Beckett changed courses and headed home immediately. When he arrived, he found Spider down in the basement, working on four computers at once. Beckett thought again about getting some sun lights installed. The dude was seriously pale. “Do you ever go in the sun or anything?” he asked. “I’m legitimately concerned that you might develop scurvy down here.” He sat in a computer chair next to Spider.
The man held up an orange. “That’s what this is for. Okay, so I’ve been hacking my face off and trying to get a bead on the scrubs lady from Nicholas’ debut performance on Vitullo’s security tape. And I was able to get a partial number off this here part.”
Spider zoomed in on a still of the nurse walking with Nicholas into the interrogation room. What had looked like a fold in her pants was actually the very tip of an ID card.
“Okay, so she doesn’t work directly for Poughkeepsie General, which explains why there hasn’t been any missing persons report or delinquent employee records showing up. She works for a placement service, so they send her all over. Or at least they used to…Anyway, I’ve cross referenced and even created a program that compares employee numbers with the reference files and, ironically, the drug testing they’re subject to, which is super hard to find—”
“I get it. It was hard. You worked. You’re a computer genius. Just tell me what you found out.” Beckett squinted at the computer.
“Well, this nurse has taken shifts at Poughkeepsie General on and off for more than a decade. And turns out she was on duty in the OR one night about ten years ago when Eve Hartt was admitted after a car accident.”
Beckett looked over his shoulder, thinking of his woman and his role in that terrible evening.
“So I checked into the records for that night a little more closely, and Eve was in surgery a long time,” Spider continued. “Turns out she had a hysterectomy—no more baby-making parts, except they left an ovary so her hormones aren’t totally jacked up. It saved her life, but she must hate hospitals.” Spider shook his head as he hit a few more keys.
“So this tells me nothing I didn’t already know, really,” Beckett said aloud, but inside his mind was whirring, feeling the pieces he needed to connect just out of reach once again.
“Well, you know that woman was there when Eve had her accident, and something about her—or about that night—was interesting to Vitullo all these years later. And you know who else was there that night? Dr. Hartt? Also in the OR. It’s weird, but I think he actually did Eve’s surgery.”
“Yeah, he had a habit of that,” Beckett said absently.
Spider pulled up a picture of a nineteen-year-old Eve posing next to David, the handsome young father of her unborn child. Beckett was haunted by the hope and happiness reflected in her eyes.
“Anyway, these are pieces to a puzzle, if there is one,” Spider said. “Connections. That’s what Vitullo always liked me to find when I was with him. He didn’t believe in coincidences. He used to tell me, ‘There is no fate, only dirty money. Look for connections,’ anytime I was researching stuff—for what it’s worth.” Spider shrugged and resumed typing, recording facts on a beast of a timeline. “I’m trying to keep track, just to watch for patterns.”
Beckett slapped the man on the back. “That’s some interesting bullshit. Keep at it.”
Still feeling like he needed to sit and process for a good long while, Beckett instead returned his attention to his noisy phone as he went back upstairs. A few well-placed texts had sent him reports of a teen running a scam on a pool table down in the older section of town. A quick call to Eve confirmed that the pool hall had been on Sevan’s payroll back in the day, so Beckett had business there as well.
He pulled into the parking lot as dusk was starting to settle. A few assholes had also showed up, and they nodded in Beckett’s direction. In addition to finding this kid, he wanted to show the owners which direction they needed to take.
As he walked in, Beckett spotted Scottland talking shit at a table in the back, surrounded by a few shitheads he wasn’t fond of. Beckett ordered a whiskey and sat at the bar. The bartender brought his drink quickly and refused his money, letting Beckett know that his reputation preceded him still.
“You got a boss?” He took a sip, the whiskey wasn’t the worst they probably had.
“I do. She’s in back. You need her?” The bartender tripped over his words a bit.
“Yeah. Bring her out, if you don’t mind.” He spun his stool around to watch Scottland.
