The Common Lawyer

SIXTEEN

The cell phone woke Andy at six-thirty on the last day of October.

"Hello."

"Did you find Frankie Doyle?"

Russell Reeves.

"I found out she got divorced and moved to Montana three years ago. Changed her name."

"Why?"

"She's running from her ex-husband. He hit her."

"So you found her in Montana?"

"No. She moved again."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Hollis searched under her new name, couldn't find her anywhere in Montana, so I flew home last night. I'm going to see him this morning."

"Find her, Andy."

Two hours later, Andy walked into Hollis McCloskey's office. The PI smiled.

"You didn't have to dress up, Andy."

Andy was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a "Don't Blame Me-I Voted Kinky" T-shirt. Hollis was being sarcastic. Again.

"Nothing else was clean."

Hollis nodded. "Best thing about having a wife, Andy. Clean clothes."

Agent McCloskey was a romantic bastard.

"Tell me about Rachel Holcombe."

"She ceased to exist a year ago. Same deal."

"How can she do that?"

"Because she's smart. She knows what she's doing. Andy, this girl, she does not want to be found."

"So she divorced Mickey, moved to Montana, changed her name, moved again, and changed her name again?"

Hollis nodded. "She must really be afraid of him."

"He didn't seem that interested in finding her."

"Assholes like Mickey, they don't usually fess up."

"But he's working at his garage every day."

"Probably hired someone to find her. Like you did."

"But you didn't. Find her."

Hollis turned his palms up. "Look at the bright side, Andy: neither will Mickey. Oh, I ran criminal background checks on Frankie Doyle, Frankie O'Hara, and Rachel Holcombe with that DOB. No arrests or convictions. She's clean."

"Any luck on her social security number? That would follow her through her name changes."

"It would, but she's using a fake number."

"How do you know?"

"Because she hasn't gone to all this trouble only to be tracked down with her SSAN."

"Hollis, isn't there anything you can do?"

"By the book, Andy."

"Damnit, Hollis, we gotta find this woman!"

"Why? Why does your client want to find this woman?"

"I told you, that's confidential."

"Look, Andy, I'm getting a bad feeling about this assignment-I smell a rat."

"The woman?"

"Your client."

"He's not a rat, Hollis."

"Then why's he spending so much money to find these women?"

Andy and the ex-FBI agent stared at each other as if to see who would blink first. How much should he tell Hollis? How much information would allow Hollis to identify his client as Russell Reeves? He needed Hollis McCloskey to find Frankie Doyle. And he needed to find Frankie Doyle to keep his rich client happy. And he needed his rich client happy to stay in the life-the money, the loft and lounges, Suzie and Bobbi.

"These women, they're my client's old girlfriends. He wants to find them and help them because he didn't treat them right. He wants to make amends."

"How?"

"Money."

"How much?"

"A million."

"Each?"

Andy nodded.

"That sound reasonable to you?"

"Hollis, rich people are eccentric."

"No, Andy, rich people are connivers, cheats, crooks, conmen, and criminals-at least all the rich people I met when I was with the FBI were."

"Now you work for rich people."

Hollis shrugged. "I'm not with the FBI anymore."

"My client's not that kind of rich guy. He's just…"

"What? Troubled, delusional, psychotic, sick?" Hollis sat back. "Andy, this doesn't pass the smell test. I don't know what your client is up to, but I don't like it. I'm off the case."

"You won't try to find her?"

"Not unless you tell me what this is really all about."

Andy didn't think he should mention the sick kids. That might make the G-man suspicious; and he might connect the dots: sick kids… rich man in Austin with a sick kid… Russell Reeves.

"Hollis, it really is all about a rich guy finding his old girlfriends and giving them money. He wants to clear up his old debts, so he can have peace."

Hollis shook his head. "I don't buy it."

"Why not?"

"Rich people don't give their money away for nothing. They always want something in return."

"Hollis, I've personally handed cashier's checks to the first six women, for a million dollars each. He's never asked for anything in return. Will you at least look for the others?"

Hollis handed him a file. "This is the dossier on the eighth woman."

"So that's it?"

"I'm done."

"Why?"

"Because I think I'm being used, Andy… and I think you are, too."

Andy walked out of Hollis McCloskey's office and called Tres to ask a small favor: pull Michael and Frankie Doyle's income tax return from three years back then track her later returns. Get her social security number. Find her address. Tres laughed.

"Andy, did you get hit by a car and suffer a head injury?"

"No."

