She listened, then said, “How would I know—”
“You need an Ethernet cable,” I said.
She relayed this information with a satisfied smile and hung up. “You are quite a useful, young woman. Quite competent. What can I do for you?”
I glanced around. “Can we, um . . . sit?”
“Oh, God forgive me, yes. Don’t have many visitors aside from doctors and they never sit.” She wove her way through the clutter—reminded me of home—and opened a closet door on the far wall. Several thin boxes fell from a shelf and hospital stationery spilled everywhere. A broom toppled as well. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she muttered before returning with a padded folding chair. She left the fallen items where they lay.
Once we were seated with her swivel chair facing me, I handed her my card. “I’m helping a young woman find her birth mother and not having much luck. Maybe you can help.”
After glancing at the card, she put it down, pursed her lips, and closed her eyes, wagging a finger. “If it’s a medical record you need, let me assure you they are like a nun’s dreams—not to be shared with the public.”
“I understand, but could I explain? That might give you a better idea on how you might help me.”
“Well, you’ve certainly helped me out, so if I can do a damn thing—make that a blessed thing—I will.”
I told her about the case, including my conversation with the nurse today. The more I talked, the more tight her features grew.
When I finished, she said, “Let me see your confidentiality release and the birth certificate.”
I removed the birth certificate from the envelope and handed it to her along with the release. After returning them, she sat back, lips tight with anger. “I am not without fault, won’t ever be nominated for sainthood, but I don’t abide liars.”
Liars? What the heck was she talking about? “Have I done something wrong?”
“Not you, dear. Him.”
“Him?”
“Our administrator. But I suppose when you mix the healing arts with business, you should expect that kind of behavior. Mr. Hansen told you the records went back only twenty years?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a damn lie and he knows it. He was simply too lazy to follow through on your request.”
Whoa. Obviously there was more about Mr. Hansen she’d be willing to share, but I tried to get her back on track. “I returned to pursue this, so it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay and he will hear about this. And then he better get his fat ass to confession.” She crossed her arms and leaned back. And then unexpectedly grinned. “Of course, I’ll be right alongside him, don’t you know?”
I laughed, felt myself relax. “Bet you will.”
“Now,” she said, “let’s get to work on your Megan.” She put her hands on the keyboard, then stopped. “Damn. Where’s Roger with that cable?”
She picked up the phone and dialed the four numbers again. “Roger? When did you think you’d get that stupid cable over here? Next year?” She put down the receiver without saying good-bye and smiled at me. “I tend to annoy people. That’s why I work alone.”
“I call it the broken-record technique,” I said.
“I like that. And broken records are actually good for something. They get results.”
Seconds later the man who I assumed was Roger scurried in carrying the cable. Sister Nell rose and backed away from her desk, bumping into a filing cabinet when she did. She clutched her elbow and winced, but if she swore this time I didn’t hear her.
Once Roger made the switch, she returned to her computer and booted up.
“Hand me the certificate again,” she said.
After I gave it to her, she checked the date and gave it back.
I was about to return it to my briefcase, but then realized I’d never looked at the copy after Megan gave it to me, not gotten “the good look” Angel suggested.
I stared down at it now and noticed a small difference in the darkness of the type in spots. The hospital name definitely seemed lighter than both Megan’s and her adopted parents’ names. And I noted a smudge beneath “U.S.A.” in the country of birth box. Did this mean anything? Or—
“Here we go,” said Sister Nell. “Got the year pulled up.”
I was sitting at an angle, unable to see much of her screen, but she appeared to be scrolling down a list.
“Something’s wrong,” she said. “Read me the date one more time.”
After I did, she said, “Hmmm. Let me check the day before and the day after. Perhaps someone made a mistake.”
“What kind of mistake?” I scooted my chair closer to look over her shoulder.
“Move away,” she snapped. “These are confidential records.”
“Sorry.” I sat back, feeling like I had in first grade when I was sent to the principal for showing my underwear to a boy in the cafeteria.
Sister Nell absently patted my knee, her gaze still on the monitor. “Sorry to be short with you. Did I mention I annoy people?” She put her face closer to the screen. “Let me try one more run through this list. Perhaps a baby was entered as a medical or surgical patient that day by mistake.”
“You mean you can’t find her?” I said.
She didn’t answer, just stared a few seconds longer, shook her head, and turned off the monitor. “Very puzzling. Of course, I would not have found a child named Megan Beadford, since her adoptive parents no doubt named her, but I did expect to be able to pursue this on my own after I had the names of any girls born that day. Maybe contact a possible birth mother candidate and convince her to contact the Adoption Registry.”
“But you can’t do that?”
“No,” she said, “because despite what it says on that birth certificate, no baby girls were born here on that date, just two boys. No babies were born at all on the day before. And one single boy was born the day after.” She raised her eyebrows. “So what does that tell you?”
I looked down at the birth certificate still in my hand and blinked several times. “It tells me that either Megan Beadford had a sex change or this case just made a hard right turn down a very different road.”
