For once, he was speechless.
‘Tied up with what?’
‘Well, you know, work. What with doing your job as well as my own. I’m sure you can imagine. Why, what did you think?’
‘I—’
‘Anyway, you’re going to be busy now with Hanna’s case, now you’ve got something to go on.’
The email came through a couple of minutes after they disconnected. An involuntary bark of laughter slipped out when he opened it—not because there’s anything inherently amusing about an autopsy report—because of her comment accompanying it.
You need to work on your take-it-or-leave-it voice.
***
THERE WAS NO MENTION of Margarita being pregnant, quite the opposite. The report stated that the deceased had recently given birth, within the previous two weeks. Death was by drowning as he already knew, and in addition to her lungs being full of water, her stomach contained an estimated pint of Tequila, brand unspecified.
Evan felt a deep sadness settle on him. Margarita had given birth to her baby and then, less than two weeks later, had drowned her sorrows with a pint of Tequila and drowned herself in a bathtub of warm water. She was seventeen years old at the time.
Why had she killed herself?
Her brother, Jesús Narvaez, knew what had happened. Who knows, maybe he was the one who found her lifeless body in the tub after somebody had to kick down the bathroom door. Was it any surprise he was bitter? No wonder he carried his hatred of Frank Hanna and his family with him for fifty years. His own disfigurement and then the suicide of his twin sister. It raised another question in Evan’s mind. Narvaez had repeatedly referred to we—when he threw George Hanna’s money at Evan, he’d said we don’t want it now. It was obvious now he wasn’t referring to Margarita, so who could it be? And did it matter?
The biggest question was, what became of the baby?
At least he had something concrete to work with. Margarita took her own life on January 12, 1966. The autopsy report stated that she gave birth within the previous two weeks, so her child—and Frank Hanna’s—was most likely born in the first ten days or so of 1966. He didn’t have a first name. He did have the mother’s name and an address which would narrow the scope of hospitals where the baby was born. How difficult could it be?
He drove back to the Register-Recorder’s Office, an excited buzz in his stomach. He made his way back down to the BDM section, gave the details to the same sullen clerk. For a brief moment he thought she picked up on some of the anticipation radiating off him like a heat haze on a desert pavement. It didn’t last. She stomped off and he waited restlessly for her to come back with another spool of microfilm.
He’d asked for the records from both 1965 and 1966 and started with the ‘66. He felt confident the baby would have been born then. Apart from anything else it formed the majority of the two-week time period leading up to Margarita’s death.
It came up blank.
A little surprised but still undeterred, he loaded the 1965 spool and fast-forwarded to Christmas Day 1965. That had to be early enough. He worked forward to the end of the year, came up with nothing again. Not a single child with the surname Narvaez was born during either period. He didn’t know how accurate the autopsy report was in its assessment of when Margarita had given birth, so he rewound to the beginning of December and worked his way forward. His heart wasn’t in it. He wasn’t going to find anything.
For some unaccountable reason, there was no record of the birth of Margarita Narvaez’ baby.
He carried the spools back to the clerk, thinking maybe she might help solve the mystery, handed them back to her.
‘I couldn’t find any record of the birth I’m looking for.’
She shrugged as if to say what do you expect if you’re looking for something that doesn’t exist.
‘I know for sure the child was born during the period I’ve been looking.’
‘Maybe you missed it.’ She held out the spools towards him. ‘You want these back?’
He hadn’t missed anything. She wasn’t about to offer any suggestions, another way to search maybe, basically be helpful in any way. He shook his head and she took the spools back to her desk, stacked them on top of a pile already waiting to be re-filed and got out her phone. He watched her for a minute, absorbed in whatever she was doing, and then it came to him.
It’s not always intuitive when you’ve spent all day up to your ears in official records to try something as basic as an internet search, but that’s what he did now. He got out his own phone and typed no birth certificate on record into the search engine. He scanned the results that came back, liked the sound of the second one down—The Perversion of American Birth Certificates—opened it up and knew immediately he’d hit pay dirt.
‘Thanks for your help,’ he called to the girl as he headed towards the exit.
She didn’t even look up.
He sat in his car and read through the article, amazed at how little he knew about things that happen all around us every day of the week. He knew, of course, that when a child is born, a birth certificate is issued showing the date of birth, the time, parents’ names and other details. This document would have been given to Margarita.
What he didn’t know was, when a child is adopted, along with all the other paperwork, an amended birth certificate is issued. On this document, Margarita’s name would have been replaced with the names of the adoptive parents, and the child’s name given at birth would be replaced with the new name, if it was changed. The original birth certificate would then have been placed with the other adoption records and the file sealed by the court—never again to see the light of day.
It all made sense now. Margarita’s baby had been adopted and the new, amended birth certificate issued and placed on record. The baby’s last name would be different and perhaps the first name too. Even if the new parents hadn’t changed the name Margarita gave her child, it explained why he couldn’t find any record of a child born with the name Narvaez.
The unhelpful clerk in the Register-Recorder’s Office would have known how the system worked. It should have been the first thing she suggested when he told her he couldn’t find a birth certificate for a child he knew had been born.
