Gone by Morning

by Michele Weinstat Miller

  “Stay for the graduation and celebration. You’ll get to say good-bye to Rusty.”

  * * *

  An inmate with a fireplug physique was waiting for Emily outside Lucille’s office. She wore a green uniform, and her hair was cut short and masculine. “They asked me to take you to the auditorium,” she said.

  Emily fell in beside her. “Thanks.”

  When they reached the path outside the low building, the inmate spoke. “Rusty’s a good dog. I was surprised. I’ve been helping out, waiting for a chance to get a dog to train since I came back here. I thought Rusty was doing okay.”

  “It’s still hard to believe,” Emily said. “They’re going to adopt him out.”

  “Yeah, they charge five thousand dollars to the new owner to make up for the costs to train him. Even the dogs that flunk out are better trained than ninety-nine-point-nine percent of dogs.”

  “I can’t believe today will be my last time seeing Rusty, and it’s not even for a good cause.”

  “Yeah, it’s too bad.”

  Emily paused and put out her hand to introduce herself. “I’m Emily.”

  The inmate smiled, putting out her hand, seeming to appreciate the formality. “Angela.”

  Grasping her hand, Emily really looked at her, straight on; she looked past the green jail uniform. The woman’s familiarity snapped into focus. Emily knew her. She’d seen her picture. “Angela?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Wait a second. Do you know someone named Sharon?”

  Angela’s eyes widened, but her voice went low and intense. “You know Sharon? Sharon Williams?”

  CHAPTER

  55

  EMILY AND SKYE arrived at Kathleen’s apartment after dark. Kathleen sensed that Emily was upset, but Emily didn’t say anything right away. She left a restaurant takeout bag on the dining room table and took Skye to their room to get her ready for bed. The scent of curry seeped from the bag.

  Skye ran out a few moments later in her pajamas and a plastic firefighter hat. “Good night, Kat-lee,” she said, running in for a glorious hug.

  When Emily returned to the living room a half hour later, Kathleen was pedaling on a stationary bike in a corner. Placid cats stared down at her from a Will Barnet print on the wall. CNN provided background noise to keep her company. The bike was one of the reasons she’d chosen this Airbnb. She enjoyed working out in the privacy of her home space. She pedaled with moderate effort, only mildly sweating.

  Kathleen grabbed the remote control from a tray table next to her bike and muted the TV.

  “You first,” Emily said, sitting on the couch.

  Kathleen stopped pedaling and told Emily what she’d learned at the funeral home. “I’ve been Googling for stories about Wayne’s funeral. There hasn’t been any follow-up on the first story.”

  “He was pretty well known,” Emily said. “I looked into him myself while you were in jail. He appeared as cocounsel on dozens of cases. There were several newspaper quotes. But there wasn’t much on his death and nothing about sex charges.”

  “Wealthy people hire publicists to keep things like overdoses and bad behavior out of the papers. If they’re not celebrities, the stories disappear fast when the publicists give reporters plausible but false explanations. People worry about fake news, but they should worry more about the news they don’t see.

  “I once had a wealthy client who jumped out of a sixth-floor window on Fifty-Seventh Street after a weekend of chain-smoking crack. There was only one small story from the AP and it died—unlike my client, who fell on an awning. Lucky in life and the media. But it’s crazy that they’ve been able to keep the child porn investigation out of the news.”

  “My turn,” Emily said. “Equally crazy. It’s Angela. She’s in prison. Sharon’s Angela.”

  “You saw her?” Kathleen came off the bike, shouting when the house-arrest cuff banged into the side of the bike. “Ow!” Pain rang out from her ankle, the cuff scraping her skin. She still wasn’t used to accommodating the extra bulk.

  Emily started to get up. “Are you okay? Your skin is irritated. It’s really red.”

  Kathleen sat on the edge of the couch, slipping her fingers between the cuff and her skin. “It’s blistering. They obviously don’t design shackles with dry middle-age skin in mind.”

  “Or for exercise.”

  “I’m fine. Go on, tell me. Angela?”

