Birthright (22 page)

She looked down at the pack of sunflower seeds he'd given her. “It's not like that.”

“Sugar, it's always like that with you two. Sparks just fly off the pair of you and burn innocent bystanders. That is one fine piece of machinery,” she added, studying Jake's butt as he opened the door to Digger's trailer.

“Yeah, he looks good.”

Rosie gave Callie a light elbow butt. “You know you're still crazy about him.”

Deliberately, Callie closed the pack, jammed it in her pocket. “I know he still makes me crazy. There's a difference. What, are you trying to cheer me up, too?”

“Gotta do something. Only time I ever had cops on a dig was down in Tennessee. Had a knap-in, and some idiot rockhound fell off a damn cliff and broke his neck. That was pretty awful. This is worse.”

“Yeah.” Callie watched one of the deputies unzip a body bag. “This is worse.”

“I told him you were hot for him,” Jake said to Rosie when he came back. In what could have been taken as a casual move, he stepped between Callie and what was going on by the pond. “Perked him up enough, he's taking a shower.”

“Aren't I the lucky one?” Rosie answered, and wandered off.

“I've already seen the body, Jake.”

“You don't have to keep seeing it.”

“Maybe you should go with Rosie and Dig.”

“Nope.” Jake took Callie's arm, turned her around and started walking for the open gate. “I'm going with you.”

“I said I had personal business.”

“Yeah, you did. I'll drive.”

“You don't even know where I'm going.”

“So tell me.”

“I'm going to Virginia to see this Dr. Simpson. I don't need company, and I want to drive.”

“I want to live, so I'll drive.”

“I'm a better driver than you are.”

“Uh-huh. How many speeding tickets have you racked up in the past year?”

She felt twin urges to laugh and to snarl. “That's irrelevant.”

“It's extremely relevant. Added to that is the fact that I seriously doubt you want to drive to Virginia with nasty graffiti scrawled all over your ride.”

She hissed out a breath. “Damnit.” But because he had a point, she climbed into his car. “If you're driving, I'm in charge of the radio.”

“No way, babe.” He settled in, punched in the CD. “Rules of the road are the driver picks the music.”

“If you think I'm listening to hours of country music, you're brain-damaged.” She clicked off the CD player, tuned in the radio.

“Country music is the story-song of the American culture, reflecting its social, sexual and familial mores.” He switched it back to CD. Clint Black managed to get out the first bar before she pushed radio and blasted him back with Garbage.

Arguing about the selection of music for the next fifteen minutes took the edge off the morning.

H
enry Simpson lived in an upscale suburban development Callie was certain Ronald Dolan would have approved of. The lawns were uniformly neat and green, the houses on them as trim and tidy as soldiers standing for inspection.

They were all big, spreading over their lot nearly end to
end. Some had decks, some carports, some were fronted with stone while others were as white, as pristine, as a virgin's bridal gown.

But there was a sameness to it all that Callie found depressing.

There were no old trees. Nothing big and gnarled and interesting. Instead there were pretty dwarf ornamentals, or the occasional young maple. Plots of flowers were planted, primarily in island groupings. Now and again she saw one that demonstrated the owner's, or their gardener's, flare for creativity. But for the most part it was back to the soldiers again, with begonias and marigolds and impatiens lined up in static rows or concentric circles.

“If I had to live here, I'd shoot myself in the head.”

“Nah.” Jake checked house numbers as he crept down the cul-de-sac. “You'd paint your door purple, put pink flamingos in the front yard and make it your mission to drive your neighbors insane.”

“Yeah. It'd be fun. That's it there, the white house with the black Mercedes in the driveway.”

“Oh, thanks, that really narrows it down.”

She had to laugh. “On the left, next drive. Now, we agreed. I do the talking.”

“We did not agree. I simply said you're always talking.” He pulled into the drive, shut off the engine. “Where would you live if you were picking a place?”

“It sure as hell wouldn't be here. I need to handle this, Jake.”