"Well, you're asking me to commit a felony. Jail time, buddy. They can track our computer usage, every keystroke. I type in her name, Big Brother will know it… and want to know why I did it. Sorry, Andy, but no way."

"Tres-"

"Andy, you're drinking the Kool-Aid."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've had a taste of it, and you like it. The money. Reverend Russell gave you salvation, lifted you out of your old broke life and gave you a new and improved life, and now you'll do anything to keep it-even drink his Kool-Aid-so you don't have to go back to your old life. I told you, Andy."

Tres was wrong. Andy Prescott wasn't doing it for the money. He could walk away from Russell Reeves and his money-and the new life his money had given Andy-any time he wanted to. He wasn't doing it for the loft and the lounges and Suzie and Bobbi; he was doing it for Frankie Doyle… and for her sick kid. Okay, she might not have been sick three years ago, but she probably was now. And to find her and help her, he needed a more creative private investigator than some lame-ass by-the-book I-don't-wander-off-the-reservation ex-FBI agent.

So he rode the Stumpjumper straight from Hollis McCloskey's office in downtown Austin to Lorenzo Escobar's office in SoCo. PRIVATE INVESTIGATION and BAIL BONDS were painted in black letters on the plate-glass front window. Andy walked in and found a Spartan space and a handsome Latino man sitting at a big wood table and tapping on a laptop. Andy recognized Ramon's distinctive work on his forearms. He looked to be about forty and had jet black hair combed straight back, a neatly trimmed black goatee, and black reading glasses riding low on his nose. He was wearing a black T-shirt tight around his lean torso and muscular arms, black leather wrist bands, black jeans, black cowboy boots, and a black gun in a black holster clipped to his black belt. He was a good typist.

Without looking up at Andy, the man said, "It's legal."

"What?"

"The gun."

The National Rifle Association's Austin chapter-also known as the Texas legislature-had recently passed numerous "shoot first and ask questions later" laws giving Texans the right to (a) kill any person unlawfully entering their homes, (b) carry a weapon in their cars to protect themselves against carjackers, and (c) carry a concealed weapon provided they take a firearms safety course. Twenty-four million people now lived in Texas; half were packing heat. The other half should be-to protect themselves against the first half.

"Lorenzo?"

Still tapping on the laptop: "What can I do for you?"

"Ramon gave me your name. I'm Andy Prescott."

"The traffic ticket lawyer."

Some claim to fame.

"You sent me the rich boy."

"Yeah, I gave Tres your number."

Still typing away. "Gorgeous little gal, that one. I enjoyed tailing her… tail. You know she don't wear underwear?" He whistled. "That boy's got a lifetime of worrying whether she's cheating on him. Course, if it weren't for gals like her, I'd be out of business. Cheating wives, they account for seventy-five percent of my annual gross revenues. Easy money, or at least it used to be. Now with the new gun laws, job's gotten a little more dangerous-some wives can shoot. You know what I mean?"

Andy assumed that was a rhetorical question, so he didn't answer.

"So, Andy, wife cheating on you?"

"No wife."

"Girlfriend?"

Suzie? Or Bobbi? Cheating on him? He had never even thought about it. Or cared.

"Nope."

"I don't do boyfriends like that TV sports guy your buddy had me follow."

"Not that either."

"You need me to bond someone out of jail?"

Lorenzo smiled, revealing a set of bright white teeth.

"See, when I give a client the bad news about his cheating wife, he goes straight home and beats the hell out of her and gets arrested. So I bond him out. Then he finds the no-good bastard pumping his wife and beats the hell out of him and gets arrested again. So I bond him out again. My business is what they call 'vertically integrated,' like the oil companies."

"No bond."

Lorenzo finally stopped typing, removed his reading glasses, and looked directly at Andy.

"Then what services of mine do you require, Andy?"

Andy explained the efforts to find Frankie Doyle. After listening thoughtfully and stroking his goatee, Lorenzo said, "McCloskey's a good man. Knows what he's doing."

"He goes by the book."

Lorenzo gave Andy a bemused expression. "And you want something more than what's in the book from me, is that it?"

"I want you to find her and I don't care how you do it."

"Woman don't want to be found, Andy, that's gonna cost more."

"I'll pay whatever it takes."

"Why do you want to find this woman so bad?"

"I don't. My client does."

"Who's your client?"

"That's confidential."

"Why does your client want to find this woman?"

"Also confidential."

"Then my fee will be nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars. Cash."

"Why?"

"Risk management, Andy."

"No, why not ten thousand even?"