  Emily exhaled. “She’s a puppy trainer. She knew Sharon was dead. At least I didn’t have to tell her that. She sent one of her nephews to the building when Sharon stopped answering her calls. She said her nephew spoke to one of the maintenance men. Then she saw the news article—the one and only, like Wayne.”

  “No need to hire a publicist for that story to die,” Kathleen said. “Did she have any idea why someone would kill Sharon? Any enemies or stalkers? Anything like that?”

  “No. Angela said that, as far as she knew, Sharon had only one secret. She said Sharon was a cautious person but not really a fearful one, except when it came to that.”

  “What was it?”

  “Sharon had a baby with a rich guy a long time ago, way before Angela met her. She put the baby up for adoption. He paid her a lot of money and convinced her it would be better for the baby. But Angela said she was always upset about it.”

  “So why was she afraid? Did Angela know about the nondisclosure agreement?”

  “Yeah, but she thought Sharon was scared about more than that. Sharon wanted to know her son so badly that Angela had told her not to worry about the NDA. Angela told Sharon to try to find her son, at least to find out if he was okay. She told Sharon to put her name on the state birth registry, where adoptees can find their bio parents after they grow up. Even though the agreement said there would be a two-million-dollar penalty if she revealed anything, Angela said all Sharon’s money was hidden anyway to avoid getting busted for tax evasion. Sharon rented her apartment and didn’t own anything that could be taken away. So, Angela told her, and I quote, ‘Fuck a nondisclosure agreement. Go find your fucking kid.’

  “But Sharon told Angela that an adoption registry wouldn’t list her or the baby. And, more than that, the father was powerful. She was afraid of something bad happening if she went back on her word.”

  Kathleen thought about that and shook her head with doubt. “I don’t get it. I find it hard to believe she was worried about her safety. There’s not enough reason for the father to kill her if that’s the theory, and I just never got a killer vibe from him. I’ve always trusted my instincts about people.”

  “She did end up dead,” Emily said. “And she ended up dead right after she contacted both you and Wayne, the only two people she knew who had a connection to Client 13. Maybe you need to rethink your take on him.”

  Kathleen said, “You’re right about one thing: everyone who knew about her relationship with my client ended up in legal trouble and/or dead. Even Angela is in jail.”

  Emily frowned. “I don’t think Angela is in that category. Angela said she’s an addict and relapsed. She’s been back in prison for at least six months, long before all the crazy stuff started. She violated her parole when she caught a DUI.”

  As they thought over the new information, Emily brought her takeout bag to the coffee table, the scent of curry strengthening. “There is one other thing. Angela said the adoption was weird. That’s why the adoption registry wouldn’t work.”

  “How so?”

  “The father didn’t want a paper trail. Back then, states were already talking about changing laws to make it easier for adopted kids to find their biological parents. The father trusted his nondisclosure agreements more than adoption laws. Sharon had the baby in a hospital under an alias with fake ID he gave her, and somebody paid cash for her hospital stay. There was never any official record that Sharon had a connection to the baby, no adoption papers or birth certificate with her name on them. She went in, had the baby, and handed him off to the father’s people.”
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  “A private adoption,” Kathleen said. “Wayne would have been the attorney.”

  “No, that’s not even it. There was no adoption at all. Angela thought Sharon was checked into the hospital with the new mother’s name. The way Angela told it, the father’s people found a couple who wanted a baby and had them move to a new town. They probably signed an NDA too. The baby’s hospital record and original birth certificate would have their names as the parents. The biological father wouldn’t have to worry about an adult child looking for him though an adoption registry. The parents never even knew the biological father’s identity because it was all done through a third party. Sharon told Angela that the one thing she learned from the experience is that money will buy anything.

