Текст книги "Spider Bones"

Автор книги: Kathy Reichs

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

WHEN I AWOKE, DAWN WAS JUST A PALE HINT ALONG THE HORIZON.

Instantly my thoughts circled to where they’d been just prior to Katy’s scream.

Had I stumbled upon Plato’s unstated motive for stonewalling use of his DNA? Did he fear another man had fathered his sons?

Throwing back the covers, I crossed the floor and opened my balcony door. Breathed deeply.

Overnight, the rain had stopped. The air smelled of salt, damp foliage, and wet sand.

It was 6:37.

Late morning East Coast time.

Anxious for answers, I didn’t bother with coffee, just grabbed a Diet Coke from the kitchen and returned to my room.

Checked a number.

Dialed.

Sheriff Beasley was in his office and took my call.

I minced no words.

“Plato still refuses to give DNA. I find that baffling.”

“What’s his reason?”

“He won’t give one.”

“Plato’s an odd duck.”

“From time to time, I encounter people who won’t submit bodily fluids for testing. Sometimes for religious reasons. Sometimes out of ignorance. Sometimes because they’re guilty as hell. With Plato, I sense that it’s none of those.”

No reply.

“Sheriff Beasley, is there something you’re holding back?”

“What are you talking about?” Guarded.

“You tell me.”

“You’ll need to be more specific, miss.”

Beasley was wasting my time. Those who do so fail to enjoy the sunny side of my disposition.

“How about this? If I made an inquiry into Harriet Lowery’s kidney transplant, would I dig up some curious facts?”

Beasley was silent a long moment before speaking.

“If you’re wanting medical information, you’ll have to speak to Harriet’s doctor.”

“Might you know who that is?” Icy.

More hesitation, then, “Patricia Macken.”

“Might you have contact information for Dr. Macken?”

Beasley exhaled loudly.

“Hang on.”

The sheriff put me on hold for almost five minutes.

“OK.” He read off a number.

“Thank you.” Dickhead. I didn’t say it, but the good sheriff heard it in my tone.

I was about to disconnect when Beasley spoke again.

“Plato may be stubborn and uneducated, but he’s honest, works hard when given the chance.”

“I believe he is.”

“This is Lumberton.” In case I’d forgotten. “Let’s keep this as low-profile as possible.”

Excitement fizzed in my chest. Beasley’s comment was a tell that I was on the right track.

“Of course.”

I disconnected and dialed Macken.

A woman answered, said the doctor was in an examination room and could not be disturbed.

I explained that I was calling about a former patient. Stated that my business was urgent.

The woman promised to deliver my message.

I sat back, satisfied I’d soon have an answer.

Twenty minutes later I was pacing the room. Didn’t physicians have to hustle these days? Eight minutes per patient? Two? A heartbeat? How long could Macken spend with one person?

I dressed. Brushed my teeth. Tied back my hair. Let it down. Checked the phone to be sure the line was working. Ran through some e-mail. Checked again.

At eight forty the damn thing finally rang.

I snatched up the receiver.

“This is Patricia Macken.” Though firm, the voice was clearly that of an older person. One born in Dixie. “I have a message to call this number. My nurse indicated it might be a medical emergency.”

“Not exactly. But thanks for getting back to me. I’m Dr. Temperance Brennan. I work for the medical examiner in Charlotte.” KISS. Keep it simple, stupid. And local. If needed, I’d elaborate, add detail. “I’m calling about a woman named Harriet Lowery.”

“Yes.” Suspicious.

“I believe you treated Mrs. Lowery for kidney disease until her death five years ago.”

“Who did you say you are?”

I repeated my name and affiliation.

“Why is the Charlotte ME interested in a patient who died under a physician’s care in a hospital in Lumberton?”

“Actually, it’s the coroner in Montreal, Canada, who is interested. I consult to that office as well.”

“I’m confused. What does this have to do with Harriet Lowery?”

“In fact, the interest is in her son, John.”

“Spider?”

“Yes.”

“Spider died in Vietnam.”

“Perhaps not.”

An intake of breath told me Macken hadn’t seen that coming.

“Please explain.”

