by Sydney Bauer
‘You and I, we've seen the worst of it, Joe,’ said King, his gaze now floating toward the baseball game which was resuming after a short break, ‘which means like it or not we have an inbuilt radar on the whole culpability thing.’ He paused. ‘You think Walker is innocent.’ It wasn't a question, more an observation.
Joe shrugged. ‘That's not up to me to decide, Simba.’
‘That's a cop-out, Joe.’
‘And I'm a cop.’
Simba smiled again. ‘What is Cavanaugh saying?’
‘You know David, he wouldn't have kept her on unless …’
‘I know, I know,’ said King, not needing Joe to finish. ‘If he's right, we have some serious bad asses on our hands, Joe.’
‘Asses?’ said Joe, wondering at Simba's use of a plural.
‘This whole thing would be pretty hard to pull off solo.’
Joe shifted his stance then, to see Simba looking him directly in the eye. ‘You know something I don't, Simba?’
‘Funny, that was what I've been trying to ask you. Look, Joe, this case may be none of my business, but that doesn't mean I want to see an innocent woman convicted for something she didn't do. Ned Jacobs can't see her as the perp, he told me that from the get-go, so I suppose I just want to make sure that … you know, if and when it comes down to it, you'll ask for my help if you need it.’
Joe knew the offer was genuine and so he responded with the slightest of nods before they both turned back to the game.
‘I gotta go,’ said King. ‘Tell your kids that Ted Williams' record is seriously under threat.’
‘And you wish Elena and Micaela good luck from me,’ countered Joe.
‘I would – except that Ellie and Mickey played yesterday, and they kicked ass.’
Joe smiled.
‘Barbados is looking good, Joe.’
King gave the slightest of waves before turning his back on his good detective friend, and slowly walking away.
57
‘It's hard to believe, isn't it,’ the good-looking speaker continued, his blonde hair slick under the dimmed crystal chandeliers, ‘that it's over thirty years since Louise Brown was born in Oldham, Great Manchester, UK. Louise was the world's first IVF miracle, her parents John and Lesley having spent nine long years trying to conceive.’ The man paused for effect, shaking his head at the wonder of it all.
‘Of course, we have come a long way since then. The latest figures on IVF show that the process is responsible for over three million births each year. But there is still a way to go – there is research to be done and techniques to be improved and procedures to be perfected to increase the rate and success of the IVF program. I know it is hard to conceive, and please forgive the pun –’ he gave the audience that irresistible smile, ‘– but we are really only looking at the tip of the iceberg when it comes to in-vitro fertilisation and genetic research, which is why we are here,’ he gestured at the Four Season Ballroom around him, ‘eating the best cuisine and drinking the finest of wines, in celebration of, and hope for, an even brighter IVF future. So tonight I ask you to dig deep, knowing every cent you spare will go toward the formation of a new life, a new miracle, a fresh opportunity for parents who have been told it is impossible for them to conceive.’ Davenport took hold of his champagne glass which he had placed strategically on the lectern before him. ‘To life!’ he said as he lifted the glass high.
‘To life!’ echoed the now inspired audience as they lifted their glasses in acknowledgment.
‘Thank you,’ concluded Davenport, and David and Sara watched in amazement as the entire room of four hundred plus got to their feet to applaud him. He truly was God in their eyes – a creator of miracles, an architect of life.
Sara shifted in her seat, adjusting her long black sequinned gown which, she had noticed with a measure of embarrassment, had caught the eye of many a man in the room. David pulled at the bow tie at his neck, his tolerance for this sham obviously thinning by the minute.
‘Why the hell did he ask us here?’ he bent low to mutter in Sara's ear. They were at a circular table with four other couples, genuinely good people who were now retrieving their cheque books to give to Davenport's cause.
‘I have no idea,’ she answered. ‘But all that crap about miracles? Seriously, it took all my strength not to stand up and walk from the room.’
‘The man's a criminal of the worst order, Sara,’ said David.
