by Lisa Gardner
“I know.”
“How do you sleep at night?”
Rainie smiles faintly. “I don’t sleep at night. You know that as well as anyone.”
“Your mother?” I ask, because she doesn’t talk about her past much. None of us do. “Did she . . . did she hit you?”
Rainie takes a moment. Not avoiding me, but composing her answer. “My mother could be abusive. She was an alcoholic, just like I’m an alcoholic. These things run in families. But I don’t think my mother measures up to the mean-drunk standards of, say, your father. On the other hand, she didn’t have good taste in men. And some of them . . . I also know what it’s like to have to lock your bedroom door at night.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her truthfully.
She reaches across the table, takes my hand. “It gets better, Sharlah. I know it doesn’t feel that way at the moment, but life gets better.”
I want to believe her, but she’s right: It doesn’t feel that way tonight.
Her cell rings. Rainie releases my hand long enough to fish it out of her pocket. I can tell from her face that it’s Quincy. She doesn’t leave the room, however, but sits across from me, nodding. Apparently, Quincy has a lot to say.
“Okay,” she says finally. Then, “Yes, I can do that. I’ll start right away. . . . Be careful. . . . I love you. . . . Bye.”
She puts the phone down, takes a sip of her water.
“He gave you an assignment?” I ask.
She nods. “Remember the photo of the old man at the end of Telly’s scrapbook? Turns out, that’s really Sandra Duvall’s estranged father.”
“Sandra Duvall or Irene Gemetti?” I ask.
Rainie smiles. “Which is where things get interesting. Not only has Sandra been living under an assumed name, but apparently her father, an infamous criminal, has been as well.”
“Is that why they’re estranged? She didn’t want to go into the family business or something like that?”
“Not sure. What matters is that according to Sandra’s son, Henry, her father had recently reappeared in their lives. Claimed to be dying of cancer and wanted to make amends. Except, also according to Henry, Sandra wanted nothing to do with him. So instead, the man approached Henry first, then Frank, then, when none of that worked, apparently your brother, Telly.”
I frown. “I don’t get it.”
“Neither do the police. Hence my assignment. I need to identify Sandra’s father. If we know more about him, we might have a better sense of what was going on in the Duvalls’ house leading up to the morning of their murders. Which, in fact, might tell us more about who killed them and why.”
“I want to help,” I announce.
She gives me a look. But being me, I return it with one of my own. Sensing a show, Luka climbs off the floor, comes padding over for a better view.
“Sandra’s real name is Gemetti, right?” I ask now.
She nods.
“So all the police have to do is search Gemetti, or even go through birth certificates to find Irene Gemetti, then look for the father’s name.”
“Which Roy Peterson has been doing without luck. Which could mean that Irene was born at a small hospital that hasn’t scanned its records into databases, or that in fact there’s no record of her birth. Computer searches are great, but there’s a saying: Garbage in, garbage out. If the Gemettis really are some kind of crime family, they have incentive to operate under the radar, keeping most of their personal information to themselves. Sandra Duvall is a fake name, correct? An alias she devised to separate herself from her past.”
“Yes.”
“Her father has done the same. Crime bosses—think of them as wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing. As a wolf—”
“Gemetti?” I ask.
“Yes. He conducts certain businesses, engages in certain behaviors he’d like to keep separate from himself. But, if he’s successful at all, he might also want a sheep’s life, roaming openly in the world, enjoying the fruits of his labor.”
“A second name.”
“In this case, the man introduced himself to Henry as David Michael or David Martin, or maybe even David Michael Martin, something like that.”
“Those are all first names.”
“Those are all common names,” Rainie corrects me.
I get it. “To make it harder to track him. How many Davids must be running around the world, let alone Martins, David Martins. . . .”
“Exactly. He’s hiding in plain sight, adopting a moniker so common, no one would notice or be able to narrow it down if they wanted to.”
“You can’t search for all the Davids and Martins, so you’re going after Gemetti instead?”
