I sat on the floor, pinching the broken tip of the key between my thumb and forefinger. A skinny run of brass, all teeth, ending on a slant at the fracture. I nosed the end into the slot and guided it in a few ticks, but didn't let go, just as Raz had counseled. I held my breath. Readying the second piece in my other hand, I brought the broken edges together until they aligned. Then I firmed my grip on the fat head of the key, counted to three, and shoved. The key purred into the lock. I held it there a moment, gripping hard, praying it had aligned properly in the channel. Then, slowly, I twisted. Miraculously, the lock turned. Keeping the pressure steady, I tugged gently. The rectangular door opened an inch. I poked a finger through the gap and pulled it open, the top piece of the key falling from the lock, clattering on the tile.
The box appeared to be empty. I reached inside, found the manila envelope taped to the roof. Mack had given up a lot before he was killed, but not this. The envelope tore free. I ripped open one end, and a stiff sheet slid out into my hand.
An ultrasound.
I stared down at the flashlight-cone illumination, the messy grays and blacks, the alien blob of a fetus head. White letters stood out from the black top margin: J. Everett 10:07:28 a.m. December 12, 1990.
To the side, beneath some technical jargon and medical measurements, a note read, 18 wks, female. No hospital, no medical group, no Social Security number.
I dug in the rucksack and removed the torn page of numerals I'd pulled from the neighboring P.O. box two nights ago. Still I could make no sense of the digits. I peered inside the manila envelope I'd just retrieved, and, sure enough, it held a strip of paper. I tugged it out, and it aligned perfectly with the torn top edge of the larger sheet.
A lab report. At the top the mother's name was listed as Jane Everett, the father, Unidentified Male. And to the right, Baby Everett. Below the names were column headings for the grid of numerals--paternity indexes and specimen numbers and probe/locus figures. Bold print announced Mother's Alleles, Childs Alleles, Alleged Father s Alleles, and, finally, Percent Probability of Paternity. My eyes tracked down beneath that final heading to the one anomalous number: 99.999.
An arm around a campaign worker. A pregnancy. And an illegitimate child, fathered by Andrew Bilton, Mr. Family Values himself Was that really enough to lead to all that had been done? In an election year, with the presidency of the world's most powerful nation at stake? Certainly.
I fought the Polaroid of Bilton with the young woman out of my pocket. Hello, Jane Everett.
The baby would have been born just before Frank's murder. She'd be a high-school senior now. Seventeen years old, the same age I was then. And the same number of years I'd lived with the aftermath. We'd been in this together, somehow, from the beginning. Like me, she carried with her a burden. Even if she didn't know the fine points of her inheritance, she contained the concealed history in her DNA, held the weight of it in her bones.
I felt how Frank must have felt, as if a live grenade had been dumped in my lap. But burning beneath the surface of my thoughts was a new consideration. Baby Everett. I'd been old enough in 1991 to make my own choices, to walk out of that house and into the jaws of the consequences. She'd been a newborn. More than anything, I wanted her
to have a shot at a life different from the one I'd been dealt.
Bilton would be safer with her in the ground. And he'd have no shortage of friends willing to put her there.
Was she in hiding? Had Charlie been telling me, in his own cryptic way, that I had to save her? Was that the grave responsibility he'd entrusted me with?
I sat on the floor, gazing down at the ultrasound, waiting for the buzz in my head to subside. I thought of the buses pulling into that stop a half block away and all the places they could take me. I put the documents and the picture into the rucksack, stood, and walked past Homer. He paused, holding a wadded priority envelope in either hand, and watched me pass.
I walked out into the biting night breeze. To the right I could make out the bus-stop shelter, glass walls and soothing blue bench. I gazed at it for a moment, then turned left and found the pay phone. My hands were surprisingly steady as I dialed.
When Induma picked up, I told her what I'd found. She was silent for a long time, then asked, "What are you gonna do?"
"If they're coming after me this hard, you can bet they're trying to erase all evidence. I have to find that girl. Baby Everett. Before they do."