‘But he looks anything but. Maybe this was part of his plan – you know, convincing us what a humanitarian he is.’
‘He doesn't know that we know, Sara. He's probably trying to reel us in and get some sort of inside information on our progress. Don't forget, the last time you spoke to Hunt he tried to convince you that Sienna murdered her daughter before attempting to kill herself.’
Sara nodded. ‘I think what Sienna told Joe is right – that that was just Hunt trying to get us to drop the case.’
‘But we're still here,’ whispered David.
‘Much to their frustration,’ she replied, just as the couple across the table addressed them.
‘He's impressive, isn't he?’ asked the man named York. George York was a tall, striking African–American whose table card described him as CEO of a company called York Electronics, and judging by the five figure cheque Sara noted his wife Barbara signing, the information technology business was booming.
‘You could say that,’ said David.
‘Do you have children?’ asked Barbara, an attractive ash-blonde aged in her fifties.
‘A girl, Lauren,’ smiled Sara. ‘She's almost two.’
Barbara smiled. ‘A lovely age.’
‘Most of the time,’ joked Sara. ‘Actually, I can't complain. The older she gets the easier it seems to be. She sleeps through most nights now, and the food generally goes in her mouth as opposed to all over the kitchen.’
‘Yes, I remember how hard those early years were.’ Barbara York rolled her eyes. ‘Our son was a shocking sleeper. I often said to George that it would have been easier if he were born two.’
‘Not literally dear,’ laughed George York.
‘Good god, no,’ responded Barbara, now patting her husband's hand.
‘How old is your son now?’ asked Sara, figuring it was up to her to make conversation. David's attention was obviously elsewhere, his green eyes tracking the networking Davenport across the room.
‘Thirteen,’ replied Barbara. ‘He's about to graduate middle school with honours. He's our miracle. He was conceived by IVF.’
‘Thus your interest in Dr Davenport,’ said Sara.
‘He's the ideal advocate for the cause,’ replied Barbara. ‘Smart, dedicated.’ She leant into the table. ‘And the good looks don't hurt.’
Sara managed a smile, but only just, as she took a sip of her wine and leant back to allow a waiter to place the complicated-looking dessert in front of her. She turned to David. ‘What time is it?’ she asked.
He looked at his watch. ‘Almost ten.’ He moved a little closer so that he might whisper in her ear. ‘We've been sitting here for close to two-and-a-half hours and Miracle Man hasn't even looked like he is interested in seeking us out.’
‘Then why invite us?’ she asked, referring to the brief call Davenport had made to David explaining it was imperative that they talk and that he preferred such a discussion take place in an open setting where the meeting would not be construed as orchestrated or designed.
‘I have no idea,’ said David. ‘Maybe he just wanted us to see him in action, impress us with his humanitarianism.’
‘Hold up,’ said Sara, her eyes lifting to see the subject of their conversation approaching. ‘I think we're about to …’
‘George!’ said Davenport as he approached from behind the Yorks, looking as fresh as he had when the evening started. ‘It's so good of you to come.’ He turned to York's wife. ‘Barbara, you look stunning as always.’
‘Thank you, Richard,’ she said. She kissed both of his chee
ks and handed him the cheque she had written earlier. ‘For the cause,’ she said, and Davenport took the cheque and smiled.
‘You are too generous,’ he said.
‘It's just a down payment, Richard,’ she said. ‘We want to do more. The evening has been an absolute delight – inspiring speech, wonderful food, the best of company.’ She turned toward Sara and David. ‘How do you know the Cavanaughs, Richard, and why haven't you introduced us to them before?’
Davenport looked directly at David. ‘We haven't known each other long.’ He moved around the table and David got to his feet to look Davenport straight in the eye.
‘David,’ said Davenport, extending his hand.
Sara saw David hesitate, and she knew he was resisting the urge to punch the two-faced physician in the nose.