  “But Angela said Sharon saved something from the hospital: the hospital bracelet she wore, and the baby’s bracelet. Hospitals give the bracelets to the parents when they’re checking out, a souvenir to take home after you have a baby. It was the one loose end the father didn’t think of.” Emily pulled her phone out from her backpack. “Angela couldn’t remember the name of the baby, but she gave me her mother’s address, where Angela lived before prison. Sharon used to stay there with her; the hospital bracelets are there. She said we could get them if we thought it would help us figure out what happened to Sharon. If Angela is right, the bracelets will tell the adoptive mother’s name.

  “Hector has Skye tomorrow night. We can go to Angela’s mother’s after I get off work. I want to find the adoptive family. They’re the key to figuring out what’s going on.”

  “Where is Angela’s apartment?” Kathleen asked. “I have to get clearance to travel.”

  “East Harlem.” Emily read on her phone. “Two-fifty East One Hundred and Seventeenth Street.”

  “I’ll call Probation tomorrow to say I’m going to an NA meeting. There’s one in East Harlem tomorrow night. POs love when their clients go to twelve-step meetings. We just have to go to a meeting after Angela’s house so I can get a sign-in sheet signed.”

  “I’m good,” Emily replied, dismissing the idea.

  “It could be good for you to learn something about the disease that runs rampant in our family. Count your blessings you didn’t inherit it.” Kathleen felt a deep satisfaction at hearing herself say our family, even given the context. “But you can go home after Angela’s house and I can go to the meeting alone.”

  “I’ll think about it. Do you want curried chicken?” Emily asked as she walked to the kitchen for plates. “It’s Jamaican from One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street.”

  “No, thanks. I ate already.”

  Emily returned and began serving herself.

  “Now, tell me what else is wrong,” Kathleen said. “You seemed upset when you came home, but you’re clearly not upset about anything you’ve told me so far.”

  Emily exhaled, her sadness palpable. “Rusty flunked out. I’m sure it’s my fault—from all the upheaval in my life.”

  CHAPTER

  56

  THE NEXT MORNING, the mayor’s caravan made plodding progress through stop-and-go traffic on the Cross Bronx Expressway, heading for the funeral of the last subway-bombing victim. Rachel Ajiboye, the EMS worker. It had taken two weeks for Intergovernmental Affairs to get waivers and visas for the extended family to travel from Nigeria. They’d arrived in time to pull the plug. Ajiboye had already been brain-dead. Over the weeks since the bombing, the pain Emily felt for the victims had dulled to a low hum, but it sparked back to life as soon as the SUV pulled up a block away from the funeral home. Emily could viscerally feel the pain of Ajiboye’s children. They were teenagers, just like Emily had been when her father died. She knew the disbelief, confusion, and loss they were feeling.

  Martha spoke in a low tone to Emily as they left the car, double-timing to keep up with the mayor’s long strides as he and his security detail led their group. “We’re late. They probably held up the service for us. That’s all we need today. The media never wants to hear about traffic unless they’re blaming the mayor for it.”

  The street in front of the funeral home was barricaded. Beyond the barricades, uniformed city workers and members of the public packed the street, too many to fit inside for the service. Large black speakers had been strapped to light poles to bring audio to the overflow crowd. Firefighters and police stood in formation in the street directly in front of the funeral home entrance. Emily looked around with a start as she followed Mayor Sullivan and Martha toward the entrance. The firefighters and police were turning their backs on the mayor, a rolling about-face as he passed.

  “Oh, holy fuck,” muttered Marlo, cleanly shaved now and wearing flats and a black Hillary Clinton pantsuit.

  Martha hissed, “I told him to cancel that damn fund raiser.”

  It had been a mistake for the mayor to go ahead with a fund raiser a mere week after the bombing. CNN, Fox, and MSNBC had talked about it then, and now they would resume talking about it. As Emily walked past the sea of uniformed men, each officer glaring at their group before turning, she felt as if she’d been punched in the solar plexus.

  * * *

  The bleak mood continued after they returned to City Hall. The mayor railed at Roger while they crossed City Hall plaza toward the building. In the press office, Martha power-walked while reading her iPhone, nearly banging into Emily’s desk. “The Post already has an interview with Ajiboye’s mother. They got her to say she was disappointed in the mayor for not suspending his campaign until her daughter was buried.” Martha picked up a pad and pen from her desk and headed back toward the door. “I’ll be in the Bullpen with the mayor.”

