Drawing Conclusions (19 page)

“I'm thinking of something very ugly.” It was hard to say, even to my friends. “If Teddy thought the labs were being scammed, the first person he would have approached was my father.”

“So he knows something,” Charlie said.

“I'm starting to realize that,” I said, remembering now that DeRosa was hesitant to pass information on to me for fear it would get back to my father. “But let's get back to the connection between Becky and Naomi before we bring my dad into it. Let's say that Teddy realized Naomi was a phony. He gives her a chance to come clean. Maybe he sees something good in her, but he can't get her to crack. That seems to have been the tone of the card she sent him. Anyway, he calls her and tells her that he's about to reveal the truth. With her reputation and high-end lifestyle on the line, she kills herself.”

Cheski nodded in agreement and then added, “We also think it's possible she killed herself before someone else could. Based on the cash in the YWS account, someone was paying her a lot of money. Her failure made her a liability.”

“Seriously?” Charlie said. “That's twisted.”

“It's not pretty,” Cheski agreed. “But before she died, Naomi probably accessed Teddy's medical history, which was stored at the labs, hence the macadamia nuts.”

“Most probably delivered in a cookie or cake,” Trina finished.

“That leaves Igor. Why would he hang around?” I asked. Then I answered my own question. “Because there was still one person who knew the truth: my father. For sure, Teddy would have told my father that the labs were being manipulated into something unethical. The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that my father knew exactly what Teddy had figured out.”

“I'm going to fill in a blank,” Cheski said. “Relativity.com.”

“Charlie, give me your cell phone,” I said while I dug up the phone numbers I had transcribed from my parents' house phone. The paper was a bit worse for the soggy bike journey, but the numbers were still legible. I dialed each of the numbers, getting a hit on the third. “Yesterday morning at nine a.m. sharp, my father called Relativity.com's corporate offices.”

Cheski took my phone and listened to the end of the Relativity.com message. “You got this number off your parents' phone history?”

“I did.”

He jotted the number down and headed for the door. “This is good, CeCe. It's going to be hard for your father to deny knowing anything about this company now.”

“I'm scared.” Trina was riddled with alarm.

“Me too,” Charlie confided as he Googled Relativity.com. He spent a few minutes reading before summarizing his findings. “According to their site, Peter Dacks, CEO, has ‘a unique blend of industry experience in the medical field'.”

“Which means he's not a doctor and he's not a scientist,” I said. “So, basically he has no medical credentials. That's why he needs Sound View! He has no medical background.”

“Correct,” Charlie replied. “There is, however, a touched-up picture of a guy in his mid-fifties trying to look forty.”

Trina scooted over to get a better look at the man who was likely holding her boyfriend hostage. “Bastard,” she spit.

I leaned over Charlie's shoulder and took a hard look at the photo. Peter Dacks had a polished appeal, well put together, an obvious choice for a company front man. His pearly whites alone must have cost thousands. Although it was just a headshot from the shoulders up, you could tell Dacks was fit in the way men strive for when they want to defy the aging process. To complement his youthful physique, his blond hair had been highlighted and his “healthy glow” was most likely refurbished every two weeks at a tanning salon. As with every face I encountered, I stored it in my head, thinking that at some point I'd see it again.

“Relativity.com must be working your father as we speak. I'll bet Peter Dacks is forcing him to continue whatever Teddy was working on,” Charlie said. “That's why Igor came after you. It was a sign to your father.”

“Charlie, that's exactly what DeRosa said last night—that Igor's actions were meant as a message to someone. As in,
if you don't do this then I'll kill your other child
.”

“But why can't your dad just say what's happening?” Trina pleaded, as if my father could somehow turn off a running faucet and save Jonathan at the same time.

“Because he must be involved at a much higher level. Let's face it, I was almost murdered, twice, and the insanity still hasn't stopped.”

“Peter Dacks must have something on your father,” Charlie said. “Something big. Otherwise he would have allowed Teddy to stop whatever it was he was working on.”

“So that begs the question, what was my brother working on that got him killed?”

“And what does Peter Dacks have on the labs that your father doesn't want made public?” Charlie finished.

“I bet that's why DeRosa is abroad,” Trina added. “Jonathan thought Dacks had a Slavic accent, you think Igor is Eastern European, and Naomi was educated in an Eastern European medical university. That's the link.”

