“But no one knew about the E-SpyRight. Except Mike and me and Mo and”-her eyes tried to meet his, but his danced away-“you.”
“Hey, don’t look at me.”
“You told Hester Crimstein.”
“I’m sorry about that. But that’s the only person who knows.”
Tia wondered. And then she looked at Brett with his dirty finger- nails and the unshaven stubble and the hip albeit flimsy T-shirt and thought about how she had trusted this man she really didn’t know all that well with this task-and how foolish that really was.
How did she know anything he was telling her was accurate?
He had shown her that she could sign in and get reports from as far away as Boston. How much of a stretch was it to assume that he had set up a password too, one so that he could get into the software and read the reports? How would she know? How would anyone know what was actually on the computer? Companies put on spy-ware so that they knew where you surfed. Stores give out those discount cards so they can keep track of what you buy. Lord knows what computer companies must have preloaded into your computer’s hard drive. Search engines kept track of what you looked up and, with the simple cost of storage these days, never had to delete it.
Was it such a stretch to think Brett might know more than he said?
" HELLO?”
Ilene Goldfarb said, “Mike?”
Mike watched Tia and Brett enter the house. He pressed the phone up against his ear. “What’s up?” he asked his partner.
“I talked to Susan Loriman about Lucas’s biological father.”
That surprised Mike. “When?”
“Today. She called me. We met at the diner.”
“And?”
“And it’s a dead end.”
“The real father?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“She wants it to be confidential.”
“The name of the father? Too bad.”
“Not the name of the father.”
“What then?”
“She told me the reason why that particular avenue is not going to be helpful to us.”
Mike said, “I’m not following.”
“Just trust me here. She explained the situation to me. It’s a dead end.”
“I can’t see how.”
“Neither could I before Susan explained it to me.”
“And she wants the reason kept confidential?”
“Correct.”
“So I assume it is something embarrassing. That’s why she spoke to you, not me.”
“I wouldn’t call it embarrassing.”
“What would you call it?”
“You sound like you don’t trust my judgment on this.”
Mike switched ears. “Normally, Ilene, I would trust you with my life.”
“But?”
“But I just got through being grilled by a joint task force of the DEA and U.S. Attorney’s Office.”
There was silence.
“They also spoke to you, didn’t they?” Mike asked.
“They did.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“They were very specific. They said my talking to you would compromise an important federal investigation. They threatened me with hindering prosecution and losing my practice, if I said anything to you.”
Mike said nothing.
“Keep in mind,” Ilene went on, an edge in her voice now, “that my name is on those prescription pads too.”
“I know.”
“What the hell is going on, Mike?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Did you do what they said?”
“Please tell me you’re not seriously asking me that.”
“They showed me our prescription pads. They gave me a list of what was prescribed. None of those people are our patients. Hell, half that stuff prescribed we never use.”
“I know.”
“This is my career too,” she said. “I started this practice. You know what this means to me.”
There was something in her voice, something wounded beyond the obvious. “I’m sorry, Ilene. I’m trying to sort through it all too.”
“I think I’m owed a little more than ‘it’s a long story.’ ”
“The truth is, I don’t really know what’s up. Adam is missing. I need to find him.”
“What do you mean, missing?”
He quickly filled her in. When he finished, Ilene said, “I hate to ask the obvious question.”
“Then don’t.”
“I don’t want lose my practice, Mike.”
“It’s our practice, Ilene.”
“True. So if there is anything I can do to help find Adam…” she began.
“I’ll let you know.”
NASH stopped the van in front of Pietra’s apartment in Hawthorne.
They needed time apart. He could see that. The cracks were starting to show. They would always be somehow connected-not in the way he had been with Cassandra, not even close. But there was something there, some draw that brought them back time and time again. It probably started out as some sort of payback, gratitude for rescuing her in that awful place, but in the end, maybe she hadn’t wanted to be saved. Maybe his rescuing her had been a curse and now he was her obligation rather than vice versa.
Pietra looked out the window. “Nash?”
“Yes?”
She put her hand up to her neck. “Those soldiers who slaughtered my family. All of those unspeakable things they did to them. To me…”
She stopped.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“Do you think those soldiers were all killers and rapists and tor- turers-and even if there was no war, they would have done things like that?”
Nash said nothing.
“The one we found was a baker,” she said. “We used to go to his store. My whole family. He smiled. He gave out lollipops.”
“What’s your point?”
“If there was no war,” Pietra said, “they would have just lived their lives. They would have been bakers or blacksmiths or carpenters. They would not have been killers.”
“And do you think that’s true of you too?” he asked. “That you would have just gone on being an actress?”
“I’m not asking about me,” Pietra said. “I’m asking about those soldiers.”
“Okay, fine. If I follow your logic, you think the pressures of war explain their behavior.”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t.”
Her head slowly swiveled in his direction. “Why not?”
“Your argument is that the war forced them to act in a way that was not in their nature.”
“Yes.”
“But maybe it is just the opposite,” he said. “Maybe the war freed them to be their true selves. Maybe it is society, not war, that forces man to act in a way that’s not in his true nature.”
Pietra opened the door and got out. He watched her disappear into the building. He put the car in drive and started for his next destination. Thirty minutes later, he parked on a side street between two houses that appeared empty. He didn’t want the van to be seen in the parking lot.
Nash put on the fake mustache and a baseball cap. He walked three blocks to the large brick building. It appeared abandoned. The front door, Nash was sure, would be locked. But one side door had a matchbook jammed into the opening. He pulled it open and started down the stairs.
The corridor was covered with children’s artwork, paintings mostly. A bulletin board had essays hung up. Nash stopped and read a few. They were by third graders, and all the stories were about them. That was how kids were taught nowadays. Think only “me.” You are fascinating. You are unique and special and no one but no one is ordinary, which, when you think about it, makes everyone ordinary.
He turned into the classroom on the lower level. Joe Lewiston sat cross-legged on the floor. He had papers in his hands and tears in his eyes. He looked up when Nash entered.
“It’s not working,” Joe Lewiston said. “She’s still sending the e-mails.”
32
MUSE questioned Marianne Gillespie’s daughter carefully, but Yasmin knew nothing.
Yasmin hadn’t seen her mother. She hadn’t even known she was back in town.