Recovering Dad

by Libby Sternberg

  “And that’s when things got squirrelly,” she says. “He got really quiet. Was kind of unresponsive. So I started asking him questions about how long he was on the force and all that …”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that should all be in his file and if I needed to contact him, I should do it through his personal lawyer, whose contact information should be in his file, too. So I pretended it wasn’t, that the city had left out some pages. I even made a joke about how careless the records were, blah blah blah. But he insisted, and gave me his lawyer’s name and address …”

  “Wow. You were so close, too.”

  “… Kerwin Moffit. Down on Redwood Street. I think my dad knows him.”

  Rewind! Kerwin Moffit? That guy was Jimmy Winslow’s lawyer! My heart and mind race, a thousand thoughts tumbling over one another. It might not mean anything. It’s not unusual for cops to use the same guy.

  “Do you mind calling your father?”

  “What for?”

  “I need to know if there are any law firms around that represent a lot of cops — on Internal Affairs stuff and all that.” I explain my theory — that a few firms might get the lion’s share of this business. That would make this coincidence not so unusual. I tell her about Winslow going to Moffit, too.

  She turns the car toward town and gets on the phone. In a few minutes, she has the intel. Yeah, her dad knows of several firms that attract cops who need legal help, but Kerwin Moffit’s is not one of them. Moffit, in fact, does only a limited amount of criminal law. Unsurprisingly, most of his legal beagling is in a single area — lawyers, it seems, specialize, just like doctors.

  “What’s his specialty?” I ask, expecting to hear something like “divorce” or “real estate.” His expensive condo would certainly lead to that conclusion.

  “Immigration,” she says, heading down St. Paul Street. “You know, helping people with Green Card issues and the like.” She says it as if it’s an admirable area in which to specialize. And maybe it is. But my breath comes fast and my skin grows cold. Immigration law puts him smack in the middle of the investigation that led to my dad’s death.

  “Can you drop me somewhere?” I ask. “It’s not out of your way.”

  It’s nearly six-thirty by the time Kerrie lets me off at Moffit’s business digs. She wants to wait with me, and leaves only after I call Connie and tell her to meet me here. As soon as Kerrie’s car is out of sight, though, I don’t wait a nanosecond. I’m getting the goods before my sister does, just in case there’s news I need to break to her gently, or not at all.

  I rush into the building, one of those old seven-story low-rises built around the turn of the century, nestled between towering glass and steel moderns like squat old aunts squeezed into a family portrait. In the marble and brass lobby, I nod to the security guard, find the building directory by the elevator, and locate Moffit’s office on the fifth floor. Hoisting my backpack on one shoulder and carrying my shoe bag (into which I’ve stowed my magic bras) in my other hand, I zoom up to Moffit’s office.

  My heart’s racing faster than that of a pre-pubescent boy on a field trip to the Wonderbra lab. I have a vague idea what I’ll say, but I’m counting on adrenalin to push me in the right direction. I’m going to pretend to know more than I do. I’m going to see what he can tell me about Jimmy Winslow, Gregory Holdene, and my dad. And before Connie arrives on the scene, I’m going to throw myself on his mercy to find out if he knows how involved Dad was in this whole mess.

  At Moffit’s floor, the elevator doors open to a posh suite decorated in soft, dark, and red: red couches, soft Persian rugs, dark wood floors. In the waiting area is a gleaming, dark wood receptionist desk the size of Oklahoma and, on the walls, bright red paintings of flowers in the style of Georgia O’Keefe, just like at his house. The surroundings stage-whisper “money.”

  No one’s around, and I don’t hear the lively tap-tap of keys on computers behind the receptionist desk. Have I hit the detecting jackpot — an empty office just waiting to be ransacked? (Er, I mean, observed.) I rethink my strategy as I walk to the right of the receptionist desk, toward an open work room. Here, the decorating scheme is more utilitarian — filing cabinets line walls to the right and left, and a low shelf with a fax machine and other office equipment sits under the tall windows above a radiator. Outside, the Baltimore skyline winks out its goodbye to the day as the sun pinks the undersides of clouds rolling in for a spring shower.