"Oh. You move ten grand in cash, you gotta fill out forms and answer questions at the bank, so the Feds can track your money. Which limits my tax-planning opportunities, if you know what I mean."

Andy knew what he meant.

The money laundering law was purportedly to prevent criminals from using the banking system to launder their illegal profits-as if drug lords were stupid enough to move cash through their local savings and loan. Only politicians paying for high-priced call girls were that stupid, which is how the Feds nabbed the former New York governor.

"Okay. But you can't breathe a word of this, understand?"

Lorenzo laughed. "Who am I gonna tell?"

"I guess you're right."

"You know I'm right. Now, you said her last known address was Hysham, Treasure County, Montana, then she split. Any idea where she might've gone?"

Andy was about to say no, but he thought of the black-and-white drawings by F. Doyle at Colleen O'Hara's house. One had been of the Montana landscape. The others had reminded Andy of "New Mexico or West Texas."

Lorenzo nodded. "Gives me something to work with. Come back in a few hours, I'll have something for you. And bring the cash."

Andy rode down to Cissi's Market and had a roast beef sandwich and a Brown Cow vanilla bean yogurt for lunch. Then he went to the bank and withdrew $9,999. Two hours later, he walked back into Lorenzo's storefront. He was waiting.

"Did you find her?"

"Did you bring the cash?"

Andy handed the bank envelope to Lorenzo. He thumbed the cash like a card shark thumbing a deck of cards. He smiled.

"I found her."

"How? Did you get her social security number? Her credit report? How'd you do it?"

"Now, Andy, you're asking me to share my trade secrets, to reveal my proprietary information, to disclose my-"

"I don't want to know."

"Correct answer. You don't want to know how, you just want results. And I got 'em right here."

Lorenzo placed a piece of paper in front of Andy. Two years ago, Frankie Doyle had changed her name to Rachel Holcombe in Hysham, Treasure County, Montana. One year ago, she had changed her name to Irma Bustamante "Irma Bustamante?"

Lorenzo smiled. "Irish girl got a sense of humor."

— in Mosquero, Harding County, New Mexico. Four months ago, she had changed her name to Karen James in Mentone, Loving County, Texas.

"She likes small towns," Lorenzo said. "Only a hundred twenty folks live in Mosquero, fifty-six in Mentone."

"Why would she change her name so many times?"

"She doesn't want to leave a paper trail, but she doesn't want to live off the grid. She's not using credit cards, but she wants a bank account. She wants to be legit, live a normal life, but she doesn't want someone to find her."

"Her ex-husband hit her."

"Good enough reason."

"He said he wasn't trying to find her."

"Asshole hits a woman, I'm not sure, Andy, could be he's a liar, too."

"I guess you're right."

"You know I'm right."

Lorenzo now placed a printout of a Texas driver's license with a photo of Karen James in front of Andy. He studied her image. It was the same face he had seen in the photo at Colleen O'Hara's house.

"That's her. That's Frankie Doyle."

"Check out the address."

Andy looked down the license then up at Lorenzo.

"Buda, Texas? All this and she's living fifteen miles down the road?"

"Rent house. But she's moving up: five thousand people live in Buda."

"Why would she live in unpopulated places in Montana and New Mexico and West Texas, then move just fifteen miles from Austin?"

"She wants to hide in plain sight. Figures she's covered her tracks, now she can live near a city, put her kid in a good school, enjoy things. She's ready to start her life over now, as Karen James."

Andy pedaled back to his office. He poked his head into the tattoo parlor and found Ramon at his computer.

"Ramon, can I borrow your car?"

Without turning from the screen, Ramon said, "Hey, Andy, listen to this email I got: 'Hello, I am pretty Russian girl, bored tonight. Would you like to chat and see my pics?' You think she's for real?"

"What's her name?"

"Candi. With an 'i.' "

"A Russian girl named Candi with an 'i'? I don't think so, Ramon. Can I borrow your car?"

"I don't think so, Andy."

Ramon Cabrera drove a metallic yellow 1978 Corvette convertible with mag wheels and wide white walls. It was in pristine condition with red leather seats, a stereo system with a subwoofer that shook the car with each beat, and a plastic Jesus magnetically attached to the dash. It was his prized possession-the Corvette, not the plastic Jesus-since his wife had left him. He would not allow Andy behind the wheel. But he wasn't inking anyone's body that afternoon, so he was now driving Andy down Interstate 35 to Buda, Texas. The top was down, the wind was whipping Andy's hair, and the volume on the Latino radio station was blaring. Sitting next to Ramon Cabrera in the low-slung hot rod, Andy felt like he was co-starring in a Cheech and Chong movie.

