone yesterday. That was you?”
“Yes,” I answered.
Veronica Forbes eyed me knowingly. “And what’s your connection to all this?”
“She’s my . . .” Adam looked to me to finish the sentence for him, but I was hesitant to commit to a word.
When she realized she wasn’t going to get an answer, Veronica asked, “So how did you find me?”
“Your name was in a local ancestry newsletter,” I explained, grateful for the change of subject. “That led us to an announcement regarding your promotion at Procea. We looked up the number and called.”
“When you hung up on us yesterday,” added Adam, “we decided to come in person.”
“And you used my son’s name to get my attention. Well, it worked.”
“But my name is Adam. Neil raised me as his . . . son. He never told me there was another Adam.”
“I see. So you’re saying that, when he adopted you, he gave you our son’s name? Or was it a coincidence—?” Her voice caught. She pulled at the collar of her jacket, moisture pooling in her gold-flecked, brown eyes.
I offered her my napkin, but she refused it, saying, “This isn’t easy for me, you know.”
“I know.” Boy, did I know.
It took her a moment to collect herself. “Five years ago there was an accident in my husband’s laboratory. I’d cautioned our son repeatedly about sneaking into his father’s lab, but he was nearly fifteen and well past listening to any of my warnings. I was at work, and Neil was slaving on one of his many projects. He stepped away and neglected to lock the door. Adam went down there, probably looking for his father. He idolized him, you know. Thought the sun rose and set at Neil’s whim . . . Something went wrong. Neil did everything he could to save Adam, but it was too late. In the process Neil’s hands were terribly burned. He nearly lost the use of them.”
Mortal Remains Page 16
