Drawing Conclusions (14 page)

I pointed to an iPod-sized gadget adhered to the Gremlin's dashboard. “What's this thing, Charlie?”

“
What's this thing
, she says with ignorance,” Charlie emoted with Shakespearean flair.

I attempted to pry the device off the dashboard, but Charlie swatted my hand away. “Charlie, just tell me what this freaking thing is.”

“A Dollameter, my dear. This ‘freaking thing' is a Dollameter,” Charlie sang out as he leaned on the horn, willing a double-parked tow truck away with a screeching honk.

“Should I know what a Dollameter is?”

“The next greatest invention, targeted for the Green market. A high-tech must-have that will make me rich beyond my wildest dreams. And in contrast to you, my unpretentious and charitable friend, I plan on blowing it all on booze and women.”

“
Blowing
being the operative word,” I commented wryly. “Charlie, since you've only sold a quantity of one and that sale is to yourself, why not give me your best product pitch?”

“Certainly.” He turned to face me despite driving forward, a bad habit he'd adopted as a teenager. I called it driving with his ear. I grabbed the steering wheel and aimed for the white line.

“Charlie, eyes on the road.”

“Good point. Anyway, the Dollameter links your automobile's real-time mileage to the amount you paid per gallon of gas. The device calculates the cost of each trip the driver makes. It's almost like counting the calories as you eat. This way, an environmentally concerned driver can decide if the trip is worth the money, hence putting themselves on a gas-to-dollar diet.”

“But don't you have to take the route at least once for the mileage—”

“A GPS can estimate the mileage for different routes.”

“That's actually pretty cool,” I said.

“Then you could divide the Dollameter's output by the number of passengers and get the cost per rider. You could even program it for that. It would promote carpooling.”

“Yes, but the additional riders would add weight to the car and lower the gas mileage per dollar driven.”

“We'd be encouraged to pick only slim friends.”

“Mean and funny all at once. A reality show in the making. What should we call the show?” I asked.

“
Too Fat to Fit
?” Charlie suggested.

“
Thin Gets You In
?” I said, riffing off Charlie's title.

“I like that, and I bet I could retrofit the car seats with built-in scales so when the passenger sits, the seat would register their weight.”

“Maybe the Dollameter could also track single drivers of SUVs and add environmental points to their license?”

“I like how you think. We'll call it the Dollameter Tax.” Charlie stretched his arm out the window to slow traffic and maneuvered the car into a tight parking spot behind an oversized eighties Oldsmobile. “And now that we've solved the world's problems, let's give the Gremlin a rest and explore Igor's hometown.”

Neither Charlie nor I had ever been to Brighton Beach. At first glance, it looked as though time froze thirty years ago: the Berlin wall had just fallen and the first transmissions of MTV were indoctrinating the Soviet countries with American pop culture. Women wore more make-up than Tammy Faye Bakker and sported big, overly processed hair, all of it bleached blond. If only I had known shoulder pads were going to make a comeback, I could have been a millionaire again. The stretch of beach, unexpectedly beautiful, was inundated with Speedo-sporting men over sixty. Despite the cool June temperatures, the ocean was afloat in dissidents accustomed to the icy Black Sea.

“This is some crazy shit.”

“I'm getting naked,” Charlie answered, pretending to remove his shirt.

“The clothes stay on in public or I'm driving home.”

Charlie wrapped an affectionate arm around my shoulder. “That implies the clothes come off in private.”

We strolled the beach arm in arm and I relaxed into our friendship, thankful for Charlie's constant presence in my life. Eventually Charlie would meet the woman of his dreams and I'd become Aunt CeCe to his children, but for the time being it was easy enough to play the part of sometime girlfriend. Our affair had always been casual, and I accepted Teddy's death as the cause of our current needy affection.

“So can I tell you a little more about the Dollameter?”

“Of course,” I encouraged. Charlie had been tinkering with something for as long as I could remember. His intense creative energy mixed with a casual attitude made him so enticing to me. He didn't take himself too seriously, which allowed him to explore boundaries without worrying about consequences.

Charlie lengthened his stride, taking on a confident swagger. “An automotive company that produces very small, very intelligent, some might say
smart
cars”—he winked with exaggeration—“has expressed interest in the Dollameter.”

“How much interest?”