I gave her the basics. The Hemmingford floater, Jean Laurier, identified by fingerprints as John Lowery. JPAC. The Huey crash in Vietnam in 1968. The exhumation in Lumberton. The suspected mix-up of John Lowery and Luis Alvarez.

“My colleagues and I thought we had the confusion sorted out, then DNA sequencing excluded Harriet Lowery as the mother of the Quebec victim.”

Macken said nothing, so I continued.

“Harriet’s DNA was obtained from pathology slides stored at Southeastern Regional Medical Center. As you can imagine, the material was somewhat degraded. We’d like to run another comparison using a sample from Spider Lowery’s father. Plato refuses to submit a swab.”

I paused, allowing Macken the chance to speak. She offered nothing.

“We’re wondering why, Dr. Macken.”

“Perhaps Mr. Lowery knows you are wrong.”

“Everything else indicates that the man who died in Quebec is Spider Lowery. If we’re wrong, DNA from Mr. Lowery could establish that.”

“Why are you calling me?”

Why was I?

“If I could understand Plato’s opposition, I might have a chance at changing his mind.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s a question of paternity, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Neither Spider nor Tom was a suitable donor for Harriet. We both know that happens all the time in families. It means nothing. But in the course of testing for tissue compatibility, I suspect something unexpected turned up. Something devastating for Plato.”

“Meaning?”

“I suspect tests showed Plato was not the father of Harriet’s children.”

Macken took a very long time to answer.

“You’re right, Dr. Brennan. And wrong. The experience almost destroyed Mr. Lowery. But the issue wasn’t paternity.”

“If the—”

“It was maternity.”

“What? Wait. I don’t understand. Harriet wasn’t the mother?”

“Could you hold, please?”

I heard a clunk, footsteps, then the sound of a closing door. The air thickened on the other end of the line.

A scrape, then Macken was back.

“I am going to speak with you further, even though I really should not without authorization form Harriet’s family. I will do it because Harriet has been deceased a good while and because you seem to know many facts already. Mostly, I am going to speak to you further to keep you from going off on a tangent not supported by the facts.

“Testing was less sophisticated in the sixties when Spider offered to donate his kidney. Thirty years later, it was a different world. Not only was Tom ruled out as a donor, DNA sequencing showed that he could not be Harriet’s son.”

I was lost for words.

“Plato and Harriet swore it was nonsense. But the conclusion was undeniable. I had no choice but to speak to the sheriff.”

“Beasley.”

“Yes. He tried to learn what he could. But Harriet and Plato totally shut down. And almost fifty years had passed. Records showed the twins were home-birthed. A midwife assisted, but the sheriff was never able to track her down.

“Though both boys were grown, and Spider was long dead, Sheriff Beasley had to consider the possibilities. After the boys’ birth, the Lowerys spent a long time on government support. Had they perpetrated some sort of welfare fraud? Had they kidnapped one son? Both? Had they been involved in some sort of illegal surrogacy or adoption scheme?

“In the end, Sheriff Beasley decided Spider and Tom had been loved and well cared for. They’d had decent childhoods. What was past was past. He let the matter drop.”

Macken went silent for so long I thought maybe we’d been cut off.

“Hello?”

“I’m here. Five years later Tom was dead. Two years after that it was Harriet. Plato never recovered. I find the whole thing very, very sad, don’t you, Dr. Brennan?”

I nodded, realized she couldn’t see me do it.

“Yes,” I said. And meant it.

While I’d been phoning and pacing and phoning, Ryan had also been busy. When I met him in the kitchen he’d already talked to Lô.

“Lô wants the text from Katy’s blog posting.”

“I’ll get it.”

I ran upstairs, slipped into Katy’s room, and retrieved the printout.

“Given the hostile nature of this”—Ryan flicked the paper I’d handed him—“the guy in the yard, and your little incident down by Waimanalo Bay, Lô thinks we should keep the girls close for a while.”

“He thinks Katy and Lily are in danger?”

“Probably not, but he prefers to play it safe. He’ll send a patrol car past here once every hour.”

“Danger from whom?”

“Obviously, he doesn’t know. Calm down. It’s a courtesy. I’d do the same for visiting law enforcement in Montreal. But you should have showed this to me.” Again, Ryan flicked the printout.

