“Where ya been?” he asked, his beady eyes peering over her cubicle wall, begging for news, the sleazier the better.
“I was over witnessing a DNA test result at Gen-Ident.”
“On Saturday? Musta been dang important!”
Nancy said nothing.
“Was it one of them Who-Da-Daddy DNA tests?”
She nodded.
“Did the daddy ‘fess up?”
“No.”
“So he agreed?”
“No.”
“Then he musta denied!”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh … .”
She flipped through some pink phone slips, praying Harley Don would go back to his cubicle. When he didn’t, she decided to throw him a bone that might send him off to do research.
“But this test was different, Harley Don.”
“Different how?”
“It was a multi-specimen DNA test. They took DNA specimens from four different parts of her body. Turns out she’s a chimera.’”
“A whuuut?”
“A Ki-meer-uh. A person with two different sets of DNA.”
“But that ain’t possible!”
“It is, but rare.”
“Did she have like two heads and look weird?”
“One head and she’s beautiful.”
“Oh. So, did one of them DNAs match the daddy?”
“Harley, you know that’s confidential.”
“Betcha the daddy’s from these parts.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Harley Don snickered. “Bet it’ll be in the newspaper, fancy test like that. Right?”
She said nothing, but felt Harley Don reading her eyes.
“The newspaper means it’s high profile.”
Nancy realized she’d already told him too much.
Harley Don scratched his head. “Let’s see now … a Gen-Ident DNA daddy test. An expensive Saturday test. For a girl. Daddy’s dead. Newspaper interest. Hmmmm.” He tugged his ear stud, then his eyes lit up.
“Betcha she’s the one what old Lenny at Gen-Ident told me about. Said they was fixin’ to retest this college girl agin yesterday. Girl from down in Harlan. Might be related to the rich old feller over near Manchester who up and died with no kin. Had hisself more money than Fort Knox! What’s that old boy’s name? Let’s see, Rastibert, no Rackyfern, somethin’ like that? Betcha I’m right!”
She shooed Harley Don away, amazed and angry that he put it all together so fast. She picked up some papers and turned around to sort them.
“She’s related to that old rich fella! I know it!” Harley Don grinned and clapped his hands.
Nancy felt her cheeks redden. “Harley Don, I’ve got calls to make. And you got stacks of filin’ to catch up on. So git going.” She turned away, grabbed her phone and pretended to call someone.
Harley Don paused a moment, then chuckled all the way back to his desk.
And then he picked up his phone.
Heinrich De Groot sat at his office desk in Cincinnati’s prestigious Scripps Center, gazing down at the crowds meandering through Fountain Square.
He drew hard on his Cohiba cigar, savoring its rich aroma, and his rich windfall coming from the Radford probate ruling … a ruling that would shovel millions into his coffers.
De Groot’s private cell phone rang and he picked up.
“Mr. De Groot?”
“Yes …”
“This here’s Harley Don over to the Fayette County courthouse and – ”
“Harley Don, I’m rather busy right now.”
“But you wanted to know if I learned anything about Ellie Stuart.”
De Groot grew concerned. “What did you learn?”
“Well, I’m right sure Ellie Stuart got herself another new DNA test today.”
“She what?”
“Gen-Ident did one of them extree special DNA tests. Four tests in one. Turns out she’s a chimera with two different DNAs in her body! Damned creepy you ask me.”
“She has two DNAs?”
“Yep.”
De Groot stood up, his heart pounding. “Did one of her DNAs match the DNA of Leland Radford?”
“Sure did!”
“FUCK! “How do you know it matched?”
“Well, see, my boss, Nancy, was there. She witnessed them test results. And I could tell by her face it matched. I kin read old Nancy like a book.”
“That’s your only proof?”
“Nope.”
“What else?”
“Well, see when Nancy turned around to make a phone call, I peeked at the file on her desk. Saw the names Radford/Stuart right on top of her MATCHED FILE stack. Yes sir, Ellie’s DNA matched the rich old fella’s. And that’s a fact!”
De Groot felt sick. “How accurate is this chimera test?”
“99.99999 percent certain. She’s his daughter all right!”
De Groot hung up, then called Nikolai Pushkin. The big Russian had to handle her now … in hours … before tomorrow.
Pushkin didn’t pick up.
He dialed again.
After five rings, Pushkin answered.
“Do it now!” De Groot shouted.
SIXTY SEVEN
Fletcher Falcone sat in his office, cursing as he counted the hundred thousand dollars he had to fork over to Tony Broutafachi’s goon who would arrive any second. The money wasn’t a problem. Handing it over before collecting his Radford probate money was the problem. But if he didn’t hand it over, Broutafachi’s hitman, a guy named Drago, would plant a bullet in his knee … or worse.
Falcone’s phone rang and he picked up.
“Mr. Falcone?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Bob Darnell.”
Falcone didn’t recognize the name.
“I’m a Second Lieutenant in the U.S. Army. Our group advises the Iraqi military here in Baghdad.”
Why’s a lieutenant calling me from Baghdad? he wondered. “Did you know Rick Radford, Leland Radford’s son?”