“Actually, Sergeant Roy Peterson is digging into Gemetti. That’s the wolf name, and Roy is the one with access to criminal databases. Which leaves me with the more time-intensive search: trolling Google for one of the most common names on the planet.”
I frown, chew my bottom lip. “You must have a plan.”
She shrugs. “You’re the student who has to do research on the Internet. What would you do?”
“Well . . . you can’t just Google David. Or Martin. Or Michael. You’d get way too many hits. So you gotta add search criteria. Something to narrow down the options.”
“What would you suggest?”
“What do we know about the guy? Is he from Bakersville, like Sandra?”
“Actually, we’re thinking the Portland area. Oregon, to be safest.”
“Okay, so we want combinations of Davids, Michaels, and Martins who live in Oregon. That’s gonna be a long list.”
She nods.
“He’s old? Old David Michael Martins who live in Oregon?”
Rainie smiles. “Old is too generic a search term. Ideally, we’d like a birth year. That would be very specific. Sadly . . .”
“You don’t have a birth year.”
“No. We could try a range, but in my experience, that mostly gets ugly, especially when it turns out the year you needed was just outside your range.”
I scowl. “How do you and Quincy ever find anyone?”
“Just like this. Talking it out.”
We both fall silent for a second. Rainie speaks next: “He’s sick. At least that’s what he implied to the son. Sick and dying of cancer.”
I brighten. “That’s something specific.”
“Yes and no. Health records are confidential. On the one hand, there are only a couple of top cancer hospitals in the state. Chances are, our David has seen docs at one of them. But we have no access to that information. We need public information.”
“Is he rich?” I ask.
“The implication has been that he’s good at what he does.”
“Rich people don’t just get sick,” I say. I know this because I watch TV. “Rich people hold galas and fund-raisers and launch Twitter campaigns and all sorts of stuff. They turn being sick into a major media event.”
For a second, I think Rainie’s going to dismiss me, then suddenly . . . “Galas,” she murmurs. “There’s one in Portland. Biggest fund-raiser of the year to support the fight against cancer. Includes local celebrities, the überwealthy . . . Follow me.”
She lets me inside the office. Something worth noting—that I’m finally being allowed onto hallowed ground—except the excitement in her voice has captured my attention. Rainie heads straight to the computer, opens the search engine, and the next thing I know, the screen is flooded with images.
“The One Night, One Fight cancer gala costs fifty thousand a table, making it one of Portland’s highest-profile events. Of course there are photographers everywhere to capture the glamour and post the photos online, encouraging even more donations next year. Now, we might not know the real name of Sandra’s father, but we do know what he looks like. Meaning all we have to do is keep ou
r eyes open and start hunting. What do you think for timeline? We don’t know exactly when David got sick, but given how frail he looks in the photo, probably at least a couple of years ago. So we’ll start five years back, work ahead from there, and hope we get lucky.”
I nod. Rainie enters the search terms and the entire monitor fills with a glittery whirlwind of sequined dresses, bubbly champagne, and dancing lights. One Night, One Fight from five years ago. I feel light-headed just looking at all the images, and we have pages, years to go.
“Picture the old man from the photo in your mind,” Rainie advises. “Focus on something tangible—the bridge of his nose, the distance between his eyes. That’s who we’re looking for. Don’t get distracted by all the rest.”
We work slowly. There’s no choice. I find the moment I rush, the images blur and I don’t see faces at all, but start noting that dress or those earrings. Rainie’s right, it’s easy to get distracted.
After making it through all the images from five years past, Rainie has to load the picture of Sandra’s father on her cell phone, so we can refresh our mental image. She blows it up until all we can see is the old man’s face. At this magnitude, it’s fuzzy, distorted, but Rainie shows me the tricks. On a piece of paper we sketch out the line of his jaw, the shape of his nose, his eyes, and his lips. Not a face, but a template of a face.