‘Dick,’ said David, not trying too hard to eliminate the distaste from his voice. ‘I've been trying to contact you.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Davenport. ‘And I apologise for my tardiness. I am glad you could make it here tonight though. Perhaps we could share a quiet word?’
‘I didn't bring my cheque book, Dick,’ said David, obviously not being able to help himself, but Davenport was staring him down, so David followed up with an: ‘Okay.’
Davenport smiled. ‘Then why don't we talk over here?’ He gestured toward a quiet corner beyond the bar, stepping back to allow David to take the lead.
‘I'll be back,’ David said to Sara.
‘Take your time,’ she replied, her fingers tracing his as he turned to walk away.
As he moved Sara saw Davenport place a hand on David's shoulder in a sort of ‘we're just a coupla buddies stepping aside to have a chat’ sort of way, and she wondered, in that second, if that hand had been the one to cut little Eliza Walker's throat – Davenport, the God that giveth and the God that taketh away.
*
Sara moved to the bar. As nice as the Yorks seemed to be, she wanted to give herself some privacy to observe Davenport and David from a central vantage point.
She sat on a plush cushioned stool, catching her reflection in the massive baroque mirror behind the bar. And she noticed another man at the end of the bar catch her eye and smile, and so she shifted her stool to the left toward two young women, one perched on a similar stool and the other standing next to her, the colour of the cocktail in her hand matching that of her long pink fingernails.
‘Totally,’ said the one with the cocktail. She was a brunette, her thick locks tortured to a height that reminded Sara of her own pathetic efforts as a young teen in the late eighties.
‘Dr Davenport and I, well … there are just such chemicals between us …’
Chemicals? Sara didn't know whether to laugh or be shocked.
‘He's not married,’ said the seated girl, a strawberry blonde with dark brown roots and similar length talons on her hands. ‘You should go for it, that way you'd be invited to shit like this all the time.’
But the brunette was shaking her head. ‘It's not like that. I am here as his assistant, not a guest. I am more important than that. He needs me here. He wants me to take the recording of his speech and save it on the computer so we can release it to the media first thing tomorrow – which you must make me do before I have another watermelon martini. These things are starting to go to my head.’
The friend gestured toward Davenport. ‘Your head or your va-jay-jay.’
‘Stop being so vulgar,’ said the brunette, adding, ‘and order me another drink.’
Sara knew exactly who she was looking at – it was Davenport's current assistant, the girl named Madonna. Both Joe and David had described her at length. Joe said that she probably meant well but that she was in awe of her fancy office and her even fancier boss who, Joe suspected, had chosen the simple-minded girl on purpose.
This is an opportunity, Sara told herself as she glanced at David and Davenport, still deep in conversation in the corner. Two birds, one stone, she concluded as she sidled up to the pair and ordered a cocktail of her own.
‘Two more,’ said the blonde as she leaned across the bar toward the good-looking barman.
‘Make that three,’ said Sara. ‘On me,’ she added as she turned to the pair next to her. ‘Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, but I'm here on my own and I could use a friend.’
‘You're here on your own?’ said Madonna.
Sara nodded.
‘But you're hot.’
‘So are you two, but the men around here are more interested in who they can suck up to rather than who they can bang.’
Bang, Sara had said, having no idea if that was what the kids still called it.
The girls smiled as the barman served them their drinks and the three of them lifted their glasses to say cheers. The music had started, attracting well-dressed couples to the dance floor, so Sara had to raise her voice to be heard.
‘I couldn't help but overhear,’ she said to Madonna. ‘You work for Richard Davenport.’
Madonna nodded, thrilled to be acknowledged. ‘I'm his right hand.’
‘But she's more interested in another one of his appendages,’ laughed the blonde, a touch too loudly.
‘Shit, Carina,’ said Madonna. ‘I didn't bring you here so that you could embarrass me.’ Madonna smiled at Sara. ‘Dr Davenport and I are close. He depends on me.’
‘How long have you been working for him?’
‘Since the beginning of the year. His last assistant was a geriatric.’