“And DeRosa knows it,” I said. “He's always one step ahead.”

twenty-nine

By 8 p.m., the
rain had stopped and Jonathan remained on-board the yacht, bobbing in the same spot it had been three hours before. Trina, Charlie, and I were invited back into the conference room for an update. As it stood, the boat hadn't left the dock, which put the FBI in a quandary. So far, no foul play had occurred. Jonathan visited the bath
room twice to send text messages, indicating his ability to communicate freely. Although Cheski and Lamendola had strongly encouraged Jonathan to walk off the boat in return texts, I suspected Jonathan had been sucked into the world of science he now longed for. Cheski, Lamendola, and the FBI were under intense pressure, and that was only exacerbated by Jonathan's stubbornness about vacating the boat. His texts were transcribed by hand on a mounted white board while various interpretations were voi
ced.

Comp. valid. Products real.

Dacks ???, but no customer fraud.

Biz model = lots of DNA. Need to build database.

“So where are we?” I asked, hoping someone with a badge would step up to the plate.

The man in the suit was an FBI agent by the name of David Swell. The name worked nicely for him because he was, in fact, a decent guy. Dapper without a bit of pretense. His hair was combed, his suit was tidy, and I'm sure he had a pleasant wife and three nice kids stashed away in the suburbs. Adding a feather to his cap, he didn't seem the slightest bit turned off by our Freegan ways, even offering us the leftovers from the bureau's take-out Chinese dinner.

“We have three maritime police boats strategically anchored in the exit points of Long Island Sound,” Agent Swell said. “We've also got a helicopter that's circling sparingly so as not to raise suspicion. And the area around the dock is blanketed with undercover cops.” Swell described the situation without raising unnecessary alarm. “I'm impressed with your friend Jonathan's eagerness to help, but at this point he needs to get off the boat. Peter Dacks is not who he says he is.”

“So who is he?” Trina had no patience left.

“According to Interpol, his name is Piotr Dackow and he was born in Belarus. He was a small-time scam artist in his hometown and his specialty is falsified papers. When Communism crumbled in the Eastern Bloc, he filled the gap across the Slavic countries by providing phony passports, licenses, and certification in any area required by the payer.” Swell passed around a file with photos of Piotr Dackow, alias Peter Dacks.

“What do you make of Jonathan's text messages?” Charlie asked.

Swell looked at the messages on the board and then addressed the group. “I think Jonathan is telling us that the bones of the Relativity.com business are legitimate as far as the product sold. With his background in genetics, he seems to be confirming their primary product, which tracks the customer's familial relatives.

“I think he's also reporting that Dacks is a bit slippery. My guess is that he comes off as a slick salesman and that's not Jonathan's speed. The last text is the most important and it has taken some research to understand what he's uncovered, but we've confirmed that companies like these—companies that compile DNA samples—are dependent on growing their information base. They're in the business of making conclusions based on volumes and volumes of DNA and then packaging and selling that information. To feed their database, they need DNA samples. The richer their database, the better the product and the more products they can offer.”

“Why?” Trina asked.

Swell spoke slowly and clearly, and I sensed that this one point was a crucial factor in the case. “Because one single case of anything is an anomaly. But two, three, four, or four hundred cases make it real. If you have an unexplainable symptom, it's an isolated case, until it's not. The larger the DNA database, the greater chance your inexplicable symptom can be explained. Relativity.com's current product of tracking relatives over generations is rather benign, but it's based on the same premise. The more DNA samples in the database, the more connections that can be made across family lines.”

I had no medical or genetic training, but I had grown up in the family business and had come to understand a few basics by sheer osmosis. My exposure helped me to an important conclusion.

“And the labs, through years of research, are probably one of the largest private holders of DNA samples,” I said.

“Yes,” Swell replied.

“And Teddy was working on decoding the human genome, which is essentially the Rosetta Stone of all of that DNA.”

“Right again.”

“So the combination of Teddy's work and gaining access to the labs' DNA database has the potential to make Relativity.com a genetic giant,” said Charlie, my brilliant-yet-underrated sometime bedmate. “By tracking relatives and then linking their medical histories, Relativity.com has the potential to own the key to life. More than that, they'd own your personal key.” He let his eyes travel across the room to ensure that everyone understood the impact of his next statement. “And that's what Teddy figured out. And knowing my best friend, he was disgusted by Relativity.com's attempt to sell information, the most intense personal information; namely, your own DNA code.”