“This is who we’re looking for,” she reminds me. “Don’t worry about hair, clothing, jewelry, background. These are our identifying elements.”
One Night, One Fight four years ago. She loads the images. We resume our hunt.
I had no idea so many people liked to wear sequins. Even sequined bow ties.
Three years back.
Rainie brings us both eye drops. The images have run together. I hate formal wear and puffy hair and blue eye shadow. I’m also slightly hungry from all the images of food, yet nauseated from the giant blurs of color. I can stop, Rainie tells me, get some rest. But I can tell she’s going to keep going, so I’m determined to make it, too. It’s like Where’s Waldo, and we have yet to spot our target. You can’t go to bed without having won the game.
One Night, One Fight two years ago. Rainie loads. We both lean forward, stare at the monitor, start scrolling slowly down the page.
I see him. Not directly. He’s standing off to the side. Wearing a black tux just like the other guys. But his hand holding the champagne glass. It grabs my attention. A patch of old in the middle of bright party lights. The photo reveals just his profile, but I study his nose, the way Rainie showed me, and I know it’s him immediately.
“There! Look there! That’s him!”
Rainie follows my finger as I poke the image on the screen. “Could be,” she agrees. She double-clicks on the photo, blows it up larger.
The old man is part of a group, all huddled together. He stands with a trimmer, serious-looking guy, then a younger man with a pretty girl on his arm. They’re all together, I think. The way they lean so close, they’re not getting to know one another. They know each other already. His family?
But Rainie isn’t looking at the old man anymore. Her gaze has gone to the younger one. She frowns. Blinks her eyes. Frowns again.
“I swear I recognize that face.”
“What is his name, what is his name?” I’m dying to know.
She reads the caption: “David Michael Martin.”
Definitely a great name for hiding in plain sight.
“President of GMB Enterprises,” she continues, then . . .
She stops, turns away from the computer, stares at me.
“Sharlah, I do know that young man. We started the day looking at his photo. This kid . . .” She scans the caption, but the names of the other group members aren’t given. “This kid is the male victim at the EZ Gas this morning.”
I understand what she’s saying. “His murder wasn’t random.”
“No. Someone must’ve been sent there to kill him. First Sandra Duvall, David Michael Martin’s long-lost daughter,” Rainie murmurs. “Then this man, David Michael Martin’s . . . associate? This isn’t a spree killing.”
Rainie is already picking up her phone, dialing Quincy.
“Then what is it?” I ask her.
“I don’t know. Something bigger, something more targeted.” She looks at me, phone to her ear, and I already know what she’s thinking: the pictures of me, scope lines drawn around my face.
And I get it then. I really am my foster mother’s daughter. Because Rainie is already thinking, how can she keep me safe?
Just like I’m already thinking, Oh, Telly, how do I get you out of this?
But neither of us has the answer.
Chapter 37
WHEN QUINCY AND SHELLY RETURNED from talking to Henry, it was well after midnight. They discovered the tracker, still in the conference room, pushing markers into the blown-up map. Noonan glanced up as they walked in, then returned his attention to his job.
Quincy helped himself to some coffee, then poured a fresh cup of tea for Shelly.
Shelly grunted her thanks, left the conference room to check in with Roy. Quincy crossed to the tracker. Best Quincy could tell, the map of Telly Ray Nash’s trail was now covered in a fresh sprinkling of purple pushpins.
“Do I want to know?” Quincy asked.
“Tagging all reported sightings of persons matching Nash’s description.”
Quincy realized Noonan was holding printouts from what must have been the recently set-up hotline.
“How’d the conversation go with the son?” Noonan asked. “He in cahoots, or our real target?”
“If he is, he’s the best liar I’ve ever met, and I’ve met some good ones.”
“So he’s in the clear? Has nothing to do with what happened with his parents?”