Sara swallowed. ‘She was elderly?’
‘An antique,’ said Madonna as she downed another gulp of her drink. ‘She's desperate for her old job back.’
Sara did a double-take before deciding exactly how she should play this. ‘How do you know?’
‘She keeps calling me – twice in the last week. She says I'm not doing my job properly. Well … she doesn't put it that way, exactly, she calls and says she is happy to help by sending some emails – ones that, according to her, I was supposed to be sending since I started. She claims she has a relationship with certain organisations and they are missing certain shit and anyway … I let her help out because I feel sorry for her, because I know there is no way in hell that Dr Davenport would have her back. And because if she wants to spend her time working for jack shit, then more fool her.’ Another swill, another swallow.
‘Maybe this old assistant is lonely. Is she living alone, you know, with twenty mangy cats or something?’
‘Oh, she's not at home.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because when she calls I hear those beeps.’
‘International beeps?’ asked Sara.
‘That's it.’
Sara nodded, glancing once again at David and Davenport before asking, ‘So you're sending her emails and she's sending them on to someone else?’
Madonna looked at her. Sara's question was too pointed. She tried desperately to backtrack. ‘I mean, it just sounds like she's desperate to keep herself in the picture. How special can these emails be?’
‘They're not special,’ said Madonna. ‘They're just basic info on the clients Dr Davenport works with. He calls them clients not patients, you know, the people who he helps conceive a baby. The old bat says the lab needs regular updates on the status of their place in the fertility process but it's all bullshit. She just likes being around the info – probably imagines herself still sitting at my desk.’
Sara smiled. ‘The calls are probably costing her a fortune. I wonder where she's calling from?’
‘Don't know, don't care,’ said Madonna.
‘You know,’ Sara changed tack, ‘I am going to give you my number.’ She fished into her sequinned bag for a pen. ‘My boss runs an employment agency for medical personnel. If she calls again you can give her my number. Maybe I can place her so that she doesn't bother you again. Tell her … tell her I specialise in putting people where they belong – a little like Dr Davenport.’
‘Huh?’ Madonna was confused.
&n
bsp; ‘The parents – the babies – you know, he knows the parents he is working with will give their babies a good home.’
Madonna considered Sara. Blinking once, twice, she said, ‘You look familiar. I think I saw you in the paper.’
Shit, thought Sara, once again glancing toward David, who was now taking a step back from Davenport. ‘My boss placed some ads for our agency in the Tribune. They used my photograph. I had to look all bright and exited – you know, like the agency just found me a fantastic job.’
‘Those ads shit me,’ said the blonde, who was beginning to slur her words. ‘Nobody is that freaking happy.’ She wobbled to her feet. ‘Madonna, I need to pee. You have to come to the little girls' room with me.’
Madonna rolled her eyes, her enquiry now forgotten. ‘She has a weak bladder,’ she said to Sara before checking her reflection in the mirror and taking her friend by the arm. ‘You need to pee too?’ she asked of Sara.
‘No thanks, I'm good.’
Madonna nodded, casting one last wistful glance toward Davenport, who was now standing solo, before looping her arm under her friend's elbow and teetering her way to the bathroom.
PART FIVE
58
Esther Wallace stepped out onto the front stone stoop. It wasn't really a stoop, it was just a pathway which had been covered with weeds but was now trim and exposed, something she had managed using the archaic tools she had found in the tumbledown weatherboard shed.
The air was thick with spring. Not in a floral sense but in a sweet, damp, primeval way that let you know that the land had smelt like this for a million springs before man had even thought of arriving. The grass was wet with dew, the low-lying heath defying the acidic soil and the black-faced sheep gnawing at it, oblivious to the chill in the strong morning breeze.
Esther wiped her hands on her apron and pulled her shawl across her shoulders. He had gone out early as he always did with his gumboots on his feet and his rifle over his shoulder. The house was quiet bar the hiss of the stove, the chimney coughing pale grey smoke toward the too-blue sky.