His jaunty walk came to a stop as he scanned the storefronts. He pointed to an ornately adorned restaurant made to look like a Russian orthodox church. “Let's just say I'd like you to be my guest at the Volna restaurant situated across from the beach in the heart of Little Odessa.”

“A flush Freegan? Tempting.”

“Come on, CeCe. For one night, let's not eat garbage.”

“I'll make that decision after I taste the food.”

Charlie steered me toward the restaurant, ignoring my weak protests about waste and overconsumption, and before I knew it, I was sitting comfortably in a booth dripping in red velvet with Russian icons mounted on the wall. The music was dark and moody, putting me in a food coma before we even ordered. Charlie ordered plates full of pierogis and kielbasa with beets and pickles on the side. A gross and excessive smorgasbord of items arrived that would hopefully transport well in the doggie bags I imagined filling. Although the pounds of food overwhelmed me, what bothered me most were the shots of vodka Charlie was consuming like water.

“Your liver is crying for a rest. I swear the whites of your eyes are turning yellow with every
cheers
.”

“Don't worry, CeCe. I'm a good drunk.”

“You are a good drunk, Charlie,” I said, and I meant it. When Charlie got his groove on, he could motivate a barroom of nuns to dance on the tables. “But I'm concerned about your motivation to get sloppy. Since Teddy's death, you haven't exactly been Mr. Happy Hour.”

Charlie wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, his expression turning grave. “CeCe, remember when I missed the sixth-grade field trip to the Hayden Planetarium because I overslept?”

“I do. And you missed a good one. I remember thinking how cool it was because at the end the teachers let us stay to see the Pink Floyd light show.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Charlie threw back another shot and continued his remorseful walk down memory lane. “How about the time I cut school for a week and convinced my mother I was participating in an Eagle Scout convention? I wasn't an Eagle Scout. Hell, I was never even a Cub Scout.”

“Teddy was the Eagle Scout. You just pretended to go to meetings with him.”

“That's what I'm talking about. Or, one of my worst memories, the day I took the bus back from MIT mid-semester because my parents wouldn't pick up a drop out.”

“Stop the ‘woe is me' attitude. You know I don't do the therapy thing, so just tell me what's bothering you.”

Charlie fiddled with the empty shot glass, waiting for me to coax a confession out of him. Fat chance.

“Look, Charlie, I'm not doing drama tonight, but I'll go as far as saying that your best attribute is not running with the pack. You would have never thought up the Dollameter or the handful of other ideas you've patented if you were tied behind a desk redesigning widgets for a major corporation.”

Charlie's eyes misted, and I watched as the youthful energy seeped from his body like a balloon with a pinhole leak. “CeCe, you and Teddy were the only people in my life that kept me on track.”

“I think Teddy kept us both in check.” I nabbed a choice piece of sausage with my fork. “Did you really take the bus home from MIT?”

“I was waiting for the bus when Teddy came and got me,” Charlie said.

I reached across the table, extricated Charlie's fingers from the shot glass, and wrapped his hand around mine. “I admit I'm not Teddy, but I'm still here for you.”

“Not for long.”

“Am I going somewhere?”

“DeRosa is into you.”

There it was again, except this time it came with a third-party endorsement. Up until this point, I thought I imagined DeRosa's backhanded compliments. I recognized the standard
what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this
flirting, but DeRosa's advances seemed harder to decipher than a five-star Sudoku puzzle. I felt flattered and deceived all at once. For Charlie's sake, I maintained a poker face. I anticipated that one of us would leave our intermittent relationship soon, but I didn't expect it would be me.

“So just because a guy expresses interest, I get the vapors and lose the ability to think for myself?”

Charlie's inebriated lips were working slowly, his words loosening at the ends of sentences like he just received a shot of Novocain. “Frank is good for you. He's solid, but he's got enough going on upstairs to keep you on your toes and versa visa.” He mangled
vice versa
, making it sound like a Russian delicacy on the Volna restaurant's specials board. For all I knew we'd actually ordered it.

“I'm not looking for a bridge partner,” I said as I calculated the tip for Charlie and counted out money from his wallet.

“I'll make you a bet, Ms. Prentice.” Charlie stuck out his pinky finger, and I automatically hooked mine around his. “I'm not putting out for you anymore, no matter how much you beg. I'll bet my lack of attention will drive you straight to DeRosa by the end of the summer.”