“The end game,” I said to myself, wondering if DeRosa had gotten this far. The room fell silent. Even the soft shuffling of papers and keyboard tapping came to a halt.

Trina broke the silence. “Cheski, give me that cell phone.” She redialed the last number called and waited with arms crossed until Jonathan picked up and then in a very loud voice she barked, “Jonathan, you were supposed to be home hours ago. The children are asking for you. You promised to read them a bedtime story tonight.” And then she hung up.

Swell was flabbergasted, as were the other FBI officers, whose fingers erupted in a mad flurry of activity flying across keyboards and phone pads. Within minutes Cheski's phone rang back.

“It's Lamendola,” Cheski reported. “Jonathan is getting off the boat.”

Trina's face beamed with intense satisfaction, and I watched as her chest swelled with pride. “There, it's done. Unfortunately, that's the extent of my powers. The rest of you have to figure out what this Peter Dacks is holding over Dr. Prentice's head.”

thirty

The futon in my
studio was a mess of rumpled sheets and battered pillows when I woke the next morning. I stripped the bed and gathered up the piles of clothing that had formed in small heaps around the room, then headed to the basement laundry. Because I was nice, I included a few pairs of Charlie's boxers that had gotten tangled in my bed sheets. Our laundry setup was cumbersome and complicated, and I'd be the first to admit that Freegan clothes washing was difficult at best. In an attempt to conserve water, we collected and captured rain through a serious of drains and tubing that led to a cistern in the basement. A foot-activated pump lifted the water from the container into a washing machine only Laura Ingalls Wilder would have envied. The washer looked like an oversized mixer designed to whip up ten gallons of frosting. The base of the machine sat on a flat wood-burning stove with just enough air flow to allow the fire to catch.

Once the water heated up, we put a sparing amount of nontoxic detergent in it and then turned the crank to spin the clothes. Not surprisingly, used or discarded detergent was impossible to come by unless you can find a way to scoop up buckets of bubbles before they pop and dissipate. I detested this chore because every load made me pine for a spanking-new white t-shirt from the Gap. My Freegan weakness. Once you go Freegan, you have to accept that you will never wear a perfectly white piece of clothing again. The washing exercise was antiquated enough that I had lobbied hard for a low-energy, low-emission Scandinavian machine that cost as much as flying to Sweden to have your clothing dry cleaned by the royal family. I'd been outvoted.

As if the washing wasn't bad enough, you still had to pray for a sunny or breezy day to hang the clothes on the line. The only upside was that process gave me ample time to think.

As I turned the handle on the machine, my shoulder braced against the contraption to intensify the speed, my thoughts kept going back to what Teddy learned in the days before his death. If he wanted to make an accusation, then he must have had proof. Scientists live for proof, and I was sure my brother had documented his findings. He would never have pointed a finger randomly without having his test tubes in a row. At the least, he must have presented something concrete to my father, his mentor and professional c
onfidant. Based on my father's actions (or rather, his inaction), it appeared he had dismissed it all initially. This would have upset Teddy tremendously, hence his noncommunicative behavior in the days preceding his death. We knew that Teddy was on to Naomi and that he had probably figured out her connection to Relativity.com. Through Naomi, he had probably learned that Dacks was squeezing the labs for DNA samples. Teddy must have been horrified when my father refused to stop the transfer of personal information to Relativity.com. Ted
dy probably threatened to go public.

The most likely places to search for his findings were his apartment and his office at the labs. Unfortunately both had already been thoroughly picked over by the police without uncovering anything of substance. I considered another angle. Was it possible that Teddy tried to leave information with a neutral party? Had he told Charlie, his best friend, something in passing? Had he engaged in conversation with a peer at the labs? Had he unknowingly left the information with my father without realizing my father's potential involvement?

Or had Teddy attempted to make contact with
me
in the days preceding his death? If Teddy suspected my father of something sinister then a likely sympathetic ear would have been his twin sister, for the sole reason that I would have believed him without question. A slam dunk. If Teddy had come to me and said, “CeCe, Dad did something wrong,” my reply would have been an emphatic, “No shit, Sherlock.” But given the gravity of the situation, the information might have put me in danger, so Teddy would have taken my safety under serious consideration before telling me anything. Of course, I was now in danger anyhow, but I still had no idea what Teddy had known. Somehow, the threats against my life would have been more understandable if I knew what the hell was going on.