"Baby Everett," she repeated, as if trying out the
name.
"She may not even know she's in danger."
"How do you find someone if you don't know her name?"
"Start with her mom," I said. "Are you still willing to help me?"
"Of course," she said, "but we have minimal search criteria. I'm sure there are a lot of Jane Everetts out there in the right age range, and we don't even have it narrowed down to a city. With Charlie at least I knew we were looking at law enforcement in California."
"So what do I need?"
"Someone with powerful correlation and analytics software, a shit-ton of bandwidth, a data-mining engine, and warrant power over classified hospital records."
"Hospital records for the birth."
"Right. The birth and the maternity stay. You need someone with official clearances and serious hardware for that kind of rundown."
"You can't call in another favor at LAPD?"
"They froze me out. I guess the inquiries the assistant chief made on my behalf touched a nerve. He sealed me off--no threat there--but there's not going to be any more prying in the department. At least not on my behalf. And given your relationships with law enforcement, that doesn't leave you a lot of options. At least not a lot of options you'd want to risk."
The wind whipped my face. I said, "This isn't just about Frank anymore."
"No," she said, "I guess not."
When I went back inside, Homer was lying across the counter, trying to sleep. I didn't mind the quiet. For a half hour or so, I sat and breathed the silence. Finally headlights swept through the window. The Range Rover. It kept going.
Homer woke up and watched me with sleek, dark eyes. He followed me obediently outside, and we walked up several blocks, through a park, climbed over a fence. Induma was pulled over, waiting. The Range Rover's window whirred down, and Induma glanced over at me.
"This is Homer," I said.
"Hi, Homer."
Homer twirled one hand, queen mother style, and gave a half bow.
I said, "We're gonna need him."
Chapter 32
Induma dropped me two blocks away and waited with Homer in the Range Rover. Wearing the rucksack, I scaled the back fence of Callie's house and
crossed the patio.
I rapped on the rear door, and a moment later Steve tugged it open. The sight of him made my stomach clutch. The left side of his face was ballooned from where I'd hit him, a shiny saddle of red riding the yellow-black swell beneath.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"Oh, great. Get your ass inside."
From the other room, Callie called out, "Is it him?"
Steve yanked me inside. He said, "Not a word in front of Em." He waited to walk behind me so he could keep me in sight. Callie and Emily were sitting at the table in front of their plates. My mom's had been polished with bread--an old Callie habit--but Emily's looked barely picked at. A tray of torn-up lasagna sat on a pig-shaped trivet I'd made my mom in high-school shop class.
Callie stood up, excited or agitated or probably both. "Nicky."
Emily said, "Great. Now can I be excused?"
Steve said, "Fine."
She slouched over to the refrigerator, cracked open a Pepsi, then glared at me. "What? You want one?"
"Sure, thanks."
She carried a can over and thumped it against my shoulder.
Steve said, "I've lived with you how many years? You've never once gotten me a soda."
Emily said, "You're not as helpless," and walked
upstairs.
Callie said, "I told you she likes you. Sit down. Have you eaten?"
"Sure," Steve said. "Make yourself at home. We have a guest room upstairs, too, you want to move in for a few months."
Callie looked at him sharply, but I said, "No, he's right. I' ve brought you guys nothing but trouble."
"We're finally in agreement," Steve said.
Emily's door closed upstairs, hard. Callie's voice dropped. "You need to see something. It might be bad."
Steve: "Might be?"
They led me into the living room. The curtains were drawn. Steve fussed over four remote controls until Callie went and clicked two buttons. The TV blinked to life, and then, thanks to Tivo, she was fast-forwarding through commercials. She glanced toward the kitchen and frowned. "Em!"
A clunky black boot with an embossed skull protruded slightly from the doorjamb. And then, five or so feet above it, a scowling face. "Be grateful I'm too stupid to pick up on the fact that anything weird's going on."
"Upstairs, now" Steve said. "Go listen to Fall Down Boy or whatever."