Quincy frowned, twisted his coffee cup. “Not sure I’m ready to go that far yet. There’s certainly more to the Duvall family than meets the eye. But Henry seems genuinely in the dark when it comes to his mother’s real name and family history. He identified our old man from Telly’s scrapbook as his long-lost grandfather. Apparently, the man appeared out of the blue several months back looking to establish a relationship with his grandson, maybe the rest of the family. According to Henry, his father forbade it. Sandra Duvall/Irene Gemetti’s father was some kind of criminal mastermind. Not to be trusted, even on his self-proclaimed deathbed.”
“Nice. Grandfather really dead?”
“Hoping Roy or Rainie has that answer. Name would be nice as well.” Quincy nodded with his head toward the wall map. “Any activity on the cameras you left at Nash’s camp?”
“Nope.”
“But the hotline sightings?” Quincy gestured to the sheaf of papers in Noonan’s hand.
“Looking for a grouping,” the tracker reported. “Enough sightings in one place to warrant further investigation. Or better yet, a series of groupings that might provide directionality—tell us where Nash is headed next. Maybe even help us identify his next target.”
Quincy nodded; it was a solid line of inquiry. Now he eyed the considerable number of purple pushpins spraying across the map, arched a brow.
“Lot of sightings,” he said.
“Yep.”
“I’m not seeing any groupings.”
“Nope.”
“I’m not seeing any directionality.”
“Exactly.”
Noonan picked up the next purple tack, returning to the call logs. Quincy went in search of Shelly and Roy.
—
WHILE QUINCY AND SHELLY HAD BEEN OUT, Sergeant Peterson had dug up the information on the thirty-year-old murder investigation involving Irene Gemetti, aka Sandra Duvall. Roy handed over the sparse file; Quincy gave it a glance.
All pretty cursory. Irene Gemetti was wanted for questioning in the stabbing death of Victor Chernkov, who b
y all accounts had been a low-level pimp, working the Pearl District in downtown Portland. These days, the Pearl District was known for its multimillion-dollar lofts and trendy delis. Thirty years ago, not so much.
The case file consisted of the ME’s report on Chernkov’s remains and a single witness statement from another prostitute who claimed to have seen Irene in the area right before the discovery of Chernkov’s body. That was it. Irene Gemetti had never been located, and without further information, the case had grown cold. Quincy wasn’t surprised. For a lot of detectives, a dead pimp barely counted as a crime. The investigators had moved on; apparently so had Irene Gemetti.
Quincy set down the file, looked at Roy, who was staring blearily at his computer screen.
“Sixteen-year-old Irene ran away from home,” Quincy murmured. “She fell in with the wrong crowd. Ended up in a violent situation. Had to run again.”
“Straight into the arms of Frank Duvall?” Shelly asked from the doorway.
Quincy turned. “His son said he liked projects.”
Shelly took a sip of her tea.
“So instead of turning herself in to the police,” Shelly said now, “Sandra turned to Frank Duvall. Convinced him to marry her and take her away to our quaint town of Bakersville. Where she what? Magically transformed herself into the perfect wife and mother next door? No more life on the street? No more acknowledgment of evil Daddy?”
“Beats going to jail for murder,” Roy commented.
“What if you Google Irene Gemetti’s name?” Quincy asked.
“Nothing,” Roy said.
“What about the pimp, Victor?” Shelly tried.
“Same deal. Too old. Or not nearly interesting enough for the Internet to care.”
“And the name Gemetti?”
“Too many hits. I need more information to narrow things down. Turns out estranged grandpa isn’t as good a search term as you might think.”
Quincy nodded, unsurprised. The Internet could be a treasure trove of information, if only there weren’t so much of it. “Henry Duvall swears he doesn’t know anything about his mother’s past or his criminally minded grandfather. And yet, in the past year, there were only two major changes in the Duvall household: taking in Telly Ray Nash as a foster son, and the reappearance of Sandra’s father after thirty years. Question is, which one of these things led to the shooting death of the Duvalls? In the beginning, we were assuming it was Telly. And now?”
