by Tom Grace
“Daddy, what is going on? How do you know this man?”
“Yes, Jamison,” Nolan said. “Please tell your daughter about what you’ve done and why I’m here.”
“Walter, Kilkenny and I are going to give you and your lovely daughter a moment alone to talk.” Toccare turned to Nolan. “Care to join me for a cigar on the terrace?”
Seeing no real choice in the matter, Nolan nodded. Toccare pulled two CAO Golds from his desktop humidor and directed Nolan back toward the foyer. They stepped out onto the back terrace and felt a gentle breeze rolling in from the sea. A few rays of sunlight shone brightly through a thin gap between the clouds and the western horizon, bathing the underside of the overcast sky in an unearthly glow.
Toccare cut the caps off both cigars with a guillotine cutter and handed one to Nolan, whose cigar he lit first, then his own.
“My boys tell me you took a real beating from this Palmer. They scared him off and took you to the hospital, by the way. How’s your face?”
“Looks as good as it feels.” Nolan puffed on the cigar. “Good smoke, thanks.”
Toccare nodded and exhaled a billowing stream of aromatic smoke.
“Walter Jamison and his daughter are like family to me,” Toccare said. “I have a daughter, too. Like most fathers, I would do anything for her, anything to protect her.”
“Children will do that to a man.”
“That they will. My daughter is all grown and married to a good man; he treats her well. Sadly, they cannot conceive a child as God and nature intended. They have also tried a number of fertility procedures with no success. My little girl was heartbroken. I asked Walter to look into a private adoption, but he suggested that my daughter see his daughter first. I don’t know how Deena does what she does, but she helped my daughter and her husband make a baby. I still remember how happy my little girl was when she first heard her child’s heart beating inside her.”
A joyful tear rolled down Toccare’s cheek. He pulled a battered leather wallet from his back pocket and flipped open the vinyl picture insert. He showed Nolan a photograph of a smiling boy with a mass of curly black hair playing on the beach.
“This was taken last summer, right over there. Tony and his mother spend most of the summer here with us—we have a good time.”
“Good looking kid.”
“Yeah, he is. Takes after his mother, who took after her mother, thank God, and not me.”
“Is there a point?” Nolan asked.
“Yes, there’s a point. I owe Jamison and his daughter a debt I can never repay, and anyone who fucks with them will have to answer to me.”
“I feel exactly the same way about my father, and I’m pretty sure that Walter Jamison, and whoever he’s working with, did fuck with him. You talk so warmly about your grandson, but there’s a family down in Florida that buried their little boy today. Whoever did what they did to conceive that little boy botched the job and he died. A genetic defect. And unlike your grandson, who was conceived out of love, this boy was just a disposable tool in an elaborate con.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“According to the DNA, this little boy and I share a common father. My dad claims the boy isn’t his.”
“He said, she said—the oldest story in the book, except now they got a test that proves things one way or another.”
“Funny thing about that little test—it can’t prove you are the father, only that you’re not. If it doesn’t exclude you, then it rates the probability that you’re the father. Fill Michigan Stadium with a hundred thousand random men and for any given child you’ll find roughly ten guys with a 99.99 percent chance of being the father. And the kicker is that none may be the actual dad.”
“Your point being?” Toccare asked.
“My dad scored real high on the probability. So did a friend of mine a few years ago—only he was accused of rape and murder instead of paternity. Thing is, I proved the DNA in my friend’s case had been whipped up in a lab, and that’s what I think happened to my dad.”
“The courts really like this DNA stuff. Hell, they’re pulling guys off death row with it and solving old murders. It’s in all those crime shows on TV. It’d be hard to turn a judge against proven science.”
Nolan shook his head. “DNA is nothing but a string of data—four little molecules repeated over and over. Some really smart people have even started to use it for computer memory. A gram of DNA can store about fifty times the amount of information in the Library of Congress. DNA isn’t magic. It can be used to tell the truth, and now it can be used to tell a lie, too. A question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Is your grandson’s life worth five million dollars?”
“What?” Toccare spat angrily.
“That boy in Florida I told you about—he was used to extort five million dollars from my father. And I don’t think my dad was the only man fleeced by whoever is running this scam. I’ve followed the money and the science—this is where it brought me.”
Toccare said nothing for several minutes. He simply gazed at the horizon and savored his cigar. Nolan pressed him no further.
“What kind of genetic defect?” Toccare asked soberly, breaking the silence. “The boy in Florida, what did he die of?”
“His liver failed. I think if someone I loved was conceived in an unusual way, I would have their entire genome mapped and compared to the full genomes of their parents. Just to make sure nothing got lost in translation. For all of its power, DNA is a very fragile molecule.”
Deena waited until she was alone with her father before releasing the torrent of questions welling up inside her.
“Daddy, what’s going on? Why did those men take us? Why is this Kilkenny pretending to be Egan, and why did he come to see you? And why are we in Dante Toccare’s house?” Deena lowered her voice “Isn’t he some kind of mobster?”