“Yeah, you do.” He got out of the car. “Some big, rundown place in the country. Something with history and character that you could fix up some. Leave your mark on.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The kind of place I'd pick to live, if I were picking a place.”

“You couldn't just fix it up.” She dug a brush out of her purse, gave her hair a few whacks. “You'd need to research, to make sure whatever you did respected that history and character. And you'd have to have trees. Real
trees,” she added as they walked up the white brick pathway to the white house. “Not these froufrou substitutes.”

“The kind that can hold a tire swing.”

“Exactly.” Still she frowned at him. They'd never talked about houses before.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She rolled her shoulders. “Nothing. Okay, here goes.” She pressed the doorbell and heard the three-toned chime. Before she could drop her hand to her side, Jake took it in his.

“What are you doing?”

“Being supportive.”

“Well . . .stand over there and be supportive.” She slapped at the back of his hand. “You're making me nervous.”

“You still want me, don't you?”

“Yeah, I still want you. I want you roasting marshmallows in hell. Let go of my hand before I—”

She broke off, heard his quiet chuckle, as the door opened.

The woman who answered the bell was middle-aged and had found a way to bloom there. Her hair was a glossy chestnut, cut in soft, short layers that flattered her creamy white skin. She wore narrow, cropped pants and a loose white shirt. Salmon-pink toenails peeked out of strappy sandals.

“You must be Callie Dunbrook. I'm Barbara Simpson. I'm so glad to meet you.” She offered a hand. “And you're . . .”

“This is my associate, Jacob Graystone,” Callie told her. “I appreciate you and Dr. Simpson agreeing to see me on such short notice.”

“Why, it's no problem at all. Please come in, won't you? Hank was absolutely delighted at the idea of meeting you when I called him. He's just cleaning up from his golf game. Why don't we sit in the living room? Just make yourselves comfortable. I'll bring in some refreshments.”

“I don't want you to go to any trouble, Mrs. Simpson.”

“It's no trouble at all.” Barbara touched Callie's arm, then gestured toward the stone-gray leather conversation pit. “Please, have a seat. I'll be right back.”

There was a huge, exotic and pure white flower arrangement on the lake-sized glass coffee table. The fireplace, filled for summer with more flowers and candles, was fashioned of white brick.

Callie imagined the lacquer black cabinet against the wall held some sort of fancy media center.

There were two other chairs, also in leather, in lipstick red. Her work boots were sunk into wall-to-wall carpeting a few delicate shades lighter than the conversation pit.

She studied, with some unease, the three-foot white ceramic rabbit in the corner.

“No kids,” Jake said as he dropped down on the leather cushions. “And no grandkids with sticky fingers let loose to run around in here.”

“Dad said he had a daughter from the first marriage. A couple grandkids. But they still live up north.” With more caution than Jake, Callie perched on the edge of the long line of sofa. “This, um, Barbara is his second wife. My parents never met her. They got married after my parents moved to Philadelphia. Then Simpson moved to Virginia. Lost touch.”

Jake reached over, laid a hand on Callie's knee to stop her leg from shaking. “You're bopping your foot.”

“No, I'm not.” She hated when she caught herself doing that. “Give me a nudge if I start doing it again.”

Then she was getting to her feet as Henry Simpson came in. He had a smooth golfer's tan, and a little soccer ball–sized pouch under his summer knit shirt. His hair had gone into a monk's fringe and was pure white. He wore metal-framed glasses.

Callie knew him to be in his early seventies, but he had a young man's grip when he took her hand between both of his.

“Vivian and Elliot's little girl, all grown up. It's a cliché to say you don't know where the time goes, but I sure as
hell don't. I haven't seen you since you were a few months old. God, I feel creaky.”

“You don't look it. This is Jacob Graystone. My—”

“Another archaeologist.” Simpson took Jake's hand and pumped. “Fascinating. Fascinating. Please, sit. Barb's just fussing with some lemonade and cookies. So it's Dr. Callie Dunbrook,” he said as he took a seat and beamed at her. “Your parents must be very proud.”