“Agreed.”

Ryan inhaled. Exhaled. Rubbed his hands up and down his face.

“I hope my lamebrain kid wasn’t planning to sneak out last night.”

“With the guy in the yard?”

Ryan nodded. It was clear his parental patience was stretched to the snapping point.

“Do you think Lily might be backsliding?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you searched her room? Questioned her?”

“If I do that and I’m wrong, I could be destroying what little trust I’ve built.”

“If you do that and you’re right you could be saving her life.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Ryan shook his head.

A beat passed.

“Heroin’s a mean bastard,” he said.

I reached out and stroked Ryan’s cheek, saddened by his obvious distress.

Danny called at ten.

“Lapasa’s plane lands at two fifteen. Nickie’s driver will meet the flight and take Al from the airport to his attorney’s office.”

“Why not headquarters?”

“Nickie won’t go for that. Lô’s good with the arrangement. He thinks being dragged to a cop shop might cause Lapasa to shut down. Or bolt. Besides, Lô has insufficient grounds for arrest.”

“OK.”

“You’re to be present to scope the guy out.”

“Why me?”

“You’ve seen Xander Lapasa’s file and photos.”

“So have you.”

“You’re an anthropologist. And you live more than fifty miles away.”

I smiled at our old definition of an expert. Someone coming from afar and carrying a briefcase.

“You’ll be in the reception area so you can observe Al up close and personal when he arrives,” Danny continued. “Can you look litigious?”

“I’ll get coaching.”

“Al will be taken to a conference room and told that Nickie wants the meeting recorded. You and Lô will actually be observing.”

“Will Nickie be watching the interview?”

“No. He wants nothing to do with it. Think you can handle the part?”

“They’ll give me an Emmy.”

Lô called shortly thereafter, repeated the instructions, and invited Ryan to tag along.

The attorney, Simon Schoon, was a partner in a firm whose offices occupied the third floor of a modern brick building on Bishop Street, halfway between the Aloha Tower and Hawaii Pacific University.

Ryan and I got there at two. A receptionist greeted us in a marble-floored foyer, indicated chairs, nodded conspiratorially. She had gray eyes, overplucked brows, and the tightest French twist I’ve ever seen. A nameplate on her desk said Tina Frieboldt.

I picked up and pretended to read a copy of National Geographic. Ryan chose Sports Illustrated.

Lô arrived twenty minutes after we did. He waited on the far side of the room, fingers laced, staring at nothing.

At five past three, the elevator dinged. Seconds later, the door opened. A man entered and walked straight to Tina. He was short and stocky with thinning red hair. I guessed from the black jacket and tie that this was the driver.

“Mr. Lapasa is here.”

“Please show him in.”

I flipped a page in my magazine, totally disinterested.

“The gentleman prefers to remain in the hall. It’s a flu thing. He doesn’t want to be around people.”

Damn!

Feigning impatience, I checked my watch. Flipped another page. Shifted in my seat.

Through the open door I could see a man in the corridor.

My heart dropped.

The man had thick black hair and stood at least six feet tall.

THE MAN’S BACK WAS TO ME. HE WORE A NAVY SUIT. THE EDGE of a frayed white collar circled his neck.

Very tall. Dark hair.

Like Xander Lapasa.

Nickie’s driver recrossed the marble, exited to the corridor, and spoke to his passenger.

“I’ll take you straight to the conference room, Mr. Lapasa.”

Navy Suit turned and stepped sideways. Another man came into view.

The second man was of average height, with wispy gray hair and pasty skin. Covering his nose and mouth was a surgical mask, the kind sold in drugstores to ward off germs.

Navy Suit gripped his companion’s arm, then the trio turned left down the hall.

“What the hell?” Lô was on his feet. “Which one’s Lapasa?”

Tina remained serene, her updo flawless.

“I wouldn’t know, sir. Shall I take you to your observation post?”

“Yeah,” Lô growled. “Do that.” Then, to me, “You know which one of these turds is Lapasa?”

I shook my head.

“Let’s go,” Lô said.

We left the reception area and turned right.

“Observation post?” Ryan whispered from one side of his mouth.