  It might be better, I decide, not to actually talk to Moffit. After all, he didn’t open up before. Why should I expect more now, just because I come in weeping and moaning about my father? I’d get much more from a quiet look through files — a file on Dad specifically — and I need to do it before SuperSleuth Connie shows. I start to head down one of the narrow hallways to the right of the filing room.

  “May I help you?”

  I jump at the Sister Delia-like voice behind me. Then I turn and see a petite old woman peering over half-glasses. She wears a cream blouse and plaid straight skirt and looks like the type of efficient secretary who gets the job done but leaves the thinking to her boss. She holds a file folder, which she takes to one of the cabinets and puts away. She’s clearly in a hurry. “Are you lost?” she asks. “We’re closed, I’m afraid.” She definitely wants to get going.

  “This is Uncle Kerwin’s office, right?” I smile charmingly. At least, I hope it’s charming. “Kerwin Moffit, that is.” I step forward and hold out my hand. “I’m Beatrice King. I was supposed to meet Uncle Kerwin, but I’m a little late.”

  She shoves the drawer closed and shakes my hand, but tilts her head to one side in a look of confused skepticism. “Mr. Moffit never mentioned a niece.”

  I laugh. “More like a second niece twice removed. I can’t keep it straight, to tell you the truth. My mother is his second cousin or something like that. We just moved into the area, and Mom asked me to stop by for some power-of-attorney papers or something like that.” I give her a vapid smile, hoping it communicates my ignorance of power of attorney. If she thinks I’m stupid, she might relax. (It pains me to realize I often gain my greatest success by playing dumb.) When she looks at her watch, a frown swiftly appears on her face.

  “What time were you supposed to meet him?” she asks.

  “Six-thirty.” I laugh again. “I’m a little late. Was shopping.” I hold up my bag.

  “He didn’t say anything to me,” she says, sighing. “But it’s not the first time.” She heads to the waiting room and I follow.

  “If you have to get going, I can wait on my own,” I offer. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but instead goes to the receptionist desk and sits down, grimacing as she scoots her chair into the desk. This isn’t what she’d planned.

  “Let me give him a quick call,” she says. “He might want to reschedule.” She lifts the receiver and punches in a number.

  Oh, crap! No good can come of this. What to do, what to do? Create a diversion.

  I walk toward the sofa that neatly hugs the rug, staring at the painting on the wall above it. As I come to the edge of the couch, I let myself ram into the coffee table and fall, spilling books and purchases as I careen to the floor with a yowl worthy of a cat on Halloween.

  It does the trick. Ms. Secretary is starting to leave a message for Moffit when she breaks off and comes my way. She doesn’t work for a lawyer for nothing. She’s probably wondering how much I’ll sue him for because she left the table a half inch into the traffic pattern.

  “Are you all right?” She kneels down and helps me gather my things and get onto my feet.

  “Oh, dear. I think so.” I stand and brush off my uniform. Then, faking a limp, I plop onto the sofa. “I was just looking at this picture.” I nod toward the painting in back of me. “It reminds me of something in Uncle Kerwin’s apartment. Have you seen it? That big thing in the dining room?”

  She nods. And then her face relaxes and she los
es her frown. She’s probably been to Moffit’s place, too, to pick up or drop off stuff. She knows what it looks like. And she knows I know. So she relaxes, looks at her watch again, and then at me, clearly struggling with whether to stay.

  “He’s due back any minute,” she says, more to herself than to me. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’ll be fine. Just need to sit for a while.” And then, as if just thinking of it, I say, “Don’t let me hold you up. I can wait in the lobby with that security guard if you want.” I stand, take a step, wince, and limp toward the doorway, whimpering ever so softly as I go. “That table sure was in a bad spot,” I whisper loud enough for her to hear.

  She rushes to my aid. “Really, you shouldn’t be putting any weight on that leg. Maybe there’s someone I can call.”

  No. I don’t want you calling anybody, lady. I turn and beam her a good-natured smile of suffering. I shake my head. “It’ll be all right. I just need to sit down …” I try to put weight on the leg, then crunch up my face, as if I’m trying to suppress a groan.