It was a long shot, but there was one place my brother could transfer information to me without anyone knowing. And he wouldn't even have needed to leave his office building to complete the task. I stopped my churning mid-cycle and ran upstairs to the house phone.

“Dr. Grovit, it's CeCe Prentice.”

“Yes, dear. How are you? I've been thinking about you since Teddy passed,” the man replied with genuine compassion. “A horrible affair. We're all devastated here at the labs. A loss for the entire scientific community.”

“Thank you. Your condolences mean a lot to me.”

“What can I help you with? I wondered if you might call for a sleeping pill or such. Nothing to be embarrassed about in times of stress, you know.”

“No, that's not it. I'm holding it together.” Then, choosing my words carefully, I revealed the purpose of my call. “Dr. Grovit, this may sound odd, but since Teddy's death, I realize that I need to act like an adult. A good place to start would be finding my own doctors instead of relying on the labs' medical staff.”

“Actually, I think that's a wonderful idea.” As soon as he said it, I sighed with relief. “I'd be happy to recommend a number of doctors in the area.”

“Wonderful. Can I come by today and get my medical files?”

“I see no reason why not. The files are your personal property and what with all the new privacy laws, I'd almost prefer patient files to be in the hands of the patient rather than a messenger service.”

“Great. Just leave them at the front desk and I'll swing by this morning. Thanks again.” I hung up the phone and paced the kitchen. I wasn't thrilled to be going to the campus because there
was always the possibility of meeting up with my father. For all I knew, Dr. Grovit's amenable response was staged and he was dialing my father right this instant. By the time I got to the labs, my file could be reduced to the height and weight chart from my childhood. I decided to try another tactic to avoid a possible interception of my files. I called the main number of the labs and waited until I reached a live operator.

I modulated my voice trying to recapture the tone of a balanced person following up on mundane paperwork. “Good morning, can you transfer me to Records, please?” The operator pressed some buttons and within seconds my call was propelled through the labs' phone network.

“Records,” the wonk on the other end of the line grunted. I imagined a troll toiling away in a sun-deprived corner of the campus's basement. I hoped he was so happy to hear another human voice that he'd start work on my files immediately.

“Hey there. I'm a patient of Dr. Grovit's.”

“Check.”

“Check, what?” I asked.

“Got a request for paperwork for a patient of Dr. Grovit's about two minutes ago.”

“Yes, that would be me. Constance Prentice.” There was no reaction to my name. I was thrilled that the guy in Records had no idea who signed his paycheck each week. “I'm in the building now and I thought I'd come directly to Records to pick up my file.”

“Save me a trip upstairs. I don't like going upstairs.”

“Well then, I'm happy to do it. Just tell me where you are.”

“Wait,” he said as my heart sunk to my knees.

“Is there a problem?”

“I got two files for Prentice,” he answered. “Actually, I got a bunch, five in all. Big family, huh?”

“Yes, there's quite a few of us. I'm Constance.”

“Let me put the phone down,” he said, and I listened as he shuffled across the cement floor. I counted to twenty in my head, continuing to thirty until I finally heard the troll shuffle back to the phone. “Okay, walk to the back of the main building and then take the elevator to the basement. Go through the double doors and turn right. I'll be waiting.”

I bet you will
, I thought. I grabbed the keys to the Gremlin and shouted upstairs for Cheski.

“What do you want, CeCe?”

“I need a chaperone.”

–––

The labs were in full scientific swing when Cheski and I arrived at nearly 10 a.m. The administration and staff were on their second cups of coffee, hammering away at theorems and experiments with gleeful enthusiasm. Cheski was the first to comment.

“Everyone is smiling,” he huffed. “They must be pumping in extra oxygen.”

“Despite what I think about my father personally, it's actually a nice place to work.” I waved politely to a few familiar faces. A few doctors came up to me to express their condolences, but as always with death, the interactions were slightly awkward. The employees knew something was wrong. I presumed everyone knew about Naomi's suicide and the threats on my life. So although I received broad smiles, some of the doctors tilted their shoulders away from me, as though murder was contagious and I was Typhoid Mary. I understood completely. Post-death interactions, especially those involving murder, never come with directions. It didn't help matters that Cheski's entire presence screamed
cop
. We followed the directions to the Records department and exited the elevator on the basement level.