Buda, Texas, had long been a small farming town situated between Austin and San Antonio, nothing but cotton and cows and a cement plant. But over the last decade, developers had bought the farmland and subdivided the pastures and built homes for Austinites who could no longer afford the city. Buda-from the Spanish viuda — was now a bedroom community, home to five thousand residents who slept in Buda but worked in Austin. But tens of thousands of people regularly made the journey down I-35 to Buda these days, and not just for the "World Famous Wiener Dog Races." They came to shop at Cabela's, a 185,000-square-foot hunters' paradise, a place selling enough guns and ammo to satisfy any Rambo-wannabe. The chamber of commerce's slogan was "Have a Budaful time in Buda."

Or at least buy a gun.

Andy had printed out a map on Ramon's computer. The address on the driver's license was on Old Black Colony Road outside town where there was still some country left. A Toyota Corolla sat in the driveway. But they couldn't just park a yellow Corvette at the end of the driveway and takes photos. They would be easily spotted. So they parked down the road where they could see if she left.

Fifteen minutes after they had arrived, Frankie Doyle left.

Andy wrote down the Toyota's license plate number; no doubt the car was registered under her latest alias. They followed her to the Buda Elementary School where a cute girl with flaming red hair ran to the car and got in. She didn't appear sick. Andy took photos of the girl, but he couldn't get a clear shot of Frankie.

They followed Frankie and her daughter around town and then back to their house and again parked down the road. Ramon decided to take a nap. Andy leaned over to check the digital images on the camera in the dark under the dash and "Are you following me?"

Andy jumped and banged his head on the underside of the dash. He turned. Frankie Doyle was standing there. In real life.

"Jesus, you scared me."

Ramon opened his eyes and lowered his sunglasses. He gave Frankie a long admiring look. Her hands were now clamped on the window sill, and her face was no more than a foot from Andy's. She didn't have red hair. She had jet black hair, a smooth creamy complexion, and green glaring eyes whose dark pupils made him feel as if he were staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

In his oily Latin accent, Ramon said, "I am Ramon Cabrera. Your skin is magnificent. Have you considered body art?"

Her eyes moved to Ramon; she looked him over then said, "No." Back to Andy: "Did you really think I wouldn't notice a yellow Corvette?"

No sense in lying.

"I had a heck of a time finding you."

"I'm calling the cops."

Andy held his cell phone out to her.

"You don't think I'll call?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't think you want the cops or anyone else to know who you really are… Frankie Doyle."

She stared at him, but showed no emotion. Then she abruptly turned and walked fast toward the house.

"Nice looking lady," Ramon said. "I wonder what bar she goes to?"

Andy jumped out and ran to catch her. She was wearing a white long-sleeve T-shirt and blue jeans; from behind, she had a nice behind. Not like Suzie's, of course, but nice.

"Frankie, I know why you're running."

She kept walking. Over her shoulder: "How'd you find me?"

"Your mother."

She stopped and spun around. "You saw my mother?"

"At her house."

Hands on her hips. "Who are you?"

"Andy Prescott. I'm a lawyer in Austin."

She looked him up and down-the sneakers, the jeans, and the Kinky T-shirt.

"You're a lawyer? Wearing that and"-she pointed at the yellow Corvette-"riding in that?"

"Oh, that's Ramon's car. He's my landlord… and a tattoo artist."

"Your landlord drives you around?"

"I don't own a car. I ride a bike."

"You're a lawyer, you ride a bike, and you've got a tattoo artist for a chauffeur? Is this some kind of joke?"

"Uh… no."

"You went to see my mother in Boston, trying to find me?"

"I went to Boston to see Mickey, trying to find you."

"You met Mickey?"

"At his shop."

"How is he?"

"Probably the same as when you were married to him."

"God, I need a cigarette. See, you mention Mickey, and now I want to smoke again. How's my mother?"

"In and out."

She nodded. "It was hard to leave her."

"She showed me the photo, in Montana."

"How'd you find us here?"

"Benny said you wanted to get as far away as possible-"

"You saw Benny, too?"

"At the bar."

"How is he?"

"He misses you."

"I miss him."

"Anyway, I knew the Montana photo was after you'd left, so I flew out there, figured you'd settle in the smallest county near Billings, until you could change your name. Then you went to New Mexico and West Texas. Changed your name each time."

"How'd you know where to look?"

"Your sketches, at your mother's. I recognized the landscapes."