The kid was great at pool. He put a wad of cash on the table. Pointing out an impossible shot, he dared the men to match his bet. After some grumbling about easy money, the verbal deal was sealed. Scottland finally stopped posturing and focused on his shot, clear blue eyes assessing the lines. He had a multicolored Mohawk, which was a new addition since the picture Beckett had seen in Tammy’s office. The boy rubbed his neck tattoo, an elaborate design Beckett couldn’t quite make out, and hit the eight ball at the same time as he exhaled.
The shot went all over the table, following the impossible path the kid had predicted. When he sank the last ball, he began celebrating—very unlike a pool shark—putting his age on exhibit for the older men.
Instead of paying up, they scoffed before taking their cash off the table. “We ain’t paying a baby,” one of them explained. “That’s some sort of scam shit.”
Scottland immediately began fighting, tossing the first punch like a punk. The three men quickly schooled him and had him pinned by his neck to the table. Then one took a pool cue and began raining blows on the kid. Instead of tears, Scottland started spouting curses, making his situation even more difficult.
Beckett took a few more sips of his whiskey. The bartender and the boss lady came from the back, and he held up a hand to stop them from getting involved. He set his glass down and strolled over to the pool table, hands in his pockets. The shitheads who hadn’t noticed Beckett when he walked in noticed him now. He turned and gave his assholes a brief head shake, telling them to stay out of it.
Beckett lifted his brows and looked from the shitheads to the kid and back again.
“This little pussy? You want him?” one of them asked.
Beckett shrugged, refusing to respond with anything other than a smile.
“He yours? Shit, Taylor. We don’t mean nothing by it. We’re done here.”
Another shithead piped up, “Yeah, we’re happy to leave it as it fucking is. All done. Everything’s cool.” He held up his hands as if Beckett were brandishing a gun.
The men stepped away from Scottland, who jumped up and straightened his jacket before shooting the shitheads the middle finger. “Yeah? How you like some of that? You basic bitches.” The kid was full of himself at once.
Beckett’s smile never faltered. “You know what? Go ahead and punch him one more time.”
The nearest shithead happily complied, knocking Scottland right in the jaw. The kid’s eyes were wide as he recoiled.
The shitheads knew enough to leave the pile of cash on the table. “So he’s yours or not?” they asked again.
“Not sure yet. Either way, he made the shot, and I heard you agree, so pay the fuck up.” Beckett crossed his arms in front of his chest.
The shitheads moved as quickly as they could, tossing bills on the table without complaint. Before they were all the way out the door, Beckett added, “Assume he’s mine.”
Scottland had no gratefulness, just fast hands. He made a quick play to grab the cash. Beckett leaned forward and placed his index finger in the center of the money.
“What?” Scottland protested. “Now you’re going to fucking take it all? Fuck you, man.” He proceeded to stomp around, flailing his arms angrily.
“What’s it for?” Beckett waited.
The kid’s eyes looked clear. He answered with the venom of a Chihuahua pissing on a Great Dane. “None of your damn business.”
“Everything in here is my goddamn business right now. Answer or I will fucking take it. And don’t li
e. I can tell.” Beckett leaned forward, finally putting the entire force of his attention on the kid.
Scottland ran his hands through his Mohawk, making it ripple. “It’s for my mother. Okay? She needs it.”
Beckett began stacking the money quickly. It was easily six hundred dollars.
“No. Fuck. No, please don’t take it,” Scottland said in a slightly desperate voice. “She needs it.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. Okay, listen, she’s my foster mom, and one of the other kids needs this expensive computer. They think he can maybe talk with his eyes and shit. And he’s in there, I fucking know it. I just want to hear what he has to say.” The kid punched the table in disappointment as Beckett put the money in his pocket.
Now he was telling the truth, and it was beautiful. Beckett didn’t let his face show that he was pleased with the answer. “You haven’t been home or in school, Mr. Bell. Care to tell me why?” He crossed his arms again.