He wound down the window to get some air, feeling like he wanted to clear his mind of the tragic story, because there was no doubt in his mind that he’d discovered the reason Margarita committed suicide. He didn’t know whether the decision to give the child up for adoption would have been hers or her parents’ due to her age. It was irrelevant. As far as Margarita was concerned, her child was taken away from her. Given to somebody else, a stranger. For no good reason other than the fact she was unmarried.
To fall pregnant out of wedlock, incur the wrath and condemnation of her family, to be abandoned by the father of her child and threatened by the men his father sent, and then to have the only good thing to come from the whole affair, her baby, taken away from her—it was no surprise it was all too much to bear and she chose the path of least resistance.
Jesús Narvaez would have known about the adoption as well as everything else.
Evan slammed the heel of his hand into the steering wheel, hit the horn by accident. An elderly couple walking past jumped at the sudden noise, glared at him. He gave them a sideways grin and they turned away, muttering to each other. He was tempted to hit it again. Narvaez could have told him everything he’d managed to find out for himself, but he chose not to. Was it simply out of spite, an old man’s determination to not help anybody in any way connected to Frank Hanna—irrespective of the positive outcomes that might result?
Or was there some other reason he was being so obstructive?
It didn’t actually matter why, the end result was the same. He was at a dead end. The only chance he had—and it was very slim—was if the adoptive parents liked the name Margarita gave her baby and didn’t change it. He could then search for births of children with that name—and hope it wasn’t José or
Juan. Before he even started down that road, he needed to find out what name Margarita gave the child.
He was back to Jesús Narvaez, a man who was fast becoming his nemesis.
Chapter 14
IT WASN’T NARVAEZ WHO opened the door when Evan knocked. It was an old woman, easily in her late eighties or early nineties. She was small and stooped, her face a network of wrinkles. Her hair was still black, a wig or out of a bottle, a vanity not usually seen in elderly Latino women. She squinted up at Evan and one of the things that had been nagging at the back of his mind was answered. She was Narvaez’ mother, Margarita’s mother. When Narvaez said we, he was referring to his mother and himself.
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Evan Buckley—’
‘You were here before. I found your card. Edwin Buckley. Jesús was very annoyed after you left. You shouldn’t upset him like that. His heart is not good.’
Evan felt like laughing. He wanted to ask her whether she meant he had a heart condition or he was merely bad-hearted.
‘What do you want?’
She said it in that I’m almost dead, I can say what I like way, that made him look forward to getting old himself, getting to that age when it seemed there was no need for pleasantries, you could be as rude or abrupt as you liked.
‘I—’
‘Speak up, I can’t stand here talking all day.’
She leaned closer to him and peered up into his face with cataract-clouded eyes. A flash of surprise crossed her face. For a moment she looked as if she was going to reach out and touch him, see if he was real. She shook her head, her hand going to her throat, touching the silver crucifix she wore around her neck. It was the first time anyone had used a gesture to ward off evil towards him. It unsettled him for reasons he couldn’t explain. Perhaps she had a premonition of his next statement.
‘I wanted to talk about Margarita’s baby.’
Her mouth opened as if to speak. No words came, something passing behind her eyes. The hand that had dropped from her neck a moment ago was instantly back again, her bony fingers seeking the comfort of the crucifix.
She went to speak again but the moment was interrupted by the sound of somebody behind her, then the voice of Jesús Narvaez.
‘Mamá, I’ve told you not to answer the door. Who is it?’
The faraway look in her eyes was instantly gone, irritation in its place.
‘Don’t treat me like a child, Jesús.’
He came into view, caught sight of Evan on the doorstep.
‘Oh. It’s you again. I told you last—’
‘He says he wants to talk about Francisco Javier.’
It went very quiet. On the outside at least. On the inside, Evan’s heart was anything but quiet. He imagined Narvaez was experiencing some equally strong emotion at his mother’s careless words. Certainly not the elation he felt as he moved one step closer to his goal. They stared at each other, the old woman’s gaze flicking from one to the other.
‘What’s wrong with you two? Cat got your tongues?’
There was a fast burst of Spanish from Narvaez, too fast for Evan to catch, although there was one word he recognized: idiota. Narvaez’ mother’s eyes bulged and she responded with more of the same, the irritation in her voice clear, even if the words meant nothing. She paused to catch her breath, then let fly another flood of angry words.
The exchange went back and forth, the pitch of their voices rising, Narvaez’ face hardening—and there hadn’t been much in the way of friendliness to begin with. Once again, the words were too fast for Evan apart from one English word—or name—standing out in the middle of all the Spanish: Hanna. And even if Evan hadn’t recognized the name, he would have picked up on the additional venom with which it was spoken.
Narvaez hadn’t put on his dark glasses this time and Evan watched as his good eye turned as lifeless as the glass one. Then, after a lengthy tirade from his mother, he turned on his heel and disappeared back to where he’d come from, as if he’d been sent to his room for being naughty. His mother watched him go, then turned back to Evan. The look on her face said, I might be ninety, but you don’t mess with me.