"God, you are epically clueless."
The goth boots put out some worthy stomping on the stairwell. Callie said, "Three . . . two . . . one . . . ," and cringed. A moment later a door slammed so hard the floor vibrated. Then Callie thumbed the remote.
A local newscaster pointed his craggy face at us. "In West L.A. today, federal agents staged a raid on an apartment, identified as operating headquarters for the group responsible for the failed attack
on the San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant. One suspect was killed. A second escaped."
I took a halting step back and sat, hard, on the couch.
The TV now showed firefighters getting the apartment blaze under control. "The escaped suspect detonated stockpiled explosives before fleeing the raid. In a bizarre twist, preliminary forensics suggest that the terrorist whose body was recovered had been killed prior to the blast, and police are looking into the possibility that he was tortured and executed by his confederate." Back to the solemn newscaster. "Much of the evidence authorities were seeking was destroyed."
Callie turned off the TV. "No photo has been released. Of the escaped suspect."
Steve said, "Yet."
My hands had made fists in the fabric of my shirt. "There's more." I almost didn't recognize my voice.
"I'm sure," Steve said. He walked back toward the kitchen, and we followed. Callie eased down into her chair as if it were just another family dinner, but Steve and I stayed on our feet.
"Please. Hear me out. I need your help."
Steve let out a guffaw. "My help?"
"Just listen to me. And if you don't believe what I have to say, I'll leave and you'll never have to see me again." At this, Callie stiffened. "But if you do believe me, I sure as hell could use your help. Someone else could be at risk."
Steve stared at me until I got uncomfortable. I counted twenty ticks of the kitchen clock behind me, which is a long time to be stared at. Finally he glanced at Callie. She'd been watching us silently, not saying anything, which was so out of character that that was probably what got him. He pulled the chair partway out, sat with his arm resting on the table, and angled his head at the opposing chair. I sat.
I told them the story top to bottom, filling in details I'd skipped last time, giving them my version of the confrontation at Mack's apartment. I showed them the ultrasound and the lab report and the Polaroid of Bilton and the woman. When I finished, I said, "I need to locate the mother who had the DNA analysis done. Or at least find out anything I can about her. And her daughter. And I don't have anyone else who can do that for me."
Steve said, "You have to turn yourself in, Nick. It's the only way--"
"No," Callie said.
We both looked at her, surprised.
"If he goes in and this thing is real, this'll be the last time anyone sees him," Callie said. "Help him,
Steve. Please."
"And what if he did kill that guy? Plus the money--who knows where he got that? Sure, he's your son, but let's be honest: You haven't known
him for years."
Callie said, firmly, "I believe him."
Steve's high forehead was glistening. He drew a hand through his curly hair, settled back in his chair, and grimaced.
I looked down at the dirty plate in front of me. "Thanks, Mom."
Steve took a deep breath, held it, crossed his arms. Then he said to me, "I'm a police officer. I've never helped you. I've never been in contact with you. If I saw you, I would probably be obligated to arrest you. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
He tugged a detective's notepad from his back pocket, jotted something down, and showed it to me, the way people do in movies when they make some big financial offer. It was a phone number. "Memorize this," he said. "It's my cell. Do not call it unless you are about to be killed."
I studied the number and nodded.
He slipped the notepad back into his pocket. "Leave me a phone number. Preferably a mobile. I can't just go in and start asking questions without raising suspicions, but I'm working a P.M. tomorrow and can grab some desk time when it's quiet. I'll check to see if there's a BOLO out on you--that's a 'Be On The Lookout'--or if the pursuit is contained to the Secret Service. And I'll run Jane Everett through the databases, but you're asking a lot here, kid. Medical confidentiality is a mess, and I can't produce a warrant even if we knew which hospital she had the baby at, which we don't. I have to go the other route--old-fashioned slogging--see if I can find a Jane Everett in her late forties or fifties who has a seventeen-year-old daughter. If she looks like the broad in the Polaroid, even better. Though she's young enough there she'd have aged a good deal. If I get something--and that's an if--Y\ call you. In the meantime you are to stay underground. And you were never here. Not without putting your mother and me--and Emily--at risk."
