3 Lies (26 page)

“Natalie.” Simon laid down his pen. “Natalie Warda double spaces between data elements.”

Clint stayed at the library because Avi Kalush’s airplane was delayed–again. Mainly though, Clint didn’t want to go home. For the last few days, sleep fell with reluctance and ended before accomplishment. Every creak of a bouncing boat quickened his pulse to hip-hop velocity. With the vast majority of his caloric intake coming in liquid form, the library afforded him a better environment for clarity.

Clint and Merlin had printed notes from all the pending cases not already briefed by Todd’s grey flannel gang. Before sending the documents off to the printer, Clint scanned each one to acquaint himself with the legal combatants if only subliminally. He now reviewed Merlin’s case documents for the same purpose.

He shared a wooden table with three law students, an old Asian man, and a young, blind woman with a guide dog. Merlin left earlier to run some errands. Clint entertained the idea of having Merlin pick up a white cane, so Louie could come in the library, but rejected it on principle. One of the students recognized Clint sending them into a group whisper. He turned his chair outward from the table.

Every writ and to wit in the cases fatigued him to the marrow with myriad human miseries peeled open and laid bare before the panel robed in black. At least the litigants had an advocate to reason, argue, and plead their vision of Lady Justice. For a little girl, a dairy farmer, a retired attorney, a father-of-the-bride, for Beth–the scales tipped precariously out of balance.

Clint flipped the pages past his thumb, the names passing like decayed leaves in a gust. Murderers. Identity thieves. Pension robbers. Terrorists. With the stroke of a pen, any one of them might walk from their obligation to play by the rules of polite society and continue to mingle among the innocent. Bitterness found a toehold.

“Lookit, I’d say get a grip but even your veins are turning white.”

Clint released the stack of papers. Gravity sent the bulk to the floor while the pages on top wafted. He glanced behind him. Todd hovered behind his chair. “Thanks for the case briefs.”

“Are you all right?”

Clint laid his head back and looked up at Todd. His hands throbbed as blood refilled his fingers. “Never better.”

The female students at the other end of the table twittered over the latest celebrity arrival.

“I’m convinced.” Todd pulled a chair from another table and formed a two-man huddle. “You look like hell.”

So did everyone compared to Todd. Under the slate silk suit, he wore a brilliant white shirt with a scarlet tie, matching scarf in the breast pocket. Gold and diamond knots studded his French cuffs.

“You look like you’re dressed for my funeral.” Clint spoke in a near whisper. “You know something I don’t?”

“Always.”

“Heard any rumors about the Chief Justice having a heart attack?”

“What happened?”

“I went to see Beth’s parents and told them that I knew her kidnapping was because of a pending case before the Supreme Court. I’ve confirmed that seven justices have someone close to them missing. It was never about money.” Clint tried to wipe the tired from his eyes. “Hizzoner was apparently skulking in the back. Anyway, when he heard me telling this to Beth’s parents, he went ballistic.” He shook his head. “Then he turned grey and coded. Crap. That was the last I saw of him.”

“Damn.” One of Todd’s hands fisted around the other. “I haven’t seen anything in the news.”

“I checked all the papers. Nothing.”

“You might want to leave the old man alone. Unless you want your sorry-ass picture up on
The Smoking Gun.
”

“They never even booked me. It was pure harassment at the behest of Hizzoner.”

“Family.” Todd kicked at the floor. “Don’t believe the hype.”

“Thanks.”

“How goes the woman hunt?”

Clint swept an arm over the case notes like a game show model. “I wish I knew what the hell I was looking for.”

“What have you got?”

“Jack shit.”

“Doesn’t he run our marketing group?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “The kidnappers tried to get Beth’s machine. If I hadn’t called the damn police, she’d at least be getting her dialysis.”

“How do you know she’s not?”

“I went to all the places in the area that sell or rent the equipment. Only one called me back. The kidnappers may have gone there, but they left with nothing.”

“Sounds like they want her alive. That’s a good thing, right?”

Clint assented but said nothing.

“Where are you parked these days?”

