The Common Lawyer (25 page)

"How do you know?"

"I called the neighbors on either side of Mickey. They know Mrs. O'Hara, watch out for her. Frankie's father, he's deceased. No siblings. But the neighbors didn't know Frankie's whereabouts. And they said Mickey hit her." Hollis paused. "He's not your secret client, is he?"

"Mickey? No."

"Good. She was smart, to get away from him before she ends up on the news, another woman killed by a crazy ex-husband."

"What about her credit report?"

"Two problems with credit reports. One, if I pull her report for an unlawful purpose, it's a federal crime—and finding an old girlfriend is not a lawful purpose, Andy. Besides, it's a moot point—she won't be using a credit card."

"Why not?"

"Because she knows she can be tracked that way. Her credit report shows whenever a creditor—a lender, landlord, employer—makes an inquiry, so she won't have gotten a loan or a job or rented an apartment, at least not a nice one. Standard apps allow them to run a credit check."

"What's the second problem?"

"Credit bureaus won't release their reports to PIs anymore. People sued them."

"Dang. What about her social security number?"

"With a name only, my search pulled up thousands of Frank or Frankie or F. Doyles. With name and DOB, I'd get hundreds. With name, DOB, and social security account number, I'd get one. I checked the divorce records, but her SSAN was deleted. Problem is, it's almost impossible these days to get someone's SSAN legitimately. No one wants to release it—invasion of privacy laws."

"You were with the FBI, maybe your buddies could get it … or pull her tax return."

Hollis shook his head. "That's jail time, Andy. We've got privacy laws in the U.S., even if the government forgets sometimes. I told you, Andy, I go by the book."

"The book needs another chapter."

"Andy, some PIs have arrangements with data brokers who cross the line. I don't."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to go to prison like that PI-to-the-stars out in Hollywood. He got fifteen years in federal prison, for crossing the line."

"I'll pay you a thousand an hour."

"Andy, I spent twenty-five years putting people in jail. I'm not about to join them now, not for any amount of money. You want me to continue with the other women?"

Andy nodded. "Give me what you've got on Frankie Doyle."

That afternoon Andy flew first class to Boston.

He had called Russell Reeves to report back about his conversation with McCloskey.

"Go to Boston, Andy," Russell had said. "Find her."

Andy read her file on the flight. Hollis had compiled Frankie Doyle's life history from birth until three years ago. Then her life went blank. Andy was betting she was dead.

He arrived late, rented a BMW, and booked a $500-a-night suite at the Boston Grand Hotel in downtown, the same hotel where Frankie had worked. After checking in, he went into the bar and ordered a beer. Benny was on duty. He was maybe forty, a bald guy, big but not menacing like Darrell. Andy introduced himself and told him he was trying to find Frankie Doyle.

"Got a call a few days ago, Irish PI in Austin named McCloskey, asking about Frankie."

"He works for me. I'm a lawyer."

"So why do you want to find Frankie?"

"To help her."

"What's wrong with her?"

"To help her child, actually."

"Abby? What's wrong with her?"

"I don't know yet."

Benny gave him an odd look. "Well, like I told your man McCloskey, I haven't seen or heard from Frankie in three years. She didn't show for her shift one night, after seven years." He paused. "You don't think she's dead?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

That seemed to take the air out of Benny.

"She was a good Irish girl married to a lousy Irish mug."

"Mickey?"

Benny nodded. "He hit her."

"So I've heard."

"When she divorced him, I asked her to marry me."

"Did y'all see each other?"

"Frankie Doyle cheat? No way. Catholic girl, lifetime of guilt, all that." He shrugged. "I still loved her. But she just wanted to get the hell away from Mickey."

"Any idea where?"

He shook his head. "She'd never been more than fifty miles from home, but she used to talk about moving to Montana or Texas, having horses. I told her she was a city girl, wouldn't know what to do in the country."

Benny stepped away to serve a customer at the other end of the bar. Andy drank his beer and tried to imagine Frankie Doyle working there. It was a sports bar, but a classy place with an elegant wood bar and tables and leather chairs, a mirror behind the bar, and a flat-screen TV on the wall along with framed sports memorabilia—signed jerseys from the Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics, and Bruins—and sports-themed art. The only real art hung behind the bar, a black-and-white pencil drawing of Benny. Andy leaned over to read the artist's name: "F. Doyle."

"Frankie sketched that. One day, we weren't busy."

Benny had returned.

"She wanted to be an artist."

"She was."

Benny stared at his image.

"I hope she still is."

Andy said goodnight and went up to his room. He ordered room service, drank three more beers, and watched a movie on pay-per-view.

The next morning, Andy found Frankie Doyle's last-known address in a working-class neighborhood in South Boston. It was a brick row house situated among blocks of identical structures. He parked, went to the door, and knocked. No one answered.

"You looking for Mickey?"

The next-door neighbor, an old guy, was standing on the other side of a waist-high hedge.

"You know where I can find him?"

He pointed down the street.

"Doyle's Garage, two blocks down."

"Thanks." Andy stepped to the hedge. "Did you know Frankie?"

"Sure. She's been gone three years now, since she divorced Mickey. He hit her. When he drank, which was every day. Guess she got tired of it. Took the girl and left the bastard."

"Was the girl sick?"