  Extending her arms, she steers me back toward the couch. “Mr. Moffit will be here any second. I’m sure of it. Can I get you some water? Some tea?” She looks at her watch again after getting me settled.

  “There is one thing you can do for me.” I nestle into the cushions.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t let me keep you. Really, I feel awful having you wait. If Uncle Kerwin’ll be here any second, you just go on. I’ll be here when he comes and tell him how you wanted to stay and I insisted on you going.”

  She thinks about it. She looks at me. Her mouth moves a fraction of an inch. She wants to go. “Go,” I mentally whisper. “Go, go, go. Nothing good can come of you staying.”

  “Well …”

  “If he doesn’t show up in a few minutes, I’ll call him,” I say with a firmness I hope conceals the fact that I don’t know his cell number.

  She stares again, the internal struggle evident behind her smooth eyes.

  Oh please oh please oh please. Just go.

  “Well, I guess if he doesn’t show up, you can just leave. The door will lock behind you and I’ll lock everything else up.”

  Drat! I watch with a plastic smile as she heads back to the files. I hear the muted click of key in lock and think how a perfect opportunity to rummage through the files is now out of reach. So much for my great stumbling act. And I’ll have a bruised knee in the morning because of it. (At least there wasn’t a swimming pool.)

  She repeats that Mr. Moffit will be back soon, leaves a note for him in his office down the hall, and then finally, finally leaves, nervously waving goodbye as she steps into the elevator in the hall beyond the glass doors. At last, the doors shut on her and I’m alone.

  This is my chance. I run to the filing room, trying each drawer in turn, hoping she forgot to lock one, or did a shoddy job of it. No luck. All the drawers are tight as unripe fruit on the vine.

  I go back to her desk. Maybe she has an extra key there. But here again I encounter locked drawers — all except a narrow pencil drawer that holds nothing but … a few pencils. This lady doesn’t fool around. She might have left a troublemaking snoop alone in the office, but the office itself is impervious to prying.

  So where is Connie when I need her?

  Not that she’d be much help. Even with her fancy-schmancy lockpicking tools, she’s never managed to peel open anything. Come to think of it, the gal even has trouble with flip tops on cans.

  But pondering Connie’s lockpicking tool kit spurs me to investigate the filing room for possible substitutes. On the receptionist’s desk are some paperclips in a magnetic holder. Eureka! I grab one and head for the file cabinets.

  It only takes a few seconds to realize this is a no-go. The clip wire is too thick and doesn’t have enough flexibility. What I need is a wire that’s thin, strong, and flexible. A wire that’s …

  … that’s specially engineered for strength and lightness, to lift and hold, to shape and caress. Yes, a wire just like the underwires in my newly-purchased, amazingly soft, yet unbelievably strong Ipex Bra, the Eighth Wonder of the World.

  Oh, geez. Not my bra. I like my bra. I’ve become really fond of it. I was thinking of giving it a name.

  I stare at my bag. I wait for the heavens to open and drop the perfect lockpicking wire into my hands. I wonder if there’s a patron saint of lockpicking. Maybe I failed to pay attention that day in religion class. If so, I’m paying for it now.

  With a sigh and a whispered prayer that Kerrie will forgive me, I open my bag and do a quick “eenie-meenie-minie-mo” thing to choose which bra will be sacrificed. The lilac one loses.

  Okay, okay, so it doesn’t really lose. But when my “mo” finger points at the fleshtone bra, I realize I can’t let it go. It’s too practical. I strip apart the purple piece instead. In a flash, the long thin wire’s in my hands and I’m manipulating it into the keyhole of a file drawer, listening for Moffit to come back. Sweat gathers on my brow. My hands shake from the effort. My senses are all on edge when, at last, I jiggle something free. I hear a soft click, as soft as a squirrel scampering over a twig, and I know I’ve got it. I gently pull the wire back and tug on the drawer handle …

  Voila! It opens.

