The Common Lawyer

FIFTEEN

"Why can't you find Frankie Doyle?"

"Because she doesn't want to be found."

"You found the first six women."

"They weren't hiding."

At nine sharp the next morning, Andy was sitting across the desk from Hollis McCloskey. Hollis leaned back in his chair.

"See, Andy, America's a transient society. A hundred million people move every year, across the street or across the country, usually for a bigger home or a better job. But that means two hundred million people don't move. Sue Todd, Tameka Evans, Sylvia Gutierrez-they hadn't moved from their last-known addresses. Amanda Pearce had, but to another house in Chicago. So those four were easy."

"How'd you find Beverly Greer and Pam Ward?"

"Beverly moved from Denver to Seattle, so I called her old neighbors in Denver. I got their names from the tax records-properties are indexed by address-then I called information and got their phone numbers. The first neighbor didn't live there when Beverly did, the second one did. She gave me Beverly's new address in Seattle."

"What about Pam Ward?"

"She moved from L.A. to Dallas. I couldn't get hold of her neighbors, so I called the new owner of her L.A. condo."

"How'd you get the phone number?"

"Criss-cross directory. You can search the physical address and get the phone number, if it's a land line. It was. Anyway, Pam had seller-financed the condo, so the new owner sent payments to her in Dallas. She gave me the address."

"I never realized how easy it is to find someone."

"It is, if you know what you're doing-and if they're not hiding. People who aren't hiding leave a paper trail-mortgages, leases, phone records, utility bills… but Frankie Doyle moved and didn't leave a paper trail. She's hiding."

"From whom?"

"Her ex-husband."

Hollis sat forward and opened a file on his desk.

"Frankie Doyle's last-known address was in Boston three years ago. She was twenty-five, married to one Michael aka Mickey Doyle, with a five-year-old daughter named Abigail. Worked as a waitress in a bar at a high-dollar downtown hotel, the Boston Grand. Then she and Mickey got divorced, and she and the minor disappeared."

"What makes you think she's hiding from him?"

"He hit her. Mickey-he's an ex-boxer, still lives at the same address in Boston-was convicted twice of assault, not on her, but everyone I talked to said he hit her. I figure she got fed up, divorced the bastard, and split with the kid." He shrugged. "Frankie Doyle doesn't exist anymore."

"What do you mean, she doesn't exist?"

"I mean her paper trail ended with the divorce. I figure she changed her name so Mickey couldn't find her. Problem is, we can't find her either."

"But she'd have to file a name change in the county court where she's living. Search those records."

"I did, the ones that are online. Problem is, Andy, there are over three thousand counties in the U.S., each with their own records, and the smaller ones, probably half those counties, their records aren't online. If Frankie Doyle's smart, and I think she is, she moved to a small county in the middle of nowhere, probably out west where there aren't many people, and changed her name there, where the records aren't online. Only way to find her is to do a manual records search in all those counties-fifteen hundred counties."

"Needle in a haystack."

"Exactly. And even if your client was willing to foot the bill for me to hire PIs in every state to do a manual search in every county, that'd take months. By then, she'd probably have moved and changed her name again. Then we'd have to search in every county again, under her new name."

"So she just fell off the grid?"

"Living off the grid, that's harder than most people think. You can't have a cell phone in your name, or a credit card, you can't buy a car or a home, you can't live in a reputable apartment complex, you can't have a bank account or a driver's license. People talk about living off the grid, but it's just that. Talk."

"So how are you going to find Frankie Doyle?"

"I'm probably not. Andy, I've run down every rabbit trail I could find. I searched all the online records-property taxes, voter and vehicle registrations, marriage and business licenses… she's not a lawyer, accountant, doctor, nurse, barber, PI, pest control technician, nothing that requires a license. She hasn't voted in any state, county, or local election, as least not as Frankie Doyle."

"What about her driver's license? She's got to be driving a car."

"I can't get driver's license records anymore. Federal law restricts access now, because of identity theft."

"What else?"

"I searched all my proprietary databases, fee services for PIs. Nothing. Usually I have a good phone number, and I'm looking for a physical address. But I couldn't find any phones, land lines or cell."

"But if she changed her name, it wouldn't be under Frankie Doyle anyway."

"Exactly. I searched the federal PACER system-a national federal court search for civil, criminal, and bankruptcy cases. Nothing. I searched the state criminal records available online, but I need her DOB-date of birth-to do a thorough search. I ran a prison inmate search-"

"Prison?"

Hollis shrugged. "You never know."

"And?"

"She's not an inmate in the federal system or in most of the state systems-I can't search them all. Hell, I even called Mickey." Hollis shook his head. "Now he's a piece of work. Lives in his deceased parents' house, drives their car, works at his dad's garage. Probably wears his old man's underwear."

"What'd he say?"

"Nothing. When I asked about Frankie, he hung up. So I called the bar she worked at, talked to the bartender, name's Benny. Said she worked there for seven years, didn't show up for her shift one night. Never saw or heard from her again. Didn't even collect her last paycheck."

"Maybe she's dead?"