6
Once I left the hospital and got into the Camry, I called Megan’s house on my cell. I wanted to tell her about my visit to Sister Nell and what I’d learned. There could be a simple explanation—maybe a clerical error—but if Megan and I could go to the Bureau of Vital Statistics and get a reissued certified copy, we’d know if the state database information matched what was on Megan’s current copy. If so, St. Mary’s obviously made a mistake somewhere down the line in their data entry.
When Roxanne answered, I asked for Megan.
“They are shopping for funerary boxes,” Roxanne said. “I have been delegated to stay home and receive sympathy calls should they come in. Is this a sympathy call?”
This girl went beyond weird. “It’s Abby Rose. If you remember, I was there the day Mr. Beadford died. Could you have Megan call me when she gets home?”
“Oh, it’s you! I’m so glad you called. My sister, Courtney, did not make the trip to pick out a casket. She hasn’t been here all day. I’m extremely concerned.”
And exactly why did I need to know this? But I couldn’t just click the off button. I felt obligated to respond. “What’s worrying you?”
“You have a sister. I saw you two together after Uncle James was . . . dispatched.”
Dispatched? Sounded like he’d been sent to the hereafter via FedEx.
She wasn’t done, though. “If your sister was involving herself with evil and immoral acquaintances, you’d do something, right?”
I wanted to tell her I was the twin who could have had Most Likely to Get Herself into Deep Shit written under her name in our high school yearbook, but instead I replied, “Certainly I’d help her. Or try to.”
“Courtney will find herself dead one of these days,” Roxanne said. “She’ll be laid out on some filthy mattress wit
h a needle stuck in her arm.”
“Have you talked with your sister about her problem?” I asked.
“Have you ever tried to have a rational discussion with someone under the influence?”
Indeed I had, but I wasn’t about to discuss my marital history with Roxanne. “I’m sure Courtney will come home. But if she doesn’t arrive by nightfall, call that nice Chief of Police Fielder. She’ll help you. And please, tell Megan I need to talk to her when she gets home.” I rattled off my cell number, said good-bye, and disconnected as fast as I could.
Whew.
But my relief was short-lived. When I arrived home, Fielder had left a message to call her, and I feared Roxanne had wasted no time contacting her about her grown-up sister, Courtney, who had been missing for all of half a day.
No use putting this off, I thought, reaching for the receiver. “How can I help you today?” I said once I was connected to Fielder. Communicate like you have the upper hand, I always say.
“I have a request.” She sounded almost nice.
Obviously she hadn’t spoken with the potential leech Roxanne or she would have sounded less than nice. And her word request implied I might refuse if I so chose. “Go ahead,” I said.
“The only other photo we’ve found of the woman of interest was taken from the upstairs balcony. Not useful for an identification.”
“But it does establish her presence inside,” I said almost to myself.
“Yes it does. Do you think you could remember her face well enough to assist me in creating a composite?”
“I’m not sure I remember her all that well. Maybe if you told me why this woman is so important, it would jog my memory.” I knew damn well why she was important to Fielder, but she could be important to my client, too.
“And how would that help jog your memory?” she replied coldly.
“You know, Chief, I sense a lack of mutual respect here. I mean, I’m in the PI business, a professional like you who helps people and—”
“I forgot about your . . . profession.” Her tone left no doubt she lumped me in with vagrants, prostitutes, and sex offenders. “And,” she continued, “I may continue to forget about your professional relationship with the victim’s daughter when I speak with other members of the family—as long as I have your cooperation in this matter.”
Man, was she slick. But though I liked the little swap she was willing to make—my help in exchange for her keeping Sylvia in the dark about the birth mother hunt—I wasn’t all that sure I could come through with enough details for a composite. So I said, “The woman wore a hat into the church, one of those cloches that comes down over the ears. I noticed the hat more than her face, so I’m not sure I could offer much.”
“But you saw her outside the house taking pictures, right?”
“You know I did.”
“And got a better look at her face?”
“Maybe.”
“So you may recall more about her than you realize. Please meet with the sketch artist?”
Ah. The P word. She must be desperate. “I guess I could try, but is this a genuine sketch artist, not someone with some fancy software?” I was remembering Jeff’s rant about how sketch artists were becoming extinct because of technology, even though a good artist did a far better job with composites than a computer ever could.
Fielder said, “Yes, a trained sketch artist who works on contract. We have software to produce composites here in Seacliff, but unfortunately the only person proficient with the program left us several months ago. Rather than bother one of the other local police departments for help, Jeff arranged for me to contract with this artist in Houston who needed work.”
So she’d called her buddy Jeff. No surprise there. And I was beginning to read her subtext pretty damn well. She probably had no intention of letting her local police friends know she had an expensive software program she didn’t know how to use.
But if this would help Megan and her family, that’s all that mattered. “Do I make an appointment with the artist or do you?”
“Because of the urgency of this investigation, I’ve taken the liberty of calling him. He’ll be in his studio until six tonight.”
You’ve taken plenty of liberties, I thought, but she was working the case and that’s all anyone could ask for.