“Up the coast from my usual, at Whalers Marina. With the restraining order and my recent visit with Abe–I thought there might be a warrant out for me. I need to stay out of the net long enough to find Beth. Without dialysis she won’t live long enough to–”

His voice cracked with his conviction. With every driving beat his heart clogged on grief. His eyelids slipped on the moisture. A quiver in his chin threatened to break out and claim his expectation to find Beth. Alive.

He clamped his mouth and swiped across it with the heel of his hand.

Todd leaned back to give him some space. “Anything, man. Say the word.”

“I know.” He cleared his vision with several blinks. “I just need to get back to work.”

“I’ve only got a blonde and an ambassador waiting for me at the club. But they’ll keep.”

“No. I’m fine. Go.”

“You need anything, you call me. Okay?”

“I will. Thanks.”

Clint watched him saunter from the library. So did everyone else.

Merlin entered the room and side-stepped Todd who was already giving someone, somewhere, orders on his cell phone. Merlin’s eyebrow raised, probably at finally seeing the man for himself, no doubt fulfilling the wildest of expectations.

“Was that him?”

“None other than.”

“I say. He is dapper.”

“Indubitably.”

“I left Louie fed, tired, and curled up like a dock line. Here’s your messages.” Merlin extended his hand with the stack but didn’t look at Clint.

“Thanks.” Clint’s phone buzzed on his hip. Morrison, the local PI. “I’ll be right back.” He took the call in the hallway.

“We caught another glimpse of your white van. Whoever the driver is, this guy is a pro.”

“Talk to me.”

“An Arab-looking guy left the medical supply store in Braintree yesterday and got in a white van that matched the description. New plates, as expected. He got on Quincy near Hayward Street, south of the Braintree Split, and turned right on Commercial, stayed on Union and headed west toward Route 3. He’s looking for a tail the whole time. My guy pulled off the road before the on-ramp at Route 3. We wanted to see if he got on, and if so, which way. You told us not to crowd him.”

“Understood.”

“He took Route 3 south. Two guys were down in Weymouth, so they picked up the tail. He turned east and got onto 123. The traffic out here isn’t the same as Route 3. We followed him as close as we dared.”

“You lost him?”

“My man on the scene kept with him to Norwell, and we called a buddy down in Scituate. The roads get tight with trees covering every driveway all the way to the coast. With some of those turns, man, you can’t see past your own hood. But we know he never made it through to Scituate.”

“So you lost him?”

“Okay we lost him. My guys came in to get fresh vehicles. We don’t want to let the man get used to seeing the same cars in his rear view. I’ve got people crawling all over that part of the coast. We’ll find that van.”

“Remember, Morrison. You find the van. You call me. Don’t spook this guy.”

“Understood.”

Hope floated to his throat. He pushed the hair off his brow and waited against the wall while an elderly couple inched along the hallway with a walker. He returned to the table where Merlin kept vigil, his face buried in a brief when Clint approached.

Clint’s messages lay on the table where he’d dropped them. The one on top now read “Dr. Compton. Urgent.”

So the results were in. He knew they would be today. Somehow, he still felt unprepared for this moment. Maybe it was good news.

Odd. Good news relied so heavily on timing. Today’s good news would have been last year’s heartbreak. And vice versa. Happiness played on the pivot.

His nascent hope needed more time in the incubator. Any violation of the delicate chamber could prove fatal. Dr. Ritchie Compton be damned. His urgent could wait.

Clint tossed the message aside. The next one had only three words. He knew it was from Paige.

Happy Father’s Day!

Paige. Timing. Both totally sucked.

The library’s din roared through Clint’s ears as if mounting with the pressure of his blood. Paige trumpeted the news of his impending fatherhood with all the dignity of a
Who’s Your Daddy?
contender on
Maury
. He couldn’t recall any action on his part to earn her unseemly announcement of the child’s paternity. Then again, she always accused him of not paying attention.

The baby changed everything. In six short months, he was going to be a father. Beth’s affection couldn’t survive his fatherhood with a woman he claimed not to love. Only arrogance supposed otherwise. He tried to imagine how he would feel if Beth carried another man’s child. His son—or daughter—the tiny fist in Paige’s womb already clutched his heart.

