Long Lost (2009)

by Harlan - Myron 09 Coben

  I started toward him. He signaled me to wait with a finger. He doesn't get it, Leopold. What can I tell you? The man doesn 't get angles or texture or coloring. He has no eye.

  He held up his finger again for me to wait another minute. I did. When he hung up the phone, he sighed theatrically. May I help you?

  Hi, I said. My name is Bernie Worley.

  And I, he said, hand to heart, am Albin Laramie.

  He made this pronouncement with great pride and flair. It reminded me of Mandy Patinkin in The Princess Bride; I half expected him to tell me that I had killed his father, prepare to die.

  I gave him the world-weary smile. My wife asked me to pick up some photographs.

  Do you have your claim stub?

  I lost it.

  Albin frowned.

  But I have the order number, if that will help.

  It may. He pulled over a keyboard, got his fingers ready, turned back to me. Well?

  Four-seven-one-two.

  He looked at me as though I were the dumbest thing on God's green earth. That 's not an order number.

  Oh. Are you sure?

  That's a session number.

  A session number?

  He pushed the cape back with both hands like a bird might before spreading its wings. As in photo session.

  The phone rang and he turned away as though dismissing me. I was losing him. I took a step back and did my own theatrics. I blinked and made my mouth into a perfect O. Myron Bolitar, Awestruck Ing+!nue. He was watching me with curiosity now. I circled the store and kept the awestruck look on my face.

  Is there a problem? he asked me.

  Your work, I said. It's breathtaking.

  He preened. You don't often see an adult man preen in real life. For the next ten minutes or so I snowed him with a bit more about his work, asking him about inspiration and letting him prattle on about hue and tone and style and lighting and other stuff.

  Marge and I have a baby, I said, shaking my head in admiration at the hideous Victorian monstrosity that made an otherwise cute baby look like my uncle Morty with a case of shingles. We should set up a time to bring her in.

  Albin continued to preen in his cape. Preening, I thought, was meant for a man in a cape. We discussed price, which was absolutely ridiculous and would require a second mortgage. I played along. Finally, I said, Look, that 's the number my wife gave me. The session number. She said that if I saw those photographs it would simply blow me away. Do you think I could see the shots from session four-seven-one-two?

  If it struck him as odd that I had originally come in claiming to pick up photographs and now wanted to look at pictures from a session, the note hadn 't sounded over the din of true genius.

  Yes, of course, it's on the computer here. I must tell you. I don't like digital photography. For your little girl, I want to use a classic box camera. There is such a texture to the work.

  That'd be super.

  Still, I use the digital for Web storage. He began typing and hit return. Well, these aren't baby pictures, that 's for sure. Here you are.

  Albin turned the monitor toward me. A bunch of thumbnails loaded onto the screen. I felt my chest tighten even before he clicked on one, making the image large enough to fill the entire monitor. No doubt about it.

  It was the blond girl.

  I tried to play it cool. I'll need a copy of that.

  What size?

  Whatever, eight-by-ten would be great.

  It will be ready a week from Tuesday.

  I need it now.

  Impossible.

  Your computer is hooked up into the color printer over there, I said.

  Yes, but that hardly produces photo quality.

  No time to explain. I took out my wallet. I'll give you two hundred dollars for a computer printout of that picture.

  His eyes narrowed, but only for a second. It was finally dawning on him that something was up, but he was a photographer, not a lawyer or doctor. There was no confidentiality agreement here. I handed him the two hundred dollars. He started for the printer. I noticed a link that said Personal Info. I clicked it as he pulled the photograph from the printer.

  Pardon me? Albin said.

  I backed off, but I had seen enough. The girl's name was only listed as a first: Carrie. Her address?

  Right next door. Care of the Save the Angels Foundation.

  ALBIN did not know Carrie's last name. When I pressed him, he let me know he took pictures for Save the Angels, that was all. They gave him first names only. I took the printout and went next door. Save the Angels was still locked up. No surprise. I found Minerva, my favorite receptionist, at Bruno and Associates and showed her the picture of the blond Carrie.

  Do you know her?

  Minerva looked up at me.

  She's missing, I said. I'm trying to find her.

  Are you like a private eye?

  I am. It was easier than explaining.

  Cool.

  Yeah. Her first name is Carrie. Do you recognize her?

  She worked there.

  At Save the Angels?

  Well, not worked. She was one of the interns. Was here for a few weeks last summer.

  Can you tell me anything about her?

  She's beautiful, isn't she?

  I said nothing.

  I never knew her name. She wasn't very nice. None of their interns were, truthfully. Plenty of love for God, I guess, but not real people. Anyway, our offices share a bathroom down the hall. I would say hi. She would look through me. You know what I mean?

  I thanked Minerva and headed back to suite 3B. I stood in front of it and stared at the door for Save the Angels. Again: the mind. I started letting the pieces tumble through ye olde brain cavity like socks in a dryer. I thought about the Web site I had surfed through last night, about the very name of this organization. I looked down at the photograph in my hand. The blond hair. The beautiful face. The blue eyes with that gold ring around each pupil, and yet I saw exactly what Minerva meant.

