by Harlan Coben
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.
"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."
She saw it now. "Oh my God . . ."
"I don't know all the details. One of Dr. Cox's residents was a big supporter of Save the Angels, I guess. Do you remember a Dr. Jimenez?"
Terese shook her head.
"Save the Angels pressured Cox just as he was starting up CryoHope. I don't know if he didn't want the press or if there was a payoff or if he was sympathetic to the Save the Angels cause. Cox probably realized that there were embryos that had no chance of being used, so, well, why not? Why let them stay frozen or be destroyed? So he gave them up for adoption."
"So this girl"--her eyes stayed on the picture--"this is my daughter?"
"Biologically speaking, yes."
She just stared at the face, not moving.
"When Dr. Sloan took over six years ago, he found out what had been done. He was in a tough spot. For a while he debated just keeping quiet but felt that was both illegal and medically unethical. So he took something of an in-between route. He contacted Rick and asked permission to allow the embryos to be adopted. I don't know what must have gone through Rick's mind, but I guess when the choice was having embryos destroyed or giving them a chance at life, he chose life."
"Wouldn't they have to contact me too?"
"You had already given that permission way back when. Rick hadn't. And no one knew where you were. So Rick signed off on it. I don't know if it was legal or not. But the deed had already been done anyway. Dr. Sloan was just trying to clean up the mess now, in case there was something out there that screening might help with. And in this case, there was. When Rick found out he had Huntington's disease, he wanted to make sure the family who'd adopted the embryos knew about his medical condition. So he went to CryoHope. Dr. Sloan told him the truth--that the actual embryos had been implanted years ago via Save the Angels. He didn't know who the adoptive parents were, so he told Rick that he would make a request to get the information with Save the Angels. My guess is, Rick didn't want to wait."
"You think he broke into their offices?"
"It adds up," I said.
She finally wrested her eyes off the photograph. "So where is she now?"
"I don't know."
"She's my daughter."
"Biologically."
Something crossed her face. "Don't hand me that. You found out about Jeremy when he was fourteen. You still consider him your son."
I wanted to say that my situation was different, but she had a point. Jeremy was biologically my son, but he had never known me as his father. I had found out about him too late to make a significant difference in his upbringing--but I was now still a part of his life. Was this situation any different?
"What's her name?" Terese asked. "Who raised her? Where does she live?"
"Her first name might be Carrie, but I can't say for sure. The rest of it I don't know yet."
She lowered the photograph onto her lap.
"We need to tell Jones about this," I said.
"No."
"If your daughter was kidnapped--"
"You don't believe that, do you?"
"I don't know."
"Come on, be honest with me. You think she's involved with these monsters--that she's one of those girls Jones talked about, with daddy issues."
"I don't know. But if she is innocent--"
"She's innocent either way. She can't be more than seventeen. If she somehow got caught up in this because she was young and impressionable, Jones and his pals at Homeland Security will never understand. Her life will be over. You saw what they did to you."
I said nothing.
"I don't know why she's with them," Terese said. "Maybe it's Stockholm syndrome. Maybe she had terrible parents or is a rebellious teenager--hell, I know I was. Doesn't matter. She's just a kid. And she's my daught
er, Myron. Do you get that? It's not Miriam, but I have a second chance here. I can't turn my back on her. Please."
I still said nothing.
"I can help her. It's like . . . it's like it was meant to be. Rick died trying to save her. Now it's my turn. The call said not to tell anyone but you. Please, Myron. I'm begging you. Please help me rescue my daughter."
35
WITH Terese still beside me, I called Berleand back.
"Jones implied that you somehow lied or doctored the DNA test," I said.
"I know."
"You do?"
"He wanted you off the case. I did too. That was why I didn't return your call."
"But you called before."
"To warn you. That's all. You should still stay out of it."
"I can't."
Berleand sighed. I thought about that first meeting, at the airport, the tired hair, the glasses with the oversize frames, the way he took me out on that roof at 36 quai des Orfevres and how much I liked him.
"Myron?"
"Yes."
"Before, you said you knew that I didn't lie about the DNA test."
"Right," I said.
"Is this something you deduced because I have a trustworthy face and almost supernatural charisma?"
"That would be a no."
"Then please enlighten me."
I looked over at Terese. "I need you to promise me something."
"Uh-oh."
"I have information you'll find valuable. You probably have information I will find valuable."
"And you'd like to make an exchange."
"For starters."
"Starters," he repeated. "Then before I agree, why don't you fill me in on the main course?"
"We team up. We work on this together. We keep Jones and the rest of the task force out of it."
"What about my Mossad contacts?"
"Just us."
"I see. Oh, wait, no, I don't see."
Terese moved closer so she could hear what he was saying.
"If Matar's plot is ongoing," I said, "I want us to bring it down. Not them."
"Because?"
"Because I want to keep the blond girl out of it."
There was a pause. Then Berleand said, "Jones told you that he tested the bone samples from Miriam Collins's grave."
"He did."
"And that it's a match for Miriam Collins."
"I know."
"So forgive me but I'm confused. Why then would you be interested in protecting this probably hardened terrorist?"
"I can't tell you unless you agree to work with me."
"And keep Jones out of it?"
"Yes."
"Because you want to protect the blond girl who probably had a role in the murders of Karen Tower and Mario Contuzzi?"
"As you said, probably."
"That's why we have courts."
"I don't want her to see the inside of one. You'll understand why after I tell you what I know."
Berleand went quiet again.
"Do we have a deal?" I asked.
"Up to a point."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that once again you are thinking small-time. You are worried about one person. I understand that. I assume that you will tell me why she is important to you in a moment. But what we are dealing with could involve thousands of lives. Thousands of fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. The chatter I heard suggests something huge is in play, not just one strike, but a variety of attacks over the course of many months. I don't really care about one girl--not against the thousands that might be slaughtered."