“Sshh,” I warned.

“The chick thinks she’s Moneypenny.”

Tina led us to a glass-sided room with a long, gleaming table and twelve swivel chairs. As we settled in she picked up a remote and hit several buttons.

An image sparked on a large flat-screen monitor wall-mounted at one end of the room. Voices piped from its speakers, clear and static free.

Handing Lô the remote, Tina withdrew.

“This puppy definitely beats your setup,” Ryan said.

“We don’t get to charge three fifty an hour,” Lô replied.

“Good point.”

Ignoring the banter, I watched Navy Suit ease Face Mask into a chair. The man moved gingerly, as though ill or fearful of injury. Once seated he kept his eyes on his hands.

The table on the screen was round and smaller than ours. Seated at it was a man with a bow tie and tortoiseshell glasses. In front of him lay a yellow legal pad and a silver Cross pen.

I assumed this was Nickie’s attorney, Simon Schoon. Behind the lenses Schoon’s eyes looked dark and sharp.

Navy Suit took the chair beside his companion.

I studied the two men from California. Which was Al Lapasa?

Schoon spoke first.

“My client appreciates your willingness to appear in person.”

“My client has his reasons for agreeing to do so.” Navy Suit.

Yes! The tall guy was a lawyer.

I focused on Lapasa, the man in the mask.

“And you would be?” Schoon asked.

“Jordan Epstein.” Epstein slid a card across the table. “I represent Mr. Lapasa.”

Schoon glanced at but did not touch Epstein’s card.

“Before proceeding, we’d like the courtesy of knowing who you represent,” Epstein said.

“My client prefers to remain anonymous,” Schoon said.

“I’m afraid we must insist.”

“I’m afraid I must decline.”

Epstein pushed back his chair. “Then this interview is over.”

Throughout the exchange, Lapasa had not raised his head. He did so now.

“It’s Nickie Lapasa, isn’t it?” Muffled by the pharmacy mask.

Schoon’s face betrayed nothing.

Lapasa raised his voice and spoke to the room. “You out there, Nickie? You getting this?”

Epstein laid a hand on his client’s arm. Lapasa shook it off.

“I got people know the Internet as well as yours do, Nickie. You find me, I find you.” The words were overly precise and paced, like those of a drunk trying hard to sound sober.

“Mr. Lapasa, I advise you to remain silent.”

Lapasa ignored his lawyer.

“You looking for your brother, Nickie? Might be I could help you out with that. First you tell this douche bag to quit dicking us around.”

“Very well.” Schoon licked his lips. “Let’s work with the assumption Nickie Lapasa is seeking information on the death of his brother.”

“What makes you think he’s dead?”

“Let me rephrase. Do you know anything about the whereabouts of Xander Lapasa?”

Epstein swiveled to face his client. “Don’t answer that.”

“Why not?”

“Remember our discussion.”

“It’s the reason I dragged my sick ass onto that goddam plane.”

Epstein’s eyebrows plunged into a downward V. He was losing control of his client.

My attention stayed riveted on Lapasa’s face. Above the mask, his eyes looked jaundiced and dull.

And something else.

An alarm pinged softly deep in my brainpan.

Epstein returned his attention to Schoon. “Please tell us about Theresa-Sophia Lapasa’s will.”

“I can’t do that without proof of your client’s identity.”

“I’m the fucking Wizard of Oz.” Lapasa’s laugh morphed into a cough.

Epstein plucked a hanky from his pocket and handed it to his client.

Schoon’s lips formed a thin hard line as he waited out the hacking.

Recovering, Lapasa jammed his fingers and danced his thumbnails against each other. The action traveled through the speakers as a series of clicks.

I studied Lapasa’s eyes.

Again the ping.

What was my subconscious noticing that I was not?

Lapasa broke the silence. “It’s a scam, right?”

“Excuse me?” Schoon asked.

“I can smell a scam at fifty yards out. There’s no goddamn will.”

“Sir?”

“Enough of this horseshit.” One thumb flicked at Epstein. “Tell him what I got.”

“Mr. Lapasa, I can’t help you if you won’t follow my advice.”

“What the fuck. I’m dying.”