“You know me? What are you, a fucking narc? Shit.” The kid began pacing.
“I just met you, fuckhead. And you better find yourself some respect to show ’cause I’m the furthest thing you’ll ever meet from a cop. How’d you make this money?”
“Pool. You just saw.”
“No, the seed money. You’re wasting my time.”
“I sling a little dope. Shit, it’s freaking legal. What’s the big deal?”
Beckett gave him a hard look. “No, that’s not it. Those kids you live with, they got a lot of meds?” He watched Scottland’s eyes widen. Beckett had obviously unearthed his secret. Then he started explaining in earnest.
“Listen, he needs that computer. Do you know what will happen to him when he ages out? The state ain’t buying him shit. Who knows where he’ll end up? He needs this fast, so we can teach him how to use it, and he can have an opinion and then speak in time for him to be an adult. Shit. It might affect his whole life. And my foster mom doesn’t know she’s sitting on a goldmine. The docs just replace the missing meds, and I can make money and then double it here at these tables.”
“You can wind up in jail for doing that shit.”
Scottland sighed. “My foster mom figured it out, so I can’t go back now. Not until I have the money for the computer. And shit, so what? They put me in juvie? I’ve been there before. At least I’ll be able to talk. Trevor needs this or else he won’t.” The boy shook his head as he gave up. “I swear the older people get, they just don’t hear anymore. Trevor needs this. And I’m going to get it for him.” Scottland met Beckett’s eyes with a fire he recognized.
“How much is it?” Beckett asked.
“Well, he’d need a computer and then an eye-recognition program. I think we can get one for about five K.” Scottland looked dejected.
“How much have you saved?”
“What you got in your pocket.” Scottland motioned with his chin toward Beckett’s jacket.
“You’re a little light for a fancy computer.”
“No shit.” Trevor jammed his tattooed hands in his pockets.
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll talk with your foster mom and find out what he needs. You good with computers? Can you handle setting it up and that kind of bullshit?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” Defiance. The very definition of it. “What do you want from me? Ain’t nothing for free.”
“You tell me the truth when I ask questions,” Beckett said. “Don’t steal any more meds. No slinging dope. Just go school.” He sighed. Uphill battles sometimes with these kinds of people. It always was for the people who’d worked with him as a kid. He watched Scottland size up the situation.
“We’ll see what you do. Can I have my money back?”
Beckett shook his head. “No, numbnuts, I’ll give it to your foster mother. You and me, we have an understanding?” He tilted his head to the side.
“All right.” Scottland approached Beckett with his hand extended. “They call me Freaky Dick.”
Beckett shook the kid’s hand and his head at the same time. “Dude, that’s worst nickname. Stick with Land. Go home. Go to school.”
Land looked like he wasn’t entirely sure walking out of the pool hall without his money was the best idea, but he went anyway.
The assholes in the corner started laughing. “Shit, we didn’t know we were watching an afterschool special today.”
Beckett gave them the finger. “Shut your faces. One of you trail that kid and makes sure he gets home. I’m invested now.”
He spun to face the bartender and the boss. Both looked guilty and worried as Beckett returned to the bar. “First, that freaking kid didn’t belong in here, and you both know it.” He pointed at them with his thick fingers. “Second, how deep was Sevan Harmon’s dick in your asshole around here? And has someone else been sniffing around?”
The conversation that proceeded involved an elaborate detailing of the inner workings of a popular drug line through town—managed first by Sevan’s people, and more recently by Vitullo’s. By the end of the conversation, Beckett had decided not to offer these guys the opt-out choice. They didn’t seem to have much potential, falling from one sleazy overlord to another. Instead, he assigned a few assholes and one douchebag to the pool hall and decided it might be time to meet up with McHugh, show him exactly where he should be concentrating his efforts.