"Abby? Not that I knew. She was a real tomboy, that one."

Finally, a woman without a sick kid. Maybe it was just odds, like Russell said. But that was three years ago.

"Any idea where they went?"

The old man shook his head.

"Where does Frankie's mother live?"

The man nodded down the street.

"Three houses down."

Andy said thanks and drove to Doyle's Garage. It was a small place, not much bigger than a two-car garage, with a dozen cars parked outside. Inside, Andy found the smell of oil and grease and a man ducked under the hood of a car.

"Mickey Doyle?"

From under the hood: "Who's asking?"

"Andy Prescott. I'm a lawyer from Texas."

The man came out now. He had closely-cropped red hair; he looked to be a few years older than Andy. He was built like a boxer with a nose that had been broken more than once. His hands were black with grease. He didn't seem happy to see Andy.

"Go away."

Andy pulled out his wallet and removed ten $100 bills. He placed the cash on the car.

"I need some information."

The man eyed the cash then Andy.

"What do you want to know?"

"You're Mickey Doyle?"

"Yeah."

"I'm trying to find Frankie."

"Did she come into money?"

"Not yet."

"Well, I ain't seen or heard from Frankie since the day she divorced me. Three years ago."

"Any idea where she's living?"

"Nope." Mickey pointed at a tool stand. "Hand me that wrench."

Andy handed the wrench to Mickey. He now had grease on his hands. He searched for a rag.

"That's her real name, Frankie?"

"Yep. Sean O'Hara, her old man, he ran an Irish pub, good place, long gone now. Wanted a football player, got a girl instead. So he named her Frankie O'Hara. After Frank Gifford."

Mickey went back to work. Andy didn't have a clue who Frank Gifford was.

"You and Frankie grew up together?"

"She's seven years younger than me. We married soon as she graduated high school."

"And had a daughter. You don't see Abby?"

"Had to give up my rights, to stay out of prison. Three strikes."

"Was she sick?"

"Frankie?"

"Abby."

"No, Abby wasn't sick."

"You got any photos of her?"

"You want photos of Abby?"

"No. Frankie."

"Oh. Burned 'em all. So I'd forget her." He paused and stared at the engine. "Didn't work."

"She have any relatives still living here, other than her mother?"

"Frankie was an only child. Sean, he kept getting Colleen pregnant, but she kept miscarrying. Finally had to yank out her plumbing."

"Is she at home?"

"Always."

"She know where Frankie's living?"

"Hell, Colleen don't know where
she's
living. She's got that Alzheimer's. She takes a walk, can't find her way back home. I gotta go looking for her two, three times a week." He pointed again. "Hand me that socket drive."

Andy handed the tool to him.

"Mickey, you think Frankie's dead?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause she calls Colleen every day."

"How do you know?"

"Colleen tells me, when I check on her."

"You check on your ex-mother-in-law?"

"Every morning. Make sure she ain't hurt herself."

"Mickey, you been trying to find Frankie?"

Mickey stopped working the socket drive. He rested his weight on the car frame. He didn't look at Andy.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you want her back."

"Look, I'd take Frankie back, but she don't want me back. Hell, she put a restraining order on me. I go near her or Abby, I go to prison."

"Anyone else who might be looking for her?"

"You." He now faced Andy. "Why are you looking for her?"

"I can't say. What's Frankie's birthday?"

"July seven. Nineteen eighty."

"What's her social security number?"

"I can't say."

"I'll double the cash."

"I can't say 'cause I don't know. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. I don't know you from Adam. You come in here asking questions, I don't know what you're up to." He gestured at the $100 bills. "Can I have the cash now?"

Andy nodded, and Mickey grabbed the green. Andy handed his business card to him.

"That's my cell phone number. Call me if you think of anything, where she might be, okay? It's important."

Mickey took the card and stared at it.

"Traffic tickets and finding people … must pay good."

"Better than you'd think."

Mickey stuck the card in his shirt pocket and ducked back under the hood.

Andy called Hollis McCloskey and gave him Frankie's date of birth. Then he drove downtown to the Suffolk County Courthouse. He found the clerk's office and asked for the divorce file for
Frankie Doyle vs. Michael Doyle
from three years before. The clerk checked her computer.

"That file's been sent to archives. You can put in an order, come back next week."

"Do you show the attorney for Frankie Doyle?"

"Marty O'Connor."

She gave him the lawyer's phone number. Andy stepped outside and called O'Connor on his cell phone. When he was put through to the lawyer, Andy identified himself and explained that he was trying to locate Frankie.

"For what purpose?" O'Connor said.

"That's confidential, Marty."

"Well, so is what I know about Frankie."

"Do you know where she's living?"

"No. But I wouldn't tell you if I did. Look, Andy, do her a favor, and leave her alone. She's been through enough."

"With Mickey?"

O'Connor hesitated then said, "Yeah, with Mickey."

"My client wants to help her."

"No, he doesn't. Just leave her alone, Andy."

They hung up. Andy went to the tax office and checked the tax records; Frankie Doyle owned no real property in Suffolk County. He checked the Department of Motor Vehicles; no car in Massachusetts was registered to Frankie Doyle.

Andy drove back to Colleen O'Hara's residence and knocked on the door; an old woman answered.