After jotting down the artist’s name and address, I hung up and filled the time waiting for Megan’s return call by whipping up a stir-fry. Thanks to Central Market, the vegetables, chicken, and sauce were packaged in one oh-so-convenient container. I was just wiping the remnants of teriyaki from my lips when the phone rang.
“Hi. You called?” Megan asked.
“I did. We need to make a trip to the Bureau of Vital Statistics in Houston first thing tomorrow. I have a possible—”
“I don’t think I can go,” she said, lowering her voice.
“Oops. Is your mother around?”
“No, but I still worry about people overhearing me. Anyway, she has to sign some documents at the medical branch in Galveston tomorrow, something about the autopsy. She wants me with her, and I’m not sure how long it will take.”
“Maybe we should wait until next week to pursue this.”
A short silence followed. Then she said, “No. If I have to make time I will. So—uh-oh. Wait.” Another pause followed, then Megan said to me, “So nice of you to call. The obituary will appear as soon as we’ve finalized details about the service. We’ve chosen Forest Rest, but check the newspaper for dates and times. And thanks again.”
The line went dead.
She’d probably call back . . . but when? I checked my watch. The artist’s studio was only twenty minutes away. Might as well get this little chore over with and catch up with Megan later.
Mason Dryer’s studio, an apartment above the double garage of a house near the Galleria, happened to be his home, too. Dryer told me as much as we ascended the stairs, and I immediately wondered why Fielder said he’d be in his studio until six when he was in his studio all the time. Did she want to make sure I complied with her directive tonight? Probably.
Following Dryer up the stairs, I noticed smears of yellow, red, blue, and orange paint on the thighs and back pockets of his black jeans where he’d obviously wiped his hands many times. He hardly had any butt to use as a wiping board though. The man was so skinny he might need worming.
We entered the apartment, one large room cluttered with stacked canvases, easels, and plastic crates holding paint supplies and brushes. A Futon was partially obscured by a draped easel, and a small refrigerator and microwave sat alongside. He’d also managed to squeeze in a desk and a card table. Two walls had good-size windows, offering plenty of natural light. The room smelled like McDonald’s and sure enough a half-eaten Big Mac and ketchup-drenched fries rested on the table.
“I’ve interrupted you,” I said. “Are you sure you want to do this today?”
“You bet I do. Easy money, as opposed to my other job.” He thumbed at the covered easel.
I walked toward it. “Can I see?”
“I think my work would be a distraction.” A muscle above one generous, dark eyebrow began to twitch. He reached up and pressed a paint-darkened index finger against the spot. “Damn thing’s been doing this all day.”
“My sister says drinking tonic water cures those spasms.”
“Some pocket change might cure my tension better. Let’s get to work.” He swept up the unfinished meal and tossed the food in a trash container, then unfolded a second chair so I could join him at the table.
But rather than the expected sketchbook, he drew out a notepad from a crate below the table. “I want you to concentrate on your first impressions. Really hone in on this person with your mind’s eye.”
“I’m not sure I remember much.”
“Extroverts are very visual. You guys make good observers, so trust yourself.”
“I’m an extrovert?” I said.
“I know you are,” he said with a smile. �
�You’ve been taking in the room, asked to see my painting, and your voice, well, no one would accuse you of being shy, Ms. Rose. Now close your eyes.”
I complied, settling back as much as you can settle in a folding chair.
He said, “Go back to the time you first saw this woman—a woman, right?”
“Yes, but I saw her twice.”
“Excellent, but we’ll focus on the first time, because that’s when your brain recorded the most valuable information.” He’d taken on a tone both soft and commanding, which I found soothing.
“Take yourself back to where you saw her,” Dryer said. “Where was that?”
“At a wedding.”
“Where specifically?”
“In a church.”
“And what was your first impression of her physical appearance?”
“Sort of . . . sneaky. See, she came late and—”
“Those impressions are important,” he said gently. “But let’s focus on her physical features.”
I nodded. “Okay. She was a small person.”
“Small in frame? Small in height?”
“Height. Not overweight. Not thin either, though. She had on a beige wool pantsuit. And . . . wait. Do you know what I’m seeing?”
“What?”
I squeezed my eyes tighter. “This is so weird. I can’t believe I remember this, but it’s just like she is sitting right across the aisle from me again.”
“Go ahead.”
“Her suit jacket had one of those tiny plastic thingies sticking out from the left cuff and the store tag was still attached. Looks like a Nieman Marcus tag.”
“Focus on her face, please.”
“Sorry, okay. Tanned face. Doesn’t look like bottle tan, either. Maybe electric beach tan? And then there’s the hat.”
“What kind of hat?”
“A cloche . . . dark brown felt.”
“Ah. So it fit snug. What shape was her head?”
“Her skull was more prominent on the top than the back.”
“You’re doing great. Did her hair cover her forehead?”
“Hmmm. Her hair. Something about her hair. I’m seeing wisps peeking out around her face. Pale brownish gray.”
A Wedding to Die For Page 7