"Montana and New Mexico, we liked it there. West Texas, that was hard. The wind was relentless, like Mickey's mother."

"You're very good-at sketching and hiding."

"Not good enough, apparently. So that's how you found me. Now why did you find me?"

"My client wants to help you."

"How?"

"He wants to give you money."

"How much?"

"A million dollars."

"He wants to give a million dollars to a complete stranger?"

"He knows you."

"What's his name?"

"I can't say."

"Where would I meet a rich guy?"

"At the hotel bar."

"What, I serve him a few drinks in the bar three years ago, now he wants to give me a million dollars?"

"Apparently."

"Why?"

"Guilt. For not treating you well."

"At the bar?"

"When y'all dated."

She shook her head. "Wrong girl, Andy. I never dated anyone I met in the bar. I was married to Mickey." She sighed. "One mistake can last a lifetime."

"Mickey said y'all got married right out of high school."

She nodded. "To get away from my father, even if away was three doors down. So I married Mickey and found out I had married my dad. God, he was always so jealous, Mickey. Some guy on the street even looked at me, he'd want to beat him up."

"I bet that happened a lot."

A little smile; a crack in the ice.

"He hit you?"

She just stared off.

"Did he hit your girl?"

"You wouldn't have talked to him if he had."

"Why?"

"Because he'd be dead."

She seemed sincere.

"Frankie, I know you're running from him."

She started walking toward the house again.

"Right now I'm running from you."

"My client's just trying to help his old girlfriends."

She stopped again.

"Your rich client is giving a million dollars to his old girlfriends?"

Andy nodded. "Seventeen."

"Your client had seventeen girlfriends? What, does he look like Robert Redford?"

"Redford? He's old."

"Don't you watch old movies, like The Way We Were? "

"Is that an action-thriller?"

"It's a love story."

"Oh. Well, Frankie, you're number seven on my client's old love list."

"It's a mistake. I don't belong on that list."

They arrived at the front door. She turned to him.

"Andy, look, just tell your client you couldn't find me, okay?"

"I can't lie to my client."

"You're a lawyer."

"Frankie, he's given six million dollars to six former girlfriends. And he wants to give you a million, too."

She held her hand out.

"Okay. Give it to me."

He shook his head. "It doesn't work that way. I get all the information and take photos first. Then I meet with him, show him the photos, and he gives me the money. Then I bring you a cashier's check for a million dollars."

"What kind of information?"

"Your age."

Like it was a joke: "Twenty-eight."

"Your daughter's age."

"Eight."

"Your debts."

"None."

"Your economic condition. You know, do you have any money?"

She waved her hand at the old rent house.

"Yes, this is my estate."

"Do you have a job?"

"No."

"How do you pay your bills?"

"I manage."

"Any other problems in your life?"

"You."

"Now, see, that wasn't hard. You're twenty-eight and broke, but otherwise all right, other than the fact that you're trying to quit smoking and you're hiding from your abusive ex-husband. You have an eight-year-old daughter who's… Oh, is she sick?"

Her expression changed. The joke was over.

"No."

"She doesn't have a medical condition?"

A bit suspicious now.

"What kind of medical condition?"

"A disease."

"No."

"She's perfectly healthy?"

"Yes."

Finally, a healthy child. The odds had turned.

"Well, that's different."

"From what?"

"The others."

"The other girlfriends?"

Andy nodded.

"They have sick kids?"

"Yeah. Well, one of them died."

"But all six of them had sick kids?"

"Yeah."

"How sick?"

"Cancer, cerebral palsy, paralysis…"

"Does your client have a sick child?"

Andy nodded again. "His son's dying. A rare form of leukemia."

Her complexion was no longer creamy; it was pale. As if she were now sick, too. She stepped inside and shut the door in his face.

The elevator door opened on a clown.

Andy stepped out; the clown slapped a party hat on Andy's head and shoved a blowout in his mouth like a new father passing out cigars. A HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ZACH banner hung on the opposite wall, and colorful balloons and crepe-paper streamers hung from the ceiling. Two hours after leaving Frankie Doyle in Buda, Andy walked into the cancer ward on the seventh floor of the Austin General Hospital.

More clowns passed out party favors, face painters made the kids look like lions and tigers and bears, and magicians and jugglers entertained the kids. Balloon artists fashioned animals out of long balloons. Pretty nurses ate cake and ice cream with their patients. Bald boys and girls wore smiles bigger than their faces. They were sick kids yesterday and would be again tomorrow, but today they were just kids.