"So what exactly are you promising?"
"You didn't let me finish. My not caring about the girl cuts both ways. I don't care if she gets caught--and I don't care if she escapes prosecution. So, yes, I am with you. We will try to solve this ourselves--something I've been doing pretty much anyway. But if we are outmanned or outgunned, I reserve the right to call in Jones. I will keep my word and help you protect the girl. But the priority here has to be stopping the jihadists from carrying out their mission. One life is not worth thousands."
I wondered about that. "Do you have any children, Berleand?"
"No. But please don't play that paternal-bond card with me. It is insulting." Then: "Wait, are you telling me that the blond girl is Terese Collins's daughter?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"Explain."
"We have a deal?" I said.
"Yes. With the caveats I just laid out. Tell me what you know."
I ran him through it, my visits to Save the Angels, to the Official Photography of Albin Laramie, to the discovery of the embryo adoptions, to the "Mommy" phone call Terese had just received. He interrupted several times with questions. I answered them as best I could. When I finished he dived in.
"First, we need to find the identity of the girl. We'll make copies of the picture. I'll e-mail one over to Lefebvre. If she's American, maybe she was in Paris on some kind of exchange program. He can show it around."
"Okay," I said.
"You said the call came in on Terese's cell phone?"
"Yes."
"I assume the incoming number was blocked?"
I hadn't even thought to ask. I looked at Terese. She nodded. I said, "Yes."
"What time exactly?"
I looked at Terese. She checked her phone log and told me the time.
"I will call you back in five minutes," Berleand said. He hung up.
Win came in and said, "All well?"
"Peachy."
"Your parents are taken care of. Same with Esperanza and the office."
I nodded. The phone rang again. It was Berleand.
"I may have something," he said.
"Go ahead."
"The call to Terese came from a throwaway phone purchased with cash in Danbury, Connecticut."
"That's a pretty big city."
"Maybe I can shrink it down then. I told you we heard chatter coming from a possible cell in Paterson, New Jersey."
"Right."
"Most of the communications went or came from overseas, but we have seen some that stayed here in the United States. You know that criminal elements often communicate via e-mail?"
"I guess it makes sense."
"Because it's somewhat anonymous. They set up an account with a free provider and use that. What many people don't know is that we can now tell where the e-mail account was created. It doesn't help much. Most of the time it's created on a public computer, at the library or an Internet cafe, something like that."
"And in this case?"
"The chatter involved an e-mail address created eight months ago at the Mark Twain Library in Redding, Connecticut, less than ten miles from Danbury."
I thought about it. "It's a link."
"Yes. More than that, the library is used by the local coed prep school, Carver Academy. We could get lucky. Your 'Carrie' could be a student there."
"You can check?"
"I have a call in now. In the meantime, Redding is only about an hour and a half from here. We could take a ride up and show the picture around."
"Want me to drive?"
Berleand said, "I think that would be best."
36
I persuaded Terese to stay behind, no easy task, in case we needed something in the city. I promised her that we would call the moment we knew something. She grudgingly agreed. We didn't need all of us up there, spreading our resources. Win would stay nearby, mostly for Terese's protection, but the two of them could try to investigate other avenues too. The key was probably Save the Angels. If we could locate their records, we could find Carrie's full name and address, track down her adoptive or surrogate or whatever-you-call-them parents, and see if we could locate her that way.
On the drive up, Berleand asked, "Have you ever been married?"
"Nope. You?"
He smiled. "Four times."
"Wow."
"All ended in divorce. I don't regret a single one."
; "Would your ex-wives say the same?"
"I doubt it. But we're friends now. I'm not good with keeping women, just getting them."
I smiled. "Wouldn't expect you to be the type."
"Because I'm not handsome?"
I shrugged.
"Looks are overrated," he said. "Do you know what I do have?"
"Don't tell me. A great sense of humor, right? According to women's magazines, a sense of humor is the most important quality in a man."
"Sure, of course, and the check is in the mail," Berleand said.
"So that's not it."
"I am a very funny man," he said. "But that's not it."
"What then?" I asked.
"I told you before."
"Tell me again."
"Charisma," Berleand said. "I have charisma on an almost supernatural level."
I smiled. "Hard to argue with that."
Redding was more rural than I'd expected, a sleepy, unassuming town of New England-Puritan architecture, postmodern suburban McMansions, roadside antique shops, aging farmland. Above the green door of the modest library, a plaque read:
MARK TWAIN LIBRARY
and then in slightly smaller print:
GIFT OF SAMUEL L. CLEMENS.
I found that curious, but now was hardly the time. We headed to the librarian's desk.
Since Berleand had the official badge, even if we were way out of his district, I let him take the lead. "Hello," he said to the librarian. Her nameplate read "Paige Wesson." She looked up with jaded eyes, as if Berleand were returning an overdue book and offering up a lame excuse she had heard a million times before. "We are looking for this missing girl. Have you seen her?"
He held out his badge in one hand, the blonde's picture in the other. The librarian looked at the badge first.
"You're from Paris," she said.
"Yes."
"Does this look like Paris?"
"Not even close," Berleand agreed. "But the case has international implications. The girl was last seen under duress in my jurisdiction. We believe that she may have used the computers at this library."
She picked up the picture. "I don't think I've seen her."
"Are you sure?"
"No, I'm not sure. Look around you." We did. There were teens at nearly every table. "Tons of kids come in here every day. I'm not saying she has never been in here. I'm just saying I don't know her."
"Could you check in your computers, see if you have a card registered to anyone with the first name Carrie?"
"Do you have a court order?" Paige asked.
"Could we look at your computer sign-up logs from eight months ago?"
"Same question."
Berleand smiled at her. "Have a pleasant day."