  No mistake.

  Sometimes you see strong genetic similarities in a face, like the gold ring around the pupil and sometimes you also see something more like an echo. That was what I saw on this girl 's face. An echo.

  An echo, I was certain, of her mother.

  I looked again at the door. I looked again at the photograph. And as the realization sank in, I felt the coldness seep into my bones.

  Berleand hadn't lied.

  My cell phone rang. It was Win.

  The DNA test on those bones has been completed.

  Don't tell me, I said. It's a match for Terese as mother. Jones was telling the truth.

  Yes.

  I stared at the picture some more.

  Myron?

  I think I get it now, I said. I think I know what's going on.

  Chapter 33

  I drove back to New York City more specifically, to the offices of CryoHope.

  This can't be.

  That was the thought that kept rambling through my mind. I didn't know if I hoped that I was right or wrong but like I said, truth has a certain smell to it. And as far as the can 't be aspect, I again bring up the Sherlock Holmes axiom: When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

  I was tempted to call Special Agent Jones. I had the girl's picture now. This Carrie was probably a terrorist or a sympathizer or maybe best-case scenario she was being held against her will. But it was too early for that. I could talk to Terese, run this possibility by her, but that, too, felt premature.

  I needed to know for sure before I got Terese's hopes up or down.

  CryoHope had valet parking. I gave the keys to the man and started inside. Immediately after Rick Collins found out that he had Huntington 's disease, he had come here. It made sense on the surface. CryoHope was a leader in cutting-edge research with stem cells. It was natural to think that he had visited here in hopes of finding that something might save him from his genetic fate.


  But that hadn't been it.

  I remembered the name of the doctor from the brochure. I want to see Dr. Sloan, I said to the receptionist.

  Your name?

  Myron Bolitar. Tell him it's about Rick Collins. And a girl named Carrie.

  WHEN I came back out, Win was waiting by the front door, leaning against the wall with the ease of Dino at the Sands. His limo was outside, but he stayed with me.

  So? he said.

  I told him everything. He listened without interrupting or asking any follow-up questions. When I was done, he said, Next step?

  I tell Terese.

  Any thoughts on how she'll react?

  None.

  You could wait. Do more research.

  On what?

  He picked up the photograph. The girl.

  We will. But I need to tell Terese now.

  My cell phone chirped. The caller ID showed me Unknown Number. I flipped on the speakerphone setting and said, Hello?

  Miss me?

  It was Berleand. You didn't call me back, I said.

  You were supposed to stay out of it. Calling you back may have encouraged you to rejoin the investigation.

  So why are you calling now?

  Because you have a very big problem, he said.

  I'm listening.

  Am I on speakerphone?

  Yes.

  Is Win there with you?

  Win said, I am.

  So what's the problem? I asked.

  We've been picking up some dangerous chatter coming out of Paterson, New Jersey. Terese 's name was mentioned.

  Terese's, I said, but not mine?

  It may have been alluded to. This is chatter. It isn't always clear.

  But you think they know about us?

  It seems likely, yes.

  Any idea how?

  None. The agents involved with Jones, the ones who took you into custody, are the best. None of them would have talked.

  One must have, I said.

  Are you sure about that?

  I ran it through my head. I thought about who else was there that day in London, who might have told other jihadists that I had killed their leader Mohammad Matar. I glanced at Win. He held up the photograph of Carrie and arched an eyebrow.

  When you eliminate the impossible . . .

  Win said, Call your parents. We'll move them to the Lockwood compound in Palm Beach. We 'll add the best security for Esperanza maybe Zorra is available or that Carl guy from Philadelphia. Is your brother still on dig in Peru?

  I nodded.

  He should be safe then.

  I knew that Win would stay with Terese and me. Win started making calls. I picked up the phone, taking it off speaker. Berleand?

  Yes.

  Jones implied that you might have been lying about that DNA test in Paris.

  Berleand said nothing.

  I know you were telling the truth, I said.

  How?

  But I had already said too much. I have some calls to make. I'll call you back.

  I hung up and called my parents. I was hoping my father would answer, so naturally my mother picked up.

  Mom, it's me.

  Hello, darling. Mom sounded tired. I'm just back from the doctor.

  Are you okay?

  You can read about it on my blog tonight, Mom said.

  Hold up, you just got back from the doctor, right?

  Mom sighed. I just said that, didn't I?

  Right, so I'm asking about your health.

  That's going to be my blog topic. If you want to know more, read it.

  You won't tell me?

  Don't take it personally, sweetie. This way I don't have to repeat myself when someone else asks.

  So you blog about it instead?

  It increases traffic to my site. See, now you're interested, am I right? So I 'll get more hits.

  My mother, ladies and gentlemen.

  I didn't even know you had a blog.

  Oh, sure, I'm very now, very today, very hip. I'm on MyFace too.

  I heard my father in the background shout out, It's MySpace, Ellen.

  What?

  It's called MySpace.

  I thought it was MyFace.

  That's Facebook. You have one of those too. And MySpace.

  Are you sure?

  Yes, I'm sure.

  Listen to Mr. Billy Gates back there. Knows everything about the Internet all of a sudden.