“You’re certain about this?”

Lapasa nodded.

Epstein paused a moment, clearly disapproving. Then he began.

“Mr. Lapasa has cancer. His prognosis is not good. He is willing to provide information in exchange for amnesty concerning his involvement in certain events.”

“I have no authority to negotiate criminal charges.”

Epstein glanced at his client.

Lapasa signaled for him to continue.

“These events took place over forty years ago.”

I drew in my breath.

Epstein’s client was the right age but far too short to be Xander Lapasa. Who was he? Where was this going?

Schoon undoubtedly knew that no such warning was needed for an interrogation that was neither custodial nor conducted by law enforcement, but knowing that Lô was listening, he thought he would gild the lily. He spoke directly to Epstein. “If your client plans to admit to criminal activity, I must insist on a Miranda reading.”

“I am present as Mr. Lapasa’s attorney. My client understands his rights and the implications of his actions.”

“Is that correct, Mr. Lapasa? You’ve discussed your statement with counsel and are making it freely and without pressure or promise of gain?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I’ll be dead in three months.”

“Let me remind you that this interview is being recorded.” Schoon picked up his pen. “Proceed, Mr. Lapasa. I’d like to hear this directly from you.”

“I killed him.”

“Killed who?”

“A guy named Alexander Lapasa.”

My eyes shot to Ryan. To Lô.

Their brows were floating an inch up their foreheads.

“When was this?” Schoon’s voice revealed nothing, no surprise, no censure, no jubilation. It was completely neutral.

“Nineteen sixty-eight.”

“Where?”

“Vietnam.”

“Go on.”

“That’s it. I killed the guy, stole his wallet and passport, and headed up-country.”

“Your motive?”

“I wanted out.”

“Out of what?”

“The army, Nam, the whole fucking war.”

“Why was that?”

“You for real?”

“Please answer the question.”

“I was eighteen, liked my ass in one piece.”

“Why Xander Lapasa?”

“He wasn’t military. I figured having civvy ID would buy me freedom.” Lapasa turned to Epstein. “These fucking meds are kicking the shit out of me. I gotta take another leak.”

Lapasa shuffled out, supported by his lawyer.

My mind pinwheeled with questions.

Neither of the men was Xander Lapasa. Epstein was a lawyer. Face Mask was far too short. Who was he? Where in Vietnam had he crossed paths with Xander?

Face Mask had been living as Al Lapasa since the sixties. Where was he prior to arriving in Oakland? What was he doing?

I chewed a cuticle, too agitated for speech. Behind me, Ryan and Lô were also silent.

An eon passed. Another.

The cuticle turned raw.

Finally, Epstein and his client returned.

Schoon picked up where he’d left off.

“How did you kill Mr. Lapasa?”

“Shot him with my M16.”

“You then stole his identity papers, went AWOL, and lived as Al Lapasa.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Why Al?”

“What?”

“Why not Xander?”

Lapasa shrugged. “The guy’s passport said Alexander. I figured Al.”

“What is your actual name?”

“That ain’t important.”

“We’ll come back to that.” Schoon made a note on his tablet. “Where did you meet Mr. Lapasa?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say we met.”

“Very well.” Prim. “Where did you kill Mr. Lapasa?”

Face Mask slowly wagged his head, eyes steady on Schoon.

“Sir?”

“I give you that, you squash me like a Napa grape.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This is where you give me something, Mr. Lawyer.”

Schoon’s eyes held steady behind their lenses.

“You think I’m scum.”

Schoon started to object. Face Mask stopped him with a raised hand.

“Kids today talk about something called a bucket list. You ever hear of that?”

“No.”

“It’s shit you want to do before they plant you in the ground. You know, before you kick the bucket.”

Schoon said nothing.

“I did some things when I was young don’t make me proud. I spent most of my life looking over one shoulder. Now they tell me my insides is hash. My list says I gotta put things to rest.”

Face Mask drew a long, deep breath.

“Here’s the deal. Take it or leave it. You get what you need on Lapasa. I go home to die at peace in my bed.”

Schoon thought it over.

“I’ll have to clear this with the DA.”

“Knock yourself out.”

Face Mask slouched back in his chair.