“What do I get if I win?”

“If you lose, you get DeRosa; if you win, I'll have to lower my standards and ravage your body against all protestations.” Charlie fumbled his way across the table and slapped a wet kiss on my mouth. “Either way, you win, CeCe.”

As we were leaving the restaurant, Charlie yanked a flyer off a community board in the lobby. “Ce, check out this ad for a roommate.
My bags are packed. Friendly, single female, looking for roommate. Just need enough room for my Springer.
I think we've just found the perfect match for Becky. Do we know if she likes dogs?”

“Please, let's not count Becky out just yet. Maybe she'll change her mind.” I dug my hand deep into Charlie's front pant pocket and fished for the Gremlin's keys. “I'm driving tonight.”

twenty-five

Charlie and I returned
home just as the sun set. The view from Harbor House was spectacular at any time of the day but this, a summer sunset, was by far my favorite. There was something about the consistency of the solar drop that amazed me, that absolute moment when the sun dips below the horizon and you know, without disappointment, that it's over. Sunsets are denied to those who move too quickly through life. But for a Freegan who savors all things free, a summer sunset is the perfect gift. As the last of the rays disappeared, the setting sun highlighted an unwelcome sight. In an unpleasant repeat of the night Teddy passed, Harbor House's lights were ablaze.

“Oh shit, not again,” I moaned. I poked Charlie in the chest as he slept off his vodka-induced stupor. “Charlie, wake up. Something's going down.” Charlie's head tipped like a rag doll. I sighed.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I needed someone like DeRosa. At the least, I needed a guy who wasn't drooling, I reasoned as I pushed Charlie's head into an upright position before abandoning him in the car. I headed up to the house to face the music, knowing full well my disappearance had infuriated DeRosa.

“Hey everyone,” I greeted my friends cheerfully, hoping to defuse the police crackdown on my whereabouts.

DeRosa, Cheski, Lamendola, Jonathan, and Trina sat stone-faced at the kitchen table. Excluding Jonathan, the other three had their arms folded across their chests in a protective gesture. Jonathan's fingers were laced gently together, forearms extended on the table as if he were arbitrating a heated divorce.

“Look, I'm sorry about today,” I apologized to a room of deaf ears. “I just needed a little down time.”

Again everyone ignored my chatter, and I took the opportunity to slip into a kitchen chair and join the table.

Trina had positioned herself so close to Jonathan that she was practically on his lap. “I don't like this idea one bit,” she said with tangible fear in her voice. “There has got to be a better way. Jonathan is not a cop.”

“He just needs to sit for an interview,” DeRosa stated matter-of-factly.

“An interview?” I interceded. “Is anyone going to fill me in?”

“A job interview. With a company called Relativity.com.” Trina included me in the conversation now. “The police uncovered Naomi's charity backer while you were out. Now DeRosa wants Jonathan to go on a phony interview to find out more about the company.”

“Why you, Jonathan?” I asked.

“Because Relativity.com is a genetics-based company, and Frank believes that my background may help me probe deeper than someone without my knowledge base. The company happens to have an opening for a geneticist, and they're headquartered in Stamford, Connecticut. It's only about a forty-five-minute drive from here, making it a plausible fit given my background and location.”

“So why not just accompany the team on a police interview and feed them questions, Cyrano de Bergerac style?” I countered.

Trina's eyes swelled with relief at my idea.

“Because if the company knows they are being interrogated, we won't get squat,” Cheski said with impatience. “CeCe, having access to Jonathan is a trump card that might lead to a break in the case. Let him do this. There's a chance we can get him in for an interview before the week is over.”

Cheski had a point. Naomi's source of funding was the best lead we had, and I understood that this strategy was probably in our best interest. I decided that now was not the right moment to play devil's advocate.

“So tell me about Relativity.com.”

Jonathan turned his palms up and spoke with an even tone. “From what I can gather, Relativity.com is using traditional DNA research for nonmedical commercial uses. Their products are gimmicky and somewhat misleading. Basically, for three hundred bucks, the purchaser obtains a DNA ancestry kit. With a quick swab of the mouth, mailed back to Relativity.com in a sealed receptacle, the user's DNA is decoded and fed into a database that links it to possible ancestral migration patterns. The final purchased product is a map that matches the user's DNA to world populations as well as a percent distribution ranked by close matches in a specific area.”