“Yes, sir. We were very good buddies.”
“Rick was a wonderful young man, Lieutenant, and a terrific son. But perhaps we could talk tomorrow. You see, I’m very busy preparing for Rick’s father’s probate case right now.”
“That’s why I called, sir.”
“The probate?”
“Yes.”
Falcone wondered what he meant.
“I figured you should know that Rick married an Iraqi woman here.”
Falcone’s eyes went out of focus.
“What? Rick marr – ?”
“ – yes, sir. Her name is Nafeesa Hakim. Rick was planning to tell his father about her, but the roadside bomb … killed him.”
“Rick Radford has a wife, a widow?”
“Yes, sir. I just found out yesterday.”
Falcone felt like he’d swallowed ice, as he realized the woman might have a claim to Leland Radford’s fortune.
“Where is this Nas …?”
“Nafeesa Hakim. Actually, she flew out of Baghdad and will be landing at Louisville International Airport this evening. Then she’s coming to show you her marriage certificate.”
“Does she speak English?”
“Her English is quite good.”
Falcone swallowed. “Does she have an attorney?”
“No, sir. She’s alone and coming to your office.”
SIXTY EIGHT
Later that night, Fletcher Falcone was shocked. Nafeesa Hakim was not at all what he expected.
Not your basic Muslim woman. No head-to-toe black chador, no veil, no timid steps, no demure cast to her eyes. Nafeesa looked like a runway model as she walked into his office. Her long black hair framed dark luminous eyes, sculpted cheekbones and smooth tawny skin. Her black dress hugged long legs, a wasp-thin waist and full breasts.
Ms. Nafeesa Hakim was a stunning, twenty-four-year-old worthy of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit cover. No won
der Rick Radford was smitten.
“Welcome Nafeesa, I’m Fletcher Falcone, executor of the Radford estate. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Falcone.” Warm, disarming smile.
Her English was almost accent free, the result Falcone had just learned, of her two years at the American University of Iraq.
Falcone led her over to a thin swarthy man with a thick black mustache and horn-rimmed glasses. The man stood and smiled.
“Nafeesa, please meet Dr. Yusuf Barzani, a fellow Iraqi, and a distinguished professor of Persian literature here at the University of Kentucky. I’ve asked Professor Barzani to verify your marriage certificate for me. You understand, of course.”
“Yes, certainly.”
Nafeesa shook hands and spoke briefly in Farsi with Professor Barzani. Then she sat in a chair facing Falcone’s desk and crossed her legs, skin flashing in the slit. Flawless skin, Falcone noted.
“Do you have your marriage certificate?”
“Yes.”
“The original?”
“It’s right here.” She opened her briefcase, took out the certificate and an English translation and placed them side-by-side on Falcone’s desk.
Professor Barzani opened his briefcase, took out another Iraqi marriage certificate and placed it beside Nafeesa’s.
Falcone thought both certificates looked identical.
Using a magnifying glass, Barzani scrutinized her entire certificate and seal. He rubbed each document between his fingers, comparing paper texture, then walked over to the window and held both certificates up to the sunlight, perhaps looking for an official imprint or watermark.
Moments later, he walked back, placed the certificate back on the desk, then looked at Nafessa and Falcone.
“In my judgment this marriage certificate is genuine.”
Falcone nodded. “Good. Thank you Professor Barzani for your assistance. At this time, you understand, Nafeesa and I need to discuss the estate in private.”
“Of course.” Professor Barzani said goodbye and left.
“Would you care for something to drink, Nafeesa?”
“No, thank you.”
“Perhaps some of your delicious Iraqi pistachios? I love them!” He tossed a handful in his mouth and gave her his best country lawyer smile.
She smiled back, but shook her head.
Falcone poured some Jim Beam, sipped some, then walked back and sat at his desk. He stared at her for several moments, impressed with what she’d accomplished. She seemed nervous. Most understandable, he thought.
“Nice try, Nafeesa.”
“Pardon?”
“Nice try.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Oh, I think you do.”
She said nothing.
“The marriage,” he said.
“What about it?”
“The certificate.”
“As Professor Barzani said – my certificate is genuine.”
“Except for one minor detail.”
“What detail?”
“You never married Rick Radford.”
She blinked. “But my certificate proves I married him.”
Falcone smiled. “No, it proves you somehow persuaded a man named Khalid Al-Kareem, a director in Baghdad’s Social Status Court, to give you this fraudulent marriage certificate.”
Nafeesa looked shocked that he knew of Khalid Al-Kareem. She took worry beads from her purse and began fingering them.
“You see, when I was informed of your possible marriage to Rick, I had Professor Barzani hire an investigator in Baghdad. The investigator reported back to me an hour ago. He said that witnesses have signed sworn statements that Rick Radford was with them in Basra, three hundred miles south of Baghdad on the day you allegedly married him in Baghdad. They also swear you were not with him in Basra. Your family says you were in Baghdad that day and week. And they knew nothing of your wedding.”
Nafeesa stared out the window.