The baby changed nothing. Even with Beth factored out of the equation, every encounter with Paige since their separation intruded like an off-key instrument. Her once harmonic qualities now routinely disturbed.

He’d fought for his marriage, begged her to go to counseling, and even went a few times on his own. Then she sued him for divorce. Which of them changed during the separation and divorce proceedings, he didn’t know. He didn’t care. Until this message, she gave him no reason. But through this baby, their child, she would always be in his life.

Their child. Once upon a time a child with Paige was a daily consideration. He wanted a little girl that looked like her or a little boy that he could teach to program a robot. Or the other way round. Now on the threshold of love with Beth and the ledge of divorce with Paige—a baby.

No doubt Paige knew the baby’s sex. For someone so fond of shocking others, she didn’t care for surprises. And Clint could live happily-ever-after without another of her little bombshells. They were loathsome events. Her affection turned on or off like waterworks, bringing him flood or drought.

She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not.

Petals of trust plucked from his soul.

A suspended sigh tunneled through his aching chest, escaping to the outside in a gust. Mist cleared from his vision, returning him to familiar surroundings. The library. Merlin. The case notes. A girl of about twenty watched him from a table across the room. He swept the matted hair off his brow and leaned over to Merlin. “I need air. Can you get all this?”

“Go. I’ll meet you at the car.”

Clint shoved Paige’s message in his shirt pocket and hustled from the room. He made it to the men’s room and splashed cold water over his face. He took the message out and tore it in half again and again and again until it resembled confetti. It swirled out of sight in a single flush.

Symbolic. But it felt good.

Out on the sidewalk, the cool breeze rustled across the moist fringes of his head, reviving his attention. Merlin approached with the car, pulling over to the curb for Clint to get in.

“Where to?”

“Food. Anywhere.”

“Right-o.” Merlin hit the accelerator and motored away.

~

Built in the early forties, the Mass Ave diner fed neighborhood factory workers long before it fed the students and downtowners now supping at the lunch counter. Clint slipped into a vinyl booth near the back of the room. The young brunette waitress solemnly greeted them with menus and flatware, a gaze of rehearsed boredom darkened her eyes.

“Coffee, please,” said Clint.

“I’d like a root beer float.”

They scanned the menus in silence until she returned with their drinks. Both men ordered sandwiches.

Merlin stuck a straw through a scoop of vanilla ice cream. “Discover anything in the cases?”

“Nope. I need to think. I just don’t know what about.”

“Everyone wants their day in court. Most in the menagerie are rogues, ruffians, and roués.”

“Or populists, pundits, and politicians.”

“Is there an echo in here?”

Clint’s smile arced over his cup. “Anything come to your mind?”

Merlin pulled the straw from his mouth. “Me? Heavens, no. The few legal matters I’ve been involved in helped to disentangle a most unhappy Mrs. Merlin. He nodded to the side. “Or two.”

“I thought Merlin was a magician?”

“I am.” He dug into the ice cream. “I made my marriages disappear.”

“Any kids?”

“A son. He lives in London.”

Clint decided to change the subject. “What’s new at Clement Marina?”

“Old man Phelps passed on. I was wondering why we hadn’t seen him out on his skiff any time of late. His eldest came out to the boat today to check on things. I heard he spent most of the time enjoying the view.”

The waitress returned with their food, a turkey club for Clint and a chicken salad for Merlin. Clint asked for the check. “I liked Phelps. Retired banker. Old school. They don’t make that cut of jib anymore.”

“Aye. He was a good one. Doc Stewart said the big ship is still moored off the surf.”

“The Hatteras? Any sign of life?”

“The Grady occasionally buzzes around it, but you can’t see anything from the marina. Probably someone on holiday. Though I’d pick a warmer clime, myself.”

Clint picked up his sandwich. A hunger pang zagged through his stomach. And guilt. Certainly Beth wasn’t eating this well. If they fed her. If she could eat. If she was still alive.

He tried to shake these thoughts. They didn’t help Beth. He needed food if only to bolster his sapped strength. He and Merlin finished their meals in silence. Clint got a refill on his coffee and paid the bill.