  And your mother is fine, Dad yelled out.

  Don't tell him, she whined. Now he won't click my blog.

  Mom, this is important. Can I talk to Dad for a minute?

  Dad came on. I explained quickly and with as little detail as possible. Again Dad got it. He didn't question or argue. I had just finished explaining about how we 'd get someone to pick them up and take them to the compound when my call waiting beeped in another call. It was Terese.

  I finished up with my father and switched over.

  I'm about two minutes from you, I said to Terese. Stay inside until I get there.

  Silence.

  Terese?

  She called.

  I heard the sob in her voice.

  Who called?

  Miriam. I just got off the phone with her.

  Chapter 34

  I met her at the door.

  Tell me what happened.

  Her whole body shook. She moved close to me and I held her and closed my eyes. This conversation, I knew, would be devastating. I got it now. I got why Rick Collins told her to be prepared. I got why he warned that what he would say would change her entire life.

  My phone rang. I picked it up and a girl on the other end said, 'yMommy?'

  I tried to imagine the moment, hearing that word from your own child, believing it was someone you loved more than anything else in the world and that you had a hand in killing.

  What else did she say?

  They were holding her hostage.

  Who?

  Terrorists. She said not to tell anyone.

  I said nothing.

  A man with a thick accent took the phone away from her then. He said he'd call back with demands.

  I just held her.

  Myron?

  We managed to find our way to the couch. She looked at me with hope and I know how this will sound love. My heart was cracking in my chest as I handed her the photograph.

  This is the blond girl I saw in Paris and London, I said.

  She studied the picture for a full minute without speaking. Then: I don't understand.

  I wasn't sure what to say here. I wondered if she saw the resemblance, if maybe some of the pieces were coming together for her too.

  Myron?

  That's the girl I saw, I said again.

  She shook her head.

  I knew the answer, but I asked the question anyway: What's wrong?

  That's not Miriam, she said.

  She looked down again, wiped her eyes. Maybe, I don't know, maybe if Miriam had some facial surgery and it 's been a lot of years. Looks change, right? She was seven the last time I saw her. . . .

  Her eyes jumped back to my face, hoping to find some reassurance. I offered her none. I realized that the time had come, dived in headfirst.

  Miriam is dead, I said.

  The blood slowly drained from her face. My heart shattered anew. I wanted to reach out to her, but I knew that it would be the wrong move. She swam through it, tried to stay rational, knew how important this all was. But that phone call . . . ?

  Your name has come up in some chatter. My guess is, they're trying to draw you out.

  She looked back down at the picture. So it was all a hoax?

  No.

  But you just said . . . Terese was trying so hard to stay with me. I tried to think of the best way to say this and realized that there was none. I would have to let her see it the way I had.

  Let's go back a few months, I said, when Rick found out he had Huntington 's disease.

  She just looked at me.
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  What would he have done first? I asked.

  Have his son tested.

  Right.

  So?

  So he also went to CryoHope. I kept thinking that he went there to find a cure.

  He didn't?

  No, I said. Do you know a Dr. Everett Sloan?

  No. Wait, I saw the name on the brochure. He works for CryoHope.

  Right, I said. He also took over the practice of Dr. Aaron Cox.

  She said nothing.

  I just found out his name, I said. But Cox was your ob-gyn. When you and Rick had Miriam.

  Terese just stared at me.

  You and Rick had serious fertility issues. You told me about how difficult it was until, well, what you called a medical miracle, though it 's rather common. In vitro fertilization.

  She still wouldn't or couldn't talk.

  In vitro, by definition, is where eggs are fertilized by sperm outside the womb and then the embryo is transferred into the woman's uterus. You mentioned taking Pergonal to up your egg count. This happens in almost every instance. And then there are the extra embryos. For the past twenty-plus years, the embryos have been frozen. Sometimes they were thawed for use in stem cell research. Sometimes they were used when the couple wanted to try again. Sometimes, when one spouse died, the other would use it, or if you 've just found out you have cancer and still want a kid. You know all this. There are complex legal issues involving divorce and custody, and many embryos are simply destroyed or stay frozen while a couple decides.

  I swallowed because by now she had to see where I was going with this. What happened to your extra embryos?

  It was our fourth try, Terese said. None of the embryos had taken. You can't imagine how crushing that was. And when it finally worked, it was such a wonderful happy surprise. . . . Her voice drifted off. We only had two more embryos. We were going to save them in case we wanted to try again, but then my fibroids came up and, well, there was no way I could get pregnant again. Dr. Cox told me that the embryos hadn 't survived the freezing process anyway.

  He lied, I said.

  She looked back at the picture of the blond girl.

  There is a charity called Save the Angels. They are against any sort of embryonic stem cell research or destruction of embryos in any way, shape, or form. For nearly two decades they 've lobbied for the embryos to be adopted, if you will. It makes sense. There are hundreds of thousands of stored embryos, and there are couples who could conceive with those embryos and give them a life. The legal issues are complicated. Most states don 't allow embryo adoptions because, in a sense, the birth mother is no more than a surrogate. Save the Angels wants the stored embryos implanted in infertile women.