  Videos of the cops turning their backs on the mayor were going viral, only locally for now; #SULLIVAN was trending on Twitter, and Emily needed to work on getting counter-tweets out before it trended nationally. The campaign would be booking surrogates on cable news already to talk about the funeral.

  Max turned from his computer. He hadn’t gone to the funeral. “How could the mayor be held accountable for a two-week delay? He couldn’t have suspended his campaign for that long. It’s ridiculous after everything we did to get the mother a waiver. It’s the State Department’s fault.”

  “I know,” Emily said, only half listening to him.

  Max leaned on his desk, smiling at Emily. He wasn’t getting the hint from her body language or minimal conversation. He seemed more interested in her every day. “So, what did you do yesterday, Em? We missed you.”

  Max calling her Em annoyed her, and the comment about her being missed made her shudder inside. They weren’t that close, and his small talk felt inappropriate when everyone in the office was scrambling to do damage control. Plus, Hector called her Em. She didn’t want to think about Hector. He’d been angry at her when they’d talked last. They’d argued after she mentioned her feeling that someone might be following her. She hadn’t felt better until she’d convinced Hector not to worry and he’d stopped being angry, and she’d been disconcertingly upset about their argument afterward.

  She’d been thinking about Hector more than she liked lately. It bothered her that her feelings for Hector had strengthened because she was under stress. That was so typical.

  She sent a document to her printer with proposed tweets for Martha to look at.

  “Em?” Max repeated.

  Emily turned toward him and held up a hand. “The mayor’s trending, and I need clearance for some tweets.” Emily swiveled to her printer and grabbed the paper to bring to the Bullpen. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a tide of anger crossing Max’s features.

  She looked back at him. “I’m sorry. No offense, Max. I didn’t mean to be curt.” Max was always trying too hard with her, but that wasn’t an excuse for meanness. There was no crime in him having a crush on her.

  He waved her off. “It’s nothing. You’re busy.”

  CHAPTER

  57

  KATHLEEN STOPPED HALFWAY up the cement steps that connected the lower and upper portio
ns of Washington Heights. Brick apartment buildings formed walls cradling the staircase. Kathleen couldn’t travel far for groceries without the hassle of getting preapproval, but the cuff’s GPS didn’t count vertical distance, so she climbed to the grocery stores on 187th Street and Fort Washington Avenue. The first time she’d walked these stairs, she’d counted 130 cement steps in sets of about fifteen, with a landing between each set. She climbed slowly but surely now. She didn’t mind—it was great exercise. She could reward herself with brunch in a street café once she arrived.

  But she was winded now and had to rest. The ankle cuff under her pant leg was chafing her skin again. It was a hot day too. Sweat pasted her blouse to her skin. She would have worn a sundress or shorts on a day like today, but if she did, her ankle cuff would be visible. As it was, a close look would reveal the awkward thickness at her ankle. Luckily, few people looked closely at women her age. She appreciated her invisibility today.

  Over the last few years, after she’d entirely abandoned her illegal lifestyle, she’d settled into a quiet, safe, anonymous life. That had now been upended. When she’d met with her new lawyer, all he could say was that he was trying to get more information about the evidence that had led the district attorney to bring such serious charges against her. He didn’t know enough to tell her anything other than the bad news about the lengthy prison term she faced. Still, despite her fear, Kathleen had a deep conviction that her current legal problem would eventually work itself out. She was innocent. She only hoped that meant something.

  At least she had her health—the grateful refrain of a person on the downhill side of sixty-five. And tonight she would go with Emily to Angela’s house. She looked forward to even the possibility of getting more answers.

  She held her face up to the sun and resumed her climb. She might as well appreciate the summer day. And that she had her granddaughter and great-granddaughter in her life. And that she had the chance to have a relationship with her daughter. If having to fight a bogus criminal case was the price of admission for that, it would be worth it twice over.