A little good faith might be welcome at this point, and a few high-level drug busts would certainly make the Poughkeepsie PD look good.
21
God
Just after the one-month anniversary of Alison’s arrival in his lab—something he still preferred not to think too carefully about—Dr. Yordan determined that her hormone treatments had been a success, and the implanted ovarian tissue had produced a healthy crop of mature eggs. Her follicles had reached sixteen millimeters, and he’d sedated her for the extraction.
He now evaluated the eggs as the nurse monitored her, tending to the woman’s recovery process and her continued sedation—another thing he tried to avoid contemplating. Nicholas had informed him that the woman would remain under until sometime after the completed embryo transfer, which would be five days from now. This was, of course, highly irregular, but also clearly not up for negotiation, and it had become clear that more than his research funds were at risk, should he fail to follow the prescribed protocol. Setting his nagging conscience aside for the greater goals of scientific research—and self-preservation—Dr. Yordan focused on the task at hand.
The next part was his favorite. Four hours had passed, so it was time. The eggs looked wonderful under the microscope—youth was a beauty, for sure. In his sterile lab, he became God. He carefully prepared the sperm and took a steadying breath. He was about to create life. He’d chosen only the strongest specimens from the sample, which had been a process. The male donor was old enough that he had genuine concern for the virility of his biological material. But with nothing but time to work, he’d found what he needed.
Classical music played in the background. As he guided tip of the needle to the egg, the lab door slammed open. Nicholas walked in like he owned the place, not stopping to worry about the contaminant on his shoes, or the delicate process the doctor was now undertaking.
“Are they done?”
The doctor kept his hand steady and fertilized the egg. He carefully put down his equipment before addressing the man. “They aren’t like your favorite breakfast order. This is science and patience and education all happening here. You’re lucky I have nerves of steel, you silly twit. Your disturbance could have ruined that whole batch. So no. They aren’t done.”
“What can I tell Rodolfo?” Nicholas took a step back, seeming to catch his error.
“You can tell him that after thawing ovarian tissue that was more than a decade old, I was able to graft it inside Alison, which is a goddamn miracle in and of itself. And not only that, but she was successfully able to produce the original source’s biological eggs, which is pretty much time travel. And
then, after that, with any luck at all and no thanks to you, I will have created viable embryos using his half-dead sperm. I have a few more to go, but in five days, I’ll be implanting these into Alison’s womb, and because I’m so amazing, I’m fairly certain she will become pregnant.” The doctor paused to take a breath. Nicholas seemed to be searching for words.
“Now,” he continued. “You can leave me alone, because out of all the things I do in a lab, this one is my favorite.” The doctor watched him until Nicholas backed out of the door he had entered.
It was so hard to have the money and the science not collide.
Alison woke slowly in her bedroom at the prison of a house where they were keeping her. She felt like she’d been hit by a truck—and lobotomized. Absolutely nothing made sense anymore. When her eyes finally focused, the nurse was smiling at her, and the doctor looked incredibly pleased with himself.
“How long have I been under?” Her brain was foggy.
“Almost two weeks,” the nurse said matter-of-factly. “But we have good news. Doctor?” The woman took her vitals.
As the doctor came forward, Nicholas stepped from behind the nurse, leering at her like he did.
“You’re pregnant,” the doctor announced, looking at her as if she might jump up and cheer. “We just tested you. Positive.” He turned to Nicholas. “You best tell the boss the good news.”
Alison felt empty, devoid of everything except her hate for them. She raged silently against each face in the room with her. To hear she was pregnant had been her dearest wish before…and now it was a horrible nightmare.
Nicholas stepped closer. “So you understand, you’re only as good as the babies in your belly, so you’d best take care of them. Wipe that horror off your face. This is an honor.”
The doctor stepped between Nicholas and Alison. “Keeping her calm and unthreatened is the most important part of what we have to do now,” he told him. “So you might want to dial it back.”
Saving Poughkeepsie Page 25