I said, "I was never here."
"How about that?" Steve said. "We agree on two things."
Induma sat, legs curled beneath her, on the enormous sofa. I could tell she was upset, because she'd pulled one of the oversize pillows into her lap. Jane Everett's paternity report rested beside her on the cushion, where she'd set it after a cursory glance. From the upstairs bathroom carried the sounds of the running shower and Homer singing, a gravelly outtake from The Pirates of Penzance. Alejandro was at his apartment for the night, a relief on many levels. Pomegranate candles were burning on the coffee table, adding a pleasant tinge to the air.
"We shouldn't have come here," I said. "They're gonna start digging into my relationships. We don't know when they'll come knocking."
"Tfthey get around to ex-girlfriends from three
years ago--and that's an if-- so what? They have no grounds for a search warrant, and if they are digging that hard, they'll know who's on my speed dial. At the risk of sounding smug, this isn't an address you kick the door in on. You ring the bell, inquire politely, and then go off and shore up one helluva case."
"These guys don't bother with warrants."
"I am willing to take that risk," Induma said. "Now let's focus on making that risk worthwhile."
Wisps of smoke curled from the red candles. "My only way out of this is to get more evidence in my pocket. To hand it off to someone as an insurance policy. And to disappear before they disappear me."
Induma looked down sharply. "Run away again?"
"Not before I warn Baby Everett. The more this thing heats up, the more they're gonna want to tie up loose ends. And she's the biggest one."
Induma didn't move her gaze back to me. "You slipped them," she said. "But there's no saying you can do that again."
"I'd better get well out ahead of them, then," I said. "Are your channels still open at the crime lab? Could you get a DNA analysis through there?"
She hugged the cushion harder, glanced down at the lab report. "In case you get close enough to pluck a hair out of the president's head? Probably. I configured the damn stora
ge network. If I say
there's a glitch, the director gives me the run. But even if I can get into the DNA databases, I doubt Bilton's info is in there with the general population's."
"It's gotta be on record somewhere, in case his body has to be identified after an explosion or a fire or if someone shot down Air Force One or something."
Induma said, "Even if we do confirm Bilton's DNA profile with the paternity report, he could still argue that the report's been doctored. You'd need to track down the original at the lab center or wherever."
"How about the Polaroid?"
She gestured for it, and I pulled it from the rucksack. Biting her lip, she tilted it to the light. "It looks old, way pre-Photoshop. Pretty goddamned convincing. Let's assume it's real. And let's assume this woman is Jane Everett. It's still not hard evidence of anything."
"I'm not going into court. I just want leverage. And Bilton's response to the stuff I've found proves I've got it."
"Still, it would be nice to have something concrete about any part of this whole cover-up."
"I do."
Her brow furrowed. "What?"
"Homer was a dentist," I said.
"Yeah?" She blinked. Then blinked again. "Oh,
no. Oh, no."
Homer strolled down the stairs, wearing a pink puffy bathrobe. His shaggy hair, when wet, touched his shoulders. The sash was stretched to its limit, barely holding the flaps in place across his distended belly.
Induma said, "Fetching."
Homer said, "We do our best."
"I need you to do something for me," I said.
Induma said, "Buddha wept."
"This thing in my cheek is a bone fragment. I need it. And I can't go to a hospital. I know this isn't exactly your field, but I want you to cut it out of my face."
Homer stared at me, then shrugged. "Okay."
I went to the kitchen and returned with a variety of kitchen knives. Fortunately, Induma had quite a selection. She said, "I think there's an actual scalpel upstairs. Alejandro bought it for one of his sculptures."
"Great. You have a digital camera, right? We should film the thing coming out of my face so we have proof of where it came from."
We Know (aka Trust no One) (2008) Page 19