"I ran her name in the Social Security Death Master File-she didn't come up dead. But that doesn't mean she isn't. Anyway, Benny told me her mother lived a few doors down from her, so I called her. Number's listed. Colleen O'Hara. Nice lady, but she didn't know her own whereabouts, much less Frankie's. Alzheimer's."

"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.

"Mrs. O'Hara?"

"Who?"

"Ma'am, are you Frankie's mother?"

"Where's Frankie?"

"I don't know, ma'am. I'm trying to find her."

"I want to see my baby."

"May I come in and talk?"

She smiled. "Okay."

Andy stepped through the door and into 1955. The carpet was shag, the upholstery brocade, and the room dimly lit by a few old lamps. He counted five cats lounging around. The television was on to the soaps. Mrs. O'Hara sat in a thick chair directly in front of the TV. Andy looked around. A dozen framed black-and-white drawings by "F. Doyle" hung on the walls. All were stark and desolate landscapes. They reminded Andy of West Texas and New Mexico.

"Frankie's an artist."

"Yes, ma'am, she is. Mrs. O'Hara, do you have a photo of Frankie?"

She reached over to the end table next to her chair and picked up a framed picture. She held it out to him. It was a photo of a pretty young woman and a cute girl in thick snow. They were wearing parkas with the hoods snug around their faces. They were happy. And alive.

Andy considered stealing the photo, but just the thought made him feel like a creep-stealing from an old lady with Alzheimer's. So he tried to memorize Frankie Doyle's image. Hers was not a hard face to look at. Her hair was tucked inside the hood of her parka; he assumed a girl named O'Hara would have red hair-or perhaps it was just wishful thinking, given his thing for redheads-but there was something about her that made him want to find her. To see her in real life.

Mrs. O'Hara was focused on the soaps, so Andy walked into the adjacent kitchen. On the small table was a short stack of bills. He thumbed through them and saw a telephone bill.

"Mrs. O'Hara, does Frankie call you?"

"Frankie's on the phone?"

"Uh, no, ma'am."

Andy removed the telephone bill and scanned down the numbers listed for the calls that came daily. All were incoming but no location was noted; the numbers were all 888 prefixes. Hollis was right; Frankie was smart. She was using a prepaid phone card to call her mother. She could be calling from New York or L.A.; there was no way to know.

Andy couldn't think of anything else he might learn from Colleen O'Hara, so he went back into the front room and said goodbye then handed the framed photo back to her.

"Mrs. O'Hara, where was this photo taken?"

She put on her reading glasses and looked at the photo.

"That's Frankie… and Abby."

"Yes, ma'am. Where were they in this photo?"

"In the snow."

"What state?"

She gazed off as if trying to find the answer written on the ceiling. Andy thought of his father, how his memory had deteriorated as a result of his liver disease. His forgetfulness frustrated the hell out of Paul Prescott; at least Colleen O'Hara didn't know to be frustrated.

"Thanks, Mrs. O'Hara." He gave her his business card. "When Frankie calls, ask her to call me. It's important."

She smiled.

"I'll let myself out."

He was almost out the door when she said, "Montana."

Benny had said that Frankie Doyle had never traveled farther than fifty miles from Boston, so the Montana photo must have been taken after she had left Boston three years ago. Frankie Doyle had moved to Montana.

Where Andy Prescott now was.

Billings was in eastern Montana and the largest city in the state with a population of 100,000. Hollis McCloskey had said Frankie Doyle might have moved to a small county in a state out west to change her name. So Andy tried to think like Frankie Doyle. There was usually a statutory period to establish residency, typically six months, so Frankie would have to live in the county for at least that long before she could change her name. So she would find a small county near a bigger city. Billings wasn't Boston, but it would have some amenities. That's what he would do; maybe that's what she had done.

He had flown from Boston to Billings and rented a Lincoln Navigator. He had consulted a map and found the least populated counties near Billings: Golden Valley (population 1021), Petroleum (population 497), and Treasure (population 735). The latter county was located ninety-three miles east of Billings on Interstate 94. An easy drive.

Andy exited the interstate and drove into Hysham, population 330, the county seat of Treasure County. The Yellowstone River flowed through town; rolling land stretched in all directions as far as he could see. It was a stark and desolate landscape, and it was in one of Frankie Doyle's sketches at her mother's house.

He was in the right town.

Andy parked in front of the Treasure County Courthouse. He hurried inside-he wasn't dressed for thirty-eight degrees-and into the county clerk's office. He asked for name change filings from two to three years before for "Doyle, Frankie." The records were not online. The clerk had to search manually. But she found it.

Two years before, Frankie Doyle had changed her name to Rachel Holcombe.

Andy checked the tax records, but he could find no real estate or vehicles owned by a Rachel Holcombe. He found no Rachel Holcombe listed in the phone book for the greater Billings area. Andy bought a copy of the name change filing and went outside. He called Hollis McCloskey. When McCloskey came on the line, Andy said, "Frankie Doyle is now Rachel Holcombe. H-o-l-c-o-m-b-e. Find her, Hollis."