Evan could believe it, almost felt sorry for Jesús. However, if he thought she was about to open up to him, now that she had dealt with her son, he was very mistaken. She took hold of his arm with her cold, overknuckled fingers in that old person death grip, her hand chilling him, surprising him with her strength.
‘Why are you doing this to us?’
‘I’m not—’
‘Digging up all this ...’
For a moment she was at a loss for words. She let go his arm, clasped her crucifix again, her eyes moist.
‘All these memories. After so many years.’
‘I’m—’
‘All for that evil man.’
‘He’s not—’
‘He can rot in hell.’
He gave up trying to say anything. What would be, would be. Or, as she would say, que sera, sera. She would either volunteer the information or he would get no information at all. No amount of cajoling from him would make a blind bit of difference. She nodded to herself. He hoped she was weighing up arguments on either side. She might just have been deciding on whether to have the TV Salisbury steak or the chicken pie for dinner.
‘You tricked me.’
She wagged her bony finger in his face, a gesture that made him feel an unwelcome bond with Jesús. Was he about to be sent to his room as well?
‘If you were an honest man, I would tell you what you want to know. But you tricked me.’
He wanted to protest, he hadn’t tricked anyone, she’d let slip the name on her own.
He’d have been wasting his breath. The door was already shut in his face. At least he had a first name, two in fact. Francisco Javier.
Chapter 15
EVAN CHECKED HIS WATCH. If he was quick, he could make it back to the Register-Recorder’s Office before it closed. He jogged back down the walkway, pushed through the gate to the street and stopped dead. He wouldn’t be going anywhere fast tonight.
On the other side of the street, a police cruiser was parked behind his rental car, its blue and red lights flashing, irritating other drivers. Two uniformed officers, one male, one female, stood by Evan’s car, as well as a small crowd of onlookers. Whatever the problem was, he was tempted to duck back into Narvaez’ apartment complex and wait until it blew over.
‘Is this your car, sir?’ the female officer said. Her name badge said Ortega.
‘It’s a rental, but yes.’
‘Have you done something to annoy somebody, Mr ...’
‘Buckley. Evan Buckley.’
There was a hint of a smirk on officer Ortega’s lips as she made a note of his name. Evan stared in dismay at what was left of his windshield. It had been completely caved in. Two thoughts immediately flashed through his mind. Thank God he’d left the Corvette at Charlotte’s. That was the upside. The downside was he hadn’t taken out any insurance with the rental company. He never did, thought it was a rip-off. He doubted this would be covered even if he had.
‘And does this belong to you, sir?’ Ortega’s partner said.
He had an identical, barely-concealed smirk on his face as he lifted the sledgehammer that was lying across the hood of Evan’s car. He held it out as if Evan needed a closer look, it might be the one he always carried in the trunk, it might not.
‘No.’
What he didn’t say was that if he’d asked a different question, like do you know who it belongs to? he’d have got a very different answer, a very positive yes. Because there was a specific message behind the implement used to destroy his windshield.
However, it wasn’t the damage to his car, or the sledgehammer that was causing their unprofessional amusement. He doubted they routinely laughed at acts of vandalism.
Officer Ortega dug around in a canvas pouch on her belt, found a pair of blue latex gloves and pulled one of them on. Now it was Evan’s turn
to smirk at the distaste evident on her face.
‘And what about this, sir?’
She stretched her arm to full length, leaned over the hood and carefully picked up a large, dead fish by its tail. Her partner grinned openly, a ripple of laughter went through the small crowd watching.
‘Is it a bass?’
‘I didn’t ask you if you know what kind of fish it is, sir. I asked if it belongs to you?’
Evan shook his head, having great difficulty keeping his face under control, despite the damage to his car and the implications.
‘Nope. I’ll keep it if you don’t want it.’
‘I’ll have it,’ somebody from the crowd called.
Whatever fish it was, it had been dead a long time. The smell was awful. It was obvious Ortega wished she had longer arms. She was also failing to see the funny side of things now.
‘Do you have any idea who did this,’ Ortega said.
‘No,’ Evan lied.
She dropped the fish back on the hood. The impact dislodged a bubble of gas caught in the fish’s gut, making its mouth open. A small piece of paper fluttered out, riding the wave of fetid gas.
Evan didn’t need to read it to know what it most likely said. Ortega picked it up gingerly and unfolded it.
‘0-7-1-2,’ she read aloud and looked at Evan.
‘It’s not my birthday.’
‘Does it mean anything to you?’
‘No,’ he lied for the second time.
Ortega nodded in a have-it-your-way manner and put the note on the fish’s body where it stuck to the slime. She carefully pulled off her glove, rolling it over her hand so that it was inside-out. She found a plastic bag and dropped it in, sealed it tight and stuffed the lot back in the pouch.
‘Are you sure you don’t know who did this?’
He shrugged. Beats me.
‘In that case, there’s not a lot we can do for you. You have a nice day.’
The two cops went back to their cruiser and drove off. Most of the small crowd drifted away, a few stragglers staying behind in case there was more excitement to come.
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