Andy heard cheers and spotted Zach Reeves perched atop a hospital bed being pushed down the corridor by a clown. He threw his arms into the air and screamed when his bed beat another kid's bed at the finish line.

Bed races.

Surveying it all was Andy's client. He walked over to Russell Reeves.

"Thanks for coming, Andy. Zach was looking for you."

"Wouldn't miss it."

"I told Zach he could have his birthday party anywhere he wanted it-Yankee stadium, Madison Square Garden, Disney World. Said he wanted it here, with his friends."

"He's a good kid."

And he was standing there. His face was painted like a zebra, and he was wearing a baseball cap on backwards.

"Andy, did you see the bed race? I won!"

"Awesome, dude."

They fist-punched. Zach pulled the cap off his head.

"Look-my dad got it signed by the whole team."

The whole New York Yankees team.

"That's way cool. Oh, here."

Andy took his backpack off his shoulder and removed a small gift-wrapped box. The boy took it and ripped the paper off and opened the box. He pulled out Andy's gift: a black leather doo-rag.

"Aw, man, this is cool!"

"I didn't get anyone to sign it."

Zach put on the doo-rag. Andy adjusted the fit.

"Happy birthday, Zach."

"Thanks, Andy."

The boy gave him a quick hug then rejoined the party.

"He likes you, Andy."

"I like him."

"I try to be a big brother, too, but it's not the same."

"He looks good today."

Russell nodded. "Today. Chemo tomorrow."

They didn't speak for several minutes. Andy watched Zach playing with the other sick kids, then he watched Russell watching Zach. He knew exactly what was going through his client's mind.

"We found her," Andy finally said. "Frankie Doyle."

"Let's go upstairs."

They walked to the elevators. Russell used a special key to access the penthouse. The place looked like a fancy hotel suite. Russell led Andy into an office. They sat across a table from each other. Andy removed the dossier and photos of Frankie Doyle and her daughter from his backpack and spread them across the table.

"She wasn't easy to find, Russell."

"That why you went to this Lorenzo Escobar?"

"How'd you know?"

"I keep tabs, Andy."

"Hollis goes by the book."

"Doing whatever it takes to get the job done. I like that, Andy."

Russell studied the dossier and photos under a small fluorescent desk lamp.

"She moved from Boston to Montana to New Mexico to West Texas. Changed her name every time. She now lives in Buda."

Russell looked up. "You went to Boston and Montana and found her fifteen miles from here?"

"Yeah."

Russell returned to the photos.

"So what's her story?"

"Frankie Doyle is twenty-eight, divorced, one daughter. She's eight."

"Finances?"

"None to speak of. She drives an old Toyota and lives in a rent house. Unemployed."

"Problems?"

"Cigarettes and her ex-husband up in Boston. He hit her. She's running from him."

Russell shook his head slowly.

"These poor women. They all have a burden to bear."

"I met hers. Ex-boxer, owns a garage. He's a jerk."

"What's wrong with the girl?"

"Nothing."

Russell's eyes came up again.

"Her child's not sick?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

Andy shrugged. "Frankie said she was in perfect health."

"You saw her? The girl?"

"Yeah. Cute redhead. She seemed fine."

"See, Andy. Just odds."

Russell went back to the photos.

"And she's eight years old?"

Andy nodded. "And Frankie is twenty-eight. Which means, Russell, she couldn't have been your girlfriend."

Russell didn't react. He didn't even look up from the photos.

"Why do you say that, Andy?"

"I did the math. You've been married fourteen years, so she was fourteen when you got married. And she got married four years later."

Russell slowly raised his eyes from the photos.

"I never said she was my girlfriend before I was married… or that she wasn't married."

Now Andy tried not to react.

"You were married… and she was too… when you and her…?"

"It's called an affair, Andy."

"Russell, Kathryn is gorgeous."

"Infidelity is a complicated thing."

"I wouldn't know."

"No one can know. The privilege, Andy."

"That's why she denied it-she was a married woman having an affair."

Russell again dropped his eyes to the photos of Frankie and her daughter. He examined them so intently that another thought crossed Andy's mind-a thought that made sense of a billionaire searching for seventeen former girlfriends.

"Is the girl yours?"

Russell Reeves looked up at Andy. His face was stern. Andy braced himself to get fired on the spot. Instead, his client sat back and blew out a resigned breath. As if it were finally time to come clean with his lawyer.

"Maybe."

He stared into space, as if remembering.

"Frankie and I had an affair nine years ago when I taught a course at MIT one semester. Guest high-tech billionaire, that sort of thing. We met at the hotel bar. We were both married at the time."