“In English, Jonathan. What does their ad copy say?” I asked.

“The idea is that an individual can track where their ancestors originated from through DNA analysis.”

“I kind of love that stuff,” I admitted.

“You and millions of other saps around the world,” Cheski added heavy on the skepticism. “These rackets are gold mines. You send 'em some spit and find out that gramps is from Poland. No kidding, have you seen my last name?”

“Or mine for that matter,” quipped Lamendola. “Like I might be Irish?”

“Frank, did you ask my dad about this company?” I asked, “My father knows everyone in the industry.”

“He is not aware of this company, but he had nothing good to say about that branch of the industry in general. Your father has a particular distaste for companies like Relativity.com that attempt to commoditize DNA analysis into a hot-ticket item for Christmas,” DeRosa said. “He is extremely pleased we uncovered this connection, but if I can't put the pieces together soon, your father is going to be banging down the front door at Relativity.com himself.”

The table flooded with supposition and theory, all of us tossing around what little we understood of Relativity.com. As we chattered away, I watched DeRosa physically push himself to the periphery, lost in mental overdrive. As per his earlier bouts of intense focus, I could see his brain slicing and dicing the facts and clues in a furious attempt to detect a legitimate pattern. His jaw ground away as if he had a stick of beef jerky stuck between his molars. He was ten steps ahead while the rest of us were still trying to connect the dots. I shot forward in the timeline, attempting to meet the detective on his trajectory. “Frank, how does Naomi fit in?”

DeRosa now rose and started to pace. This was a new side to him, and I could almost touch the nervous energy emanating from his every step. His usual reserve had been swallowed by frustration. So determined was his gait, I feared he thought that the faster he walked, the closer we'd get to solving the case. In a move that signaled his growing exasperation, he ran his fingers through his thick, dark waves before summarizing his thoughts.

“Turns out Naomi was a bit of an empty suit. Lamendola did an exhaustive background check on Dr. Gupta and discovered that her MCAT scores were too low for an American medical school. Jonathan, what did you say the cut off is for Yale?”

“No lower than thirty-five.”

“And Naomi scored a fifteen. As a result, her only option was an off-shore school. Yugoslavia, of all places,” DeRosa said with surprise as he continued to circle the table like a hyena on the hunt.

“Technically, Slovenia,” Lamendola corrected. “Right on the border of Italy, about a two-hour drive northeast from Venice. Nearest town is Bonetti.”

DeRosa halted and drew his finger to his chin. He raised his eyebrows looking quizzically at Lamendola. “Did you say Bonetti?” he pronounced the town like a true Italian with a hard accent on the
n
.

“You know the place?” Lamendola asked.

“Neither here nor there, but you're sure the town is Bonetti?”

Lamendola nodded in the affirmative. DeRosa's lower lip dropped a quarter of an inch—imperceptible to the rest of the room, but it was the type of facial change I registered. Then he resumed his pacing.

“Right, so back to Naomi.” DeRosa's thoughts were now tumbling out faster than dice on a craps table. “My guess is that Naomi spent most of her time cruising the canals of Venice. Anyway, enough speculation, let's assume her training is less than stellar, given her low entrance test scores. What we do know is that she supplemented her medical school training, or lack thereof, under a pile of awards and honors she actively compiled. Based on Lamendola's research—impressive, by the way—Naomi conjured up a falsified bio highlighting her early years as an orphan in India. Of course, she grew up in Lansing, Michigan, which we confirmed by speaking with her parents this morning.”

“Were her parents helpful?” I asked.

“They were,” DeRosa said. “Her parents are from India, but Naomi was born here. As it turns out, she's the youngest. Her siblings are doctors, and I could tell by the tone of the conversation that the parents pushed the children very hard. I wouldn't be surprised if Naomi went to great lengths to keep up with her sister and brother. But she may not have been smart enough for a medical career.”

“How far did she go to keep up?” I asked.

“Apparently she manipulated every affirmative action policy on the books, even claiming on one application—” He stopped abruptly to draw a well-deserved breath. “What did she claim, Lamendola?”

“That she was half black and half Native American.”