“You may not realize it, Nafeesa, but using a counterfeit document to defraud our legal system for personal gain is a very serious crime in this country. And it’s punishable by imprisonment or fines, or both.”
She fingered her beads faster.
“Do you have anything to say, Ms. Hakim?”
He watched her confidence melt like hot wax.
“Ms. Hakim …?”
She closed her eyes and lowered her head. “Please allow me to explain.”
“Of course.”
She took a deep breath and eased it out. “The … war …” she said and took another breath. “The war destroyed my family, Mr. Falcone …” She dabbed her eyes. “On just one night, bombs killed my father, two brothers, younger sister and some cousins. It also destroyed our family business – and even the bank with our family savings! We lost everything, Mr. Falcone, do you understand? Everything. Gone. Overnight! We were penniless. Suddenly, I was searching for money to feed my family and pay for my mother’s cancer treatments that her Doctor has stopped for non-payment. I struggle to find the money each week.”
Falcone nodded, since his private investigator told him the same things.
“I’m sorry for your losses, Ms. Hakim. Truly I am.”
Her eyes filled and she dabbed them with a Kleenex. “But I do not want legal trouble in the USA. So I will return home and try to care for my mother.”
She stood to leave.
“Wait …”
“No, Mr. Falcone. Please understand – I do not want any legal problems in America. My family depends on me in Baghdad.”
“Perhaps I can help.” He gestured for her to sit back down.
“Help? How …?”
“With two hundred thousand dollars.”
She sat down fast, her dark eyes locked on his. “I do not understand.”
Falcone sipped more bourbon. “It’s quite simple. We will proceed as though your marriage certificate represents a genuine marriage – that you were in fact married to Rick Radford.”
She said nothing.
“Mr. Barzani will testify that your marriage certificate is authentic. Mr. Al-Kareem will testify that he issued it. The probate court will then accept their word, and your marriage.”
She stared at him.
“Then the court will likely distribute the Radford estate between you and possibly a woman named Ellie Stuart who is attempting to prove that she’s Leland Radford’s biological daughter, even though several DNA tests, including her own test, have proven she’s not.”
Nafeesa’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“So, instead of you getting a possible criminal conviction and jail time for attempted fraud, and no money from the Radford estate, you will receive two hundred thousand dollars through a special fund. Let’s call it … The Rick Radford Iraqi Relief Fund. I’ll say Leland set it up as a tribute to his son. But only you will have access to the money. And can use the money any way you wish.”
Her worry beads slowed.
“And in return,” Falcone continued, “I will retain de facto control of the remaining share of the estate assets in a special account accessible only by me.”
She said nothing.
“And, after I sell off the estate assets, I will deposit an additional two hundred thousand dollars in your account. Again, only you can draw from it.”
She stared back.
“In brief, Nafeesa, you get a total of four hundred thousand dollars.”
Her worry beads stopped.
“But,” he said, staring hard into her eyes, “if you ever try to claim money from my special account, I will know. And the court will immediately receive evidence proving your marriage is a fraud. And then a warrant will be issued for your arrest.”
Nafeesa looked out the window for several moments, apparently absorbing everything he’d said, then turned back to him.
“You can do all this?”
“I can do all this.”
He tosse
d more pistachios into his mouth.
“Well, Nafeesa …?”
She looked out the window again.
“When would I get this first two hundred thousand dollars?”
“A week after probate.”
“But what about all my travel and hotel expenses here? I borrowed a lot of money to come here.”
Falcone knew how Iraqis loved to negotiate. “I’ll reimburse them.”
She stared at him. “Where do I get the money?”
“Any Iraqi bank you want.”
She paused. “I don’t trust Iraqi banks.”
“Me either. But I know a discreet Swiss bank.”
She nodded.
SIXTY NINE
“I need to pick up my Contracts casebook,” Quinn said, as he and Ellie hurried toward the back door of his apartment building.
Ellie scrutinized the people walking toward them. No obvious assassins. Just students, professors, a UPS driver, a Geek Squad guy. But why was his toolkit so long? she wondered. What’s in it?
She’d become hyper-suspicious of everyone since the chimera test proved she was Leland Radford’s biological daughter.
Quinn unlocked the back door and they stepped inside. He grabbed his mail, tossed the junk mail, kept two bills and a pizza coupon, then showed her a hand-addressed envelope.
Ellie noticed the return address: Irene Whitten, The Pines. She pointed to the postmark. “Look – Irene mailed this the day she was attacked in the garden.”
Quinn nodded, then opened the envelope and took out the contents: a note was folded around a letter.
They read the note.
Dear Quinn,
Somebody been snooping around my room. Probably looking for what Mr. Radford and me signed up at the hospital. To be safe, I put it here in this envelope. I reckon you know best who to give it to. I’ll see y’all at the probate court.
Your friend,
Irene
Next, they read the enclosed statement written in shaky handwriting.
I, Leland T. Radford, being of sound mind, as attested to by my physician, Dr. Thomas A. Lyons III, learned moments ago from Irene Whitten, my housekeeper, that I fathered a child with Jacqueline Moreau over twenty years ago. The news gives me tremendous joy.
Kentucky Woman Page 21