For some reason, Andy felt a little jealous at the thought of Russell Reeves having had an affair with Frankie Doyle.

"What bar?"

"I don't remember the name of the bar, Andy. It was in the Boston Grand Hotel."

That was the hotel. It was mentioned in the dossier in front of Russell. Frankie had worked there nine years ago, when she was nineteen years old. A nine-month pregnancy and she'd have an eight-year-old child now. Which she had.

Frankie Doyle had lied to Andy.

"Her ex is a rough character. You're lucky he didn't find out back then."

"No one can find out." He sighed. "Andy, I need to know if she's my daughter."

"Why?"

"Because I passed a cancer gene on to Zach. I gave my son the cancer that's killing him. What if I passed the same gene on to this child?"

"But she's not sick."

"Not yet. If she is mine, she might have the gene and she might become sick-next week or next month or next year. What if my scientists can prevent that from happening? They've made incredible advances in gene therapy, Andy. What if they can keep her from getting the same cancer as Zach?"

"But, Russell-"

"Andy, if she's mine, she might have a ticking time bomb inside her-what if we can prevent that bomb from detonating? What if we can save her from Zach's fate? What if we can save her life? Isn't that worth trying?"

"How?"

"DNA."

"You want me to get her DNA?"

Russell nodded. "We'll check her DNA against mine. Then we'll know the truth."

"Russell, that's kind of creepy, sneaking over there and getting her DNA-assuming I can. Why don't you just talk to Frankie, tell her the situation, and ask to test the girl?"

"Because I haven't spoken to Frankie in nine years. She might be okay with that, she might not be. But what if she moved to Texas to extort money from me? She might want to go on TV and tell the world. Seems to me I should find out if the girl's mine first."

"You're right. But it's still creepy."

Russell stood and walked to the window. He stared out a long moment and then reached inside his coat.

"Oh, here, I brought these for you."

Russell removed an envelope and held it out to Andy. He took the envelope and opened it. Andy couldn't believe what he was holding.

"Four tickets to the game tomorrow? UT versus Ohio State? On the fifty-yard line?"

"The school gave me season tickets when I built the lab on campus. I took Zach a few times when he was up to it, but I'm not a football fan."

"Russell, Texas and Ohio State, they're both undefeated. Whoever wins will be number one in the nation. This is the college football game of the year. You could sell these tickets for twenty thousand dollars."

Russell shrugged. "Take Suzie and have fun."

"I'll take my buddies."

He couldn't wait to see their faces.

"There'd be a bonus, Andy."

"For the game?"

"For the DNA."

Andy looked again at the tickets in his hand. The best seats in the stadium for the biggest game of the year.

"Ten thousand."

Ten thousand. Twenty thousand. The guy tossed those figures around like they were Monopoly money. Russell faced Andy.

"When Kathryn and I conceived Zach, I didn't know I was sentencing him to death. I'd know about her. If she's mine, Andy, and if she were to get cancer because of me, I'd have sentenced two children to death. How am I supposed to live with that?"

"She has red hair, Russell. Frankie's ex-husband does, too. You don't."

Russell gestured at the photos. "Frankie's hair is black."

"So?"

"So red hair is recessive."

"Which means…?"

"It means you must have two copies of the red hair gene to have red hair, one from your mother and one from your father. If only one parent has red hair, odds are their children won't have red hair. The other parent's hair color dominates."

"So?"

"So the recessive gene skips generations. My mother did have red hair-Maureen O'Malley, that was her maiden name. Her red hair skipped my generation, but I'm a carrier and Frankie's Irish so she's a carrier. Put us together, and our child could have red hair. It's simple genetics, Andy."

"Simple."

"If she's mine. Get her DNA, Andy, and we'll know the truth."

"So that's what you weren't telling me-that tracking down all these women was to find your child."

"To find out if I had another child."

"Were they really your girlfriends?"

"Yes… or at least I had a brief affair with them."

"So you wanted to find out if they had children whose ages corresponded to the time of your affairs?"

"Yes."

"The first six didn't?"

"No. Those children aren't mine, and neither are their siblings."

"But this girl might be?"

"Yes."

"And if she is your child?"

"I'll meet with Frankie, ask her to bring the girl in to the lab for testing. If she has the gene, we'll give her gene therapy. We'll save her life. What I can't do for Zach."

Andy did not want Frankie Doyle's child to die.

"Okay, Russell, I'll get her DNA."

"Thanks, Andy."

"You want me to keep searching for the other women?"