  I quickly scan files and find the right drawer. I hold my breath and paw through folders. Badger, Bagley, Baker, Balton …

  No Balducci! Thank God. I close my eyes and whisper a prayer of thanks, then open another drawer. Holdene’s file is in this one, so I pull it out.

  Page after boring page of doctor’s reports and deposition transcripts, forms filled out for the department, notes from Holdene either complaining about late payments or promising to send Moffit what he owes.

  And a whole ream of papers on the force’s investigation of Holdene.

  Bribes. Immigration. It’s all there — everything I feared Dad might be involved in. I see that Moffit’s noted inconsistencies in the force’s case, and has filed every conceivable motion to delay or stop it from moving forward.

  But it’s clear to me — Holdene knew what the gang was up to, and was paid to look the other way.

  I slam the drawer shut and look for Winslow’s file.

  It’s massive — almost half the drawer. There’s no way I’ll read it all in time, but still I sink to the floor with several folders by my side.

  Like Holdene’s, Winslow’s file is filled with the annoying minutia of petty disagreements. Claims and counterclaims. Notes on conversations with Winslow, in which he catalogs all the wrongs of his supervisors. Papers on the accusations against Winslow. Denials from Winslow on same. All documented in excruciating detail.

  But the charges are the same as those against Holdene — looking the other way on encountering the immigrant smuggling ring. No, worse — according to Moffit’s notes, the force was actually ready to arrest Winslow for aiding and abetting the gang. He didn’t just look the other way. He set up rendezvous points and provided the gang advance schedules of beat patrols.

  With a sickening feeling, I read of how this man, who was with my dad when he died, was either guilty as sin of helping criminals, or the victim of an immensely incriminating pile of fraudulent evidence. On the last page of notes, Moffit has scrawled, “No plea deal possible.” In the corner of the page, I see a phone number, once written in pencil, now erased. I can still make it out, so I copy it into a notebook I retrieve from my backpack.

  With a heavy heart, I pick up yet another folder, and here I find what I was originally looking for — Winslow’s recounting of the night my father was killed. I sit up straight. My fatigue vanishes. I feel as if I could memorize these pages like a camera taking a picture. Every nerve is on edge as I read the descriptions of an incident I know all too well by now. It all jibes with what I already know — except some fresh details, like the make of the gun, that I jot down in the notebook.

  Just then, I hear the muted whoosh of the heavy doors to the reception a
rea.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  WHEN I STAND, the papers fall to my feet like confetti. Mentally kicking myself, I bend to retrieve them, hearing the footsteps grow ever nearer. It has to be Moffit — Ms. Secretary-of-the-Year locked the doors. My mind goes blank as I try to think of an excuse for going through files that aren’t mine. First attempt: I want to be a lawyer. Fallback: I have a mental disorder that forces me against my will to look into other people’s personal belongings and then instantaneously forget what I see there …

  Suddenly, Connie is standing in front of me, cell phone in one hand, keys in the other.

  “How’d you get in?” I ask. (She couldn’t have picked the lock.)

  “Door was open.”

  So the secretary isn’t Secretary of the Year after all. She didn’t lock the door as she said she would.

  “It’s about time,” I say. Connie just rolls her eyes. She doesn’t need to ask what’s up. She comes over and grabs the file I just dropped.

  “Here’s the part you need,” I tell her, handing her the papers about Dad’s shooting.

  She reads them in silence, nodding occasionally as facts we already know are confirmed in writing by the only other fellow who was there.

  “So he’s Holdene’s lawyer, too,” she says after her scan of Winslow’s file.

  “Yeah. Some disability thing, and his troubles with the force.”

  She goes for that file and reads it quickly, presumably noticing what I noticed — that he stands accused of taking bribes from the smuggling ring. She notices the phone number, too, and I tell her I’ve already written it down.

  Eventually, she looks up. “We should get out of here.”

  I wholeheartedly agree. There’s no point talking to Moffit now.

  “But what do we do next?” I ask. We know now that both Holdene and Winslow were connected with the immigrant smuggling. We also know a few other details about the night Dad died, like the make of the gun and the description of the shooting, at least from Winslow’s point of view.