“In all my years of police work, I've never been to the morgue,” Cheski said.

“I'd only take you to the morgue if I knew Igor was resting comfortably on a slab.”

“I'd pay to see that.”

“Just wait, I think this visit will be just as interesting.” I pushed my way through the swinging doors leading to the Records department. I rang the old-fashioned bell and then waited to hear the familiar shuffle from the stacks. To my great surprise, a jaw-dropping specimen of human perfection stepped from behind a file cabinet. As it turned out, the Records troll was one camera shot away from a Calvin Klein underwear advertisement. He was amazingly tall with a perfect physique and eyes that swirled like warm chocolate milk in a mug.

“Hi, we spoke earlier. I'm Constance Prentice,” I said as I stuck my hand out over the counter. The man standing behind the counter made no attempt to return my shake. Despite his rebuff, I couldn't stop smiling. My pearly whites, unfortunately, went largely unnoticed because the Records guy refused to catch my eye. My head bobbed up and down trying to find a way into his line of vision, but I quickly realized why he'd chosen to work in the basement. Despite his extremely pleasing physical attributes, this man probably suffered from a severe social disorder. I restrained myself when I realized he wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

“What have you got for me?” I asked, pulling my hand back to reduce his anxiety.

“More than I expected,” he said and pointed to four full cardboard boxes marked
C. Prentice
. “You must be a sick one.”

“I'm much better now,” I replied and winked for good measure.

“I got a lot of boxes myself,” he answered, and I nodded in the solidarity of the sick.

“Thanks so much for your help.”

“Just doing my job,” he responded and then stepped back to expand his personal space. “Sign here.”

As I signed my name, I asked what I hoped would be an ordinary question. “So each time a patient's files are pulled from Records, someone has to sign?”

“Yup,” he said and then scanned down a list of signatures. “You got pulled two months ago.” He pushed the paper toward me and indicated a signature. T. Prentice signed in mid-April.

“Good to know,” I said, hoping that whatever Teddy had found in my file would help us. “Have a great day.”

The Records guy gave Cheski and me a rolling cart for the boxes and told us to leave the trolley at the main reception desk by the front door.

“What next?” Cheski asked as we boarded the elevator. “A visit to the psych ward?”

“Nice. And you're supposed to be a protector of the people.” I smirked. “You get the car, and I'll wait here with the boxes.” I rolled the cart back to reception. As I parked the cart, I heard my name from across the lobby. The voice was low, steady, and very familiar.

“Constance.”

I could have bolted through the front doors, but I hesitated one second too long. Just enough time to hear my name again.

“Constance,” my father repeated. “I'd like to see you in my office.”

My boxes remained in a pile by the front door and I didn't want to leave them unattended. When Teddy had pulled my files two months ago, he must have stashed something in the folders, I was sure of it. I caught Cheski parking the Gremlin near the front doors and gave him the
two minutes
signal with my fingers. As long as he transferred the boxes safely to the trunk, I'd be okay. I turned and followed my father.

Dr. William Prentice's office bordered on spectacular with wide open views of the Long Island Sound. On a clear day, the Connecticut shore was in full view and I wondered if he hadn't sat here with a pair of binoculars watching Jonathan squirm his way through an interview on Peter Dacks's yacht. For some reason, I felt renewed confidence, as if the connections between the players were being laid as thick as cable wire so strong I could get across them like a tightrope walker. With that in mind I refused to be interrogated by my father, instead putting myself on the offensive.

“Have you addressed mom's illness since we spoke? Your negligence is upsetting to me.”

“Negligence? That's an accusatory word to use with a doctor.”

“If the stethoscope fits,” I let the implication linger.

“Your mother is entering a facility tomorrow.”

Unbelievable. He couldn't even say the word
rehab
, instead watering it down to a generic facility. Even if the love between my parents had diminished, I hoped that an ounce of respect remained. Yet my father, in his capacity as a doctor and a husband, could not bring himself to admit my mother's obvious struggle with alcohol. I wanted to lash out at him with an exhaustive list of charges that climaxed with the death of my brother. But up to this point I had nothing definitive to back up such claims. I somehow knew that Teddy had placed something in my medical files for me to find, and I was too close to the answer to let anything get in my way. So I held my tongue between my teeth and sqashed my urge to point a finger at my father.