"Yes. This girl might not be mine. One of theirs might be."

They returned to the party. Andy got his Guitar Hero rematch with Zach; he lost again. But Andy's mind wasn't on the game; it was on Russell Reeves. And Frankie Doyle. And the girl. What if she were Russell's child? And what if he had given her the cancer gene? And what if his scientists could save her from Zach's fate? Wouldn't Frankie want that? Wouldn't she beg Russell to save her daughter's life?

It all made perfect sense.

That Russell wanted to obtain the girl's DNA to confirm that she was in fact his child-and thus might have the cancer gene-before going to Frankie.

That Russell wanted to find this child and save her life.

That he did not want to be responsible for another child's death.

Perfect sense.

But it didn't explain why those six other children were sick.

Mickey Doyle stared at the traffic ticket lawyer's business card. His cell phone number was printed on it. Mickey had almost called the lawyer several times, to ask if he had found Frankie and Abby. Three years, he had tried to forget them, then this guy shows up and now he couldn't stop thinking about them.

He shoved the card back into his shirt pocket.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. His life was in the crapper. No wife, no kid, no future. Thirty-five years old, and he had hit the end of the line. He ordered another boilermaker.

He downed the whiskey shot and chased it with the beer. The warmth quickly followed by the cold. His body gave a little shudder. A few more and he would be able to sleep.

Of course, he had no one to blame but himself. His temper. His fists. He had slapped Frankie a few times, but that last time, he had actually hit her. And the way he hit, he could have killed her, the only woman he had ever loved.

He had loved her since she was ten years old. He watched her grow up three doors down. When she turned sixteen, he asked her out. They married two years later, when she graduated high school. She had been a virgin. And Catholic. And guilt-ridden. So sex had not exactly been adventurous. Mickey had strayed, early and often, like South Boston residents casting votes for a Kennedy. Back then, it had seemed like innocent fun; but on Sunday when they had gone to Mass, he had felt guilty. He no longer went to Mass, but he still felt the guilt.

And he missed them both.

He ordered another boilermaker. He had had only two loves in his life: fighting and Frankie. Fighting had gotten him to semi-pro, weekend fights after a week at the garage. But his raw skills could take him only so far. So he had given up on the ring.

But he had never given up on Frankie. She would always be the love of his life. Sure, there had been other women in the last three years, but they were just distractions. When he was with them, he was thinking of her. His one true love, and he had screwed it up. He would give anything for a second chance. The judge had given him a second chance-and a third-but Frankie would not. Because of Abby.

He should have protected her.

He paid his tab and walked out the front door and down the sidewalk; it was three blocks to the house. One block down, a fist hammered him in the mouth and knocked him against a building. Some asshole's mugging Mickey Doyle? Hell, he fought best when he was staggering drunk, like now. He turned to a tall man leaning into him.

"Where's Frankie?" the man said.

"What?"

"Your ex-wife, Mickey, where is she?"

"You working for the lawyer?"

"What lawyer?"

"I told him-I don't know where she's at."

"You don't tell me, Mickey, I'm gonna kill you. And then I'm gonna find Frankie and kill her, too."

All the guilt Mickey had suffered over the last three years, all the times he had cussed himself for hitting his wife, all the love he had felt for Frankie the last eighteen years, now seemed to build in his fists. He gave a little shoulder feint-the guy went for it-and popped him with a quick left jab to the nose. Then he came up with a right uppercut into his chin and a combo to his midsection. He heard the air come out of the man. A few more blows and Mickey had him on the ropes-or at least the side of an SUV.

"You ain't gonna hurt Frankie!"

Mickey pounded the guy's body-he felt ribs cracking under his fists-and he was determined to beat this guy to death to save Frankie, when he suddenly felt something else cracking: his skull. Mickey collapsed to the pavement, and his mind went as black as the night sky. And Mickey Doyle's last thought before he died was, I'm sorry, Frankie.

Harmon Payne stood straight and spit blood.

"Thanks, Cecil."

Cecil Durant, his driver, had clocked Mickey with the tire iron. Harmon rubbed his sore ribs. The boss said no unauthorized killing, now his ribs were going to hurt for a week. A bullet in Mickey Doyle's head would have been considerably less painful for both of them.

"Shit, this guy can punch."

Harmon knelt and checked Mickey's pulse. He was dead.

"Or could."

He then checked the body. In his shirt pocket, he found a business card: Andy Prescott. Lawyer. Traffic Tickets. Austin, Texas. With a cell phone number. Harmon stood.

"Cecil, we're going to Texas."