“Easy, dear, easy. Dante is a friend of mine. You remember Clarissa Nell and her husband? You helped them have a child.”
Deena nodded. Her father pulled a framed picture off a shelf and showed her the image of Toccare with a young couple and a child.
“Toccare is Clarissa’s father—grandfather to the child you helped them conceive,” Jamison explained. “When you told me about Palmer, I knew Dante would help, no questions asked. He can keep you safe from that monster.”
“But isn’t your friend a criminal?”
Jamison shook his head. “He’s just a very successful business man. He’s rich and powerful and he’s made a lot enemies along the way. What you need to keep in mind right now is that he’s willing to protect you until the police capture Palmer.”
“The same can be said of Grant, or whatever his name is. Why did he and the woman he’s with go to see you?”
“They had some questions about an old paternity case. I represented the mother. The whole matter was settled and never went to court. What did they want from you?”
“What every childless couple wants—a baby. The records they brought showed she was healthy and he was totally azoospermic. If I couldn’t find anything to work with from a biopsy, I was considering a little lab magic.”
“Dear, we’ve talked about this. The technique you developed is fantastic, but it’s not yet approved. The liability is enormous.”
“What about the clients you bring to me?”
“Those couples are willing to take the risk and their money is financing your research. What you do for them is totally off the books and untraceable to you.”
“But it works. Eight couples already have healthy genetic offspring.”
“If word ever got out—your reputation would be ruined. You’d be the new Dr. Frankenstein. Did you tell Kilkenny anything about your research? Offer it as an option?”
“Of course not. If I ever decided to use my technique on one of my patients, I’d record it as a win using proven IVF methods. Once I fertilize an egg, what I do is indistinguishable from any other form o
f conception.”
“I’m sorry. I know how careful you are with your research, and I trust your judgment.”
“I know you do,” Deena replied, then she paused in thought. “If Kilkenny and that woman weren’t genuinely trying to have a child—I don’t know what they were after. I don’t think he knew I was your daughter, not if that look on his face was any indication. And my business has nothing to do with an old paternity suit. The only thing that links us besides blood is the work I do for your special clients. Could he be after—”
Jamison shushed Deena before she could complete her thought. Footsteps on the foyer’s marble floor sounded the approach of Nolan and Toccare.
“We’ll talk later,” Jamison said in a near whisper. “But I’m sure we’ll soon get to the bottom of it.”
“If you’re hungry,” Toccare announced, “I had my cook make some of her special carbonara. And the rule of the house is no business talk over dinner.”
FIFTY-NINE
8:55 PM
Cell phone tracking led Palmer to the tony enclave of Stonehampton. The exterior of his van was now white and it bore the acronym LIPA on its doors—the initials of the Long Island Power Authority. Such a vehicle roaming through a quiet neighborhood on a Saturday night would draw little attention from the village’s few year-round residents. As he slowly drove past a towering hedge whose sole interruption was a solid wood and steel gate, his tracking program indicated that Deena’s cell phone was just a few thousand feet south-southeast of his position. The line drawn on his display approached perpendicular to his current position on the lane. No other streets provided a closer approach to the phone’s coordinates, only a long driveway.
He continued to the end of the lane then turned right and drove until the road ended in a hundred-car parking lot at the public beach. The lot was empty, which was not unexpected considering the time of day and year, but Palmer still preferred a bit of privacy. He checked the boy, who remained unconscious but was breathing normally. He drew a privacy curtain to conceal the back of the van from anyone peering through the windshield, then pulled out a tablet computer and his monocular to run a high-speed data cable between them.
Palmer powered up the tablet and opened three application windows. The first linked to the van’s alarm system, which included proximity detection and concealed CCD cameras inside and out. The second displayed the location of the tablet and Deena’s phone. The third provided a high-resolution view of whatever the monocular saw. With the swipe of his finger, he could quickly shift from one window to the next.
He exited and secured the van and then went for a walk on the beach, heading west. Waves lapped at the shore as the tide ebbed. A thick blanket of clouds concealed a night sky dense with stars far from the city’s glare. He saw only the barest hint of the waxing gibbous moon he knew was there—a small patch of gray just a few shades lighter than the rest of the overcast sky.
Palmer moved with careful, deliberate steps on the beach, keeping to the firm, smooth plane of sand vacated by the receding ocean. Brittle dune grass rustled in the breeze. A deep, rolling field of dunes thick with vegetation separated the sandy beach from the homes on the choicest estate lots—the land unbuildable as a nature preserve and a natural barrier to storm erosion.
Most of the beach houses were dark shadowy forms: solid, sharp and black against the less defined shapes of trees and dune grass. The one Palmer sought glowed like a lantern. He rechecked the tracking window. Deena’s phone was somewhere in the house directly in front of him. He scaled the dune and lay atop its crest, studying the rear facade of the