“Yes, and this bothers me. Naomi has now exhibited a pathological pattern of lying from an early age, possibly caused by her family dynamic. Teddy must have picked up on this. But what's interesting to me, very interesting in fact, is that her so-called training occurred in Eastern Europe, which is not so far from Russia. If we could make some connection between Naomi and Igor or Igor and Relativity.com, we might have something. And that's where you come in, Jonathan. I don't need much for a warrant.”

“I'm in.” Jonathan stood and shook DeRosa's hand. “Whatever you need.”

The detective reached for his wallet and counted out two hundred dollars. “First thing tomorrow, I need you to get a haircut and shave the beard. I want you to buy a white, collared golf shirt and a pair of pressed khakis. Good shoes and a belt and absolutely no thrift shop finds. Cheski and Lamendola will beef up your resume to cover the gap since you've been farming. Be back here by ten thirty sharp and we'll do some practice runs on your background. Got it?”

“I got it.”

“One more thing, and please don't argue: you need a professional manicure to soak the farmer out of your hands.”

Jonathan's face dropped at the mention of a manicure.

“I'll handle that,” Trina interrupted.

DeRosa nodded. “And Jonathan, try to remember that before the farmer was the scientist. You need to play the role.” DeRosa turned to Trina and, with the poise and assurance of Clark Kent, said, “Trina, you have my word. He'll be fine.”

Then it was my turn to receive his Superman strength. “CeCe, I have a feeling we scared off Igor.”

“How so?”

“Because chasing him through the streets of D.C. like a madwoman sends a message that you're not afraid.”

“But I am afraid. I'm terrified.”

“Trust me on this one,” DeRosa said. “If Igor tracked us in D.C., then whoever he's working for knows we saw Naomi's apartment. We're gaining on them, and that puts them on the defensive.”

“Won't that just make them angrier?” I shot back.

He glanced at his watch, ignoring my irritation. “Look, I can't stay here tonight.”

“Frank, you can't just ditch me like this,” I yelled as he grabbed his coat and headed to the door.

“I have something personal I need to attend to. But I feel confident leaving you here with Lamendola,” DeRosa stated. He turned to Lamendola. “You good with that?”

“I guess I can do that, Frank. I've got a change of clothes in the car.”

“So that's it?” I said incredulously. “You haven't even told me what happened with my father.”

“Tomorrow, CeCe.” And with that, Frank DeRosa departed.

I had to admit his excuse hurt. Something personal? Like a girlfriend, or a wife? Did DeRosa owe me anything? I guess not. Maybe I exaggerated Charlie's observation that the detective was “into me.” Just because he liked me didn't preclude him from liking someone else. Again I was struck by the complete transparency of my life compared to DeRosa's Fort Knox exterior. I couldn't just get up and go home, the way he could, because this was my home, and my entire background and family history was on display for people I'd met only two weeks ago.

The heaviness in the air gave way to nervous laughter with DeRosa's absence. Lamendola also assured me I'd be fine, and the room moved its focus to Jonathan's upcoming adventure. Cheski and Lamendola began pumping Jonathan up for his first undercover exploit. Trina lovingly stroked his soon-to-be-shaved Unabomber beard and then hugged him like he was stepping onto the space shuttle.

When the kitchen phone trilled, I walked out to answer it, taking the opportunity to disappear. There were a lot of moving parts in this case, and I needed a few moments to organize my thoughts. Before I could make a hasty exit, Trina grabbed my arm and led me to a far corner of the kitchen.

“Here,” she said, handing me a phone number scribbled on a napkin. “A woman with a Spanish accent called earlier and said it was urgent. I think maybe it was the woman who came to the house with your mother the other day.”

“Norma?”

“Yes, I think so. She called at the same time this Relatively.com stuff exploded. Maybe that's her calling back.”

“Thanks, Trina.” I held her close and whispered in her ear. “I'm sorry Jonathan has to do this for Teddy and me.”

I hurried to the one and only phone in the house: a wall-mounted, rotary-dial throwback with a five-foot spiral cord. Charlie had his own cell phone, but I had refused to give in to the inane cellular chats that dominated our public spaces. On the issue of communication devices, my stubbornness was admittedly ridiculous, since I was too young to have grown up with the antiquated clunker in our kitchen. I had, however, come to love the weighty feel of the handset, snug between my ear and shoulder. Cell phones have a way of making conversations disposable and if this was in fact Norma, I assumed it was a message worth keeping.