“I hope so, Dr. Simpson.”

“You call me Hank now. Please.”

“Hank, I don't know how much my father told you when he contacted you this morning to ask if you'd see me.”

“He told me enough. Enough to concern me, to make me sit down and go over everything I can think of that might be of some help to you.”

He looked over as he wife came in, wheeling a chrome-and-glass cart. “No, no, sit,” she said, waving at Jake when he started to get up. “I'll deal with this. I can tell you've already started to talk.”

“I told Barbara about my conversation with your father.” Hank sat back with a sigh. “I have to be honest with you, Callie, I believe this woman who approached you is mistaken. Marcus Carlyle had a very good reputation in Boston. I would never have referred your parents to him otherwise.”

“Hank.” Barbara set down a tray of tiny frosted cakes, then brushed a hand over her husband's arm. “He's been worried that if there's any possibility of this being true, he's somehow responsible.”

“I sent Vivian and Elliot to Carlyle. I urged them both to look toward adoption.”

He closed a hand over his wife's. “I still remember when I had to tell Vivian she needed a hysterectomy. She looked so young and small, and damaged. She wanted a child, desperately. They both did.”

“Why did you recommend Carlyle, specifically?” Callie asked.

“I'd had another patient whose husband was infertile.
We had explored alternate methods of conception, but they were disappointing. Like your parents, they got on waiting lists through adoption agencies. When my patient came in for her annual exam, she was overflowing with joy. She and her husband had been able to adopt a child, through Carlyle. She sang his praises, couldn't say enough about him. With my specialty, I often deal with patients who can't conceive, or can't carry a pregnancy to term. And I'm in contact with other doctors in my field.”

He picked up the glass of lemonade Barbara served. “I heard good things about Carlyle. I met him shortly after at a patient's home during a dinner party. He was well spoken, amusing, compassionate and appeared to be committed to helping families form. I recall that's exactly how he put it. Forming families. He impressed me, and when Elliot and I were discussing his concerns, I gave him the recommendation.”

“Did you recommend him to others?”

“Yes. Three or four other patients, as I recall. He called to thank me at one point. We discovered a mutual passion for golf and played together often after that.” He hesitated. “We became what you could call professional friends. I can't help but think there's some mistake, Callie. The man I knew could not possibly be involved in kidnapping.”

“Maybe you could just tell me about him.”

“Dynamic.” Simpson paused, nodded to himself. “Yes, that would be my first description. A dynamic man. One with a fine mind, exquisite taste, distinguished bearing. He took a great deal of pride in his work. He felt, as I recall him saying, that he was contributing something with the emphasis he'd placed on adoptions in his practice.”

“What about his own family,” Callie pressed. “People he was close to—personally, professionally.”

“Professionally, I couldn't really say. Socially, we knew or came to know dozens of the same people. His wife was a lovely woman, a bit vague. That doesn't sound right,” Simpson said with an apologetic nod. “She was quiet, devoted to him and their son. But she seemed . . . I suppose I'd say insubstantial in her own right. Not, now that I think of
it, the sort of woman you'd put with a man of his potency. Of course, it did become common knowledge that he enjoyed the company of other women.”

“He cheated on his wife.” Callie's voice went cold.

“There were other women.” Simpson cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably. “He was a handsome man, and again, dynamic. Apparently his wife elected to look the other way when it came to his indiscretions. Though they did eventually divorce.”

Simpson leaned forward, laid a hand on Callie's knee. “Infidelity may make a man weak, but it doesn't make him a monster. And if you'll indulge me. This child who was stolen was taken from Maryland. You were placed in Boston.” He gave her knee an avuncular pat, then sat back again. “I don't see how the two events could be connected.”

He shook his head, gently rattled the ice in his glass. “How could he know, how could anyone, that there would be an opportunity to steal an infant at that time and place, just when an infant was desired in another place?”

“That's something I intend to find out.”

“Are you still in contact with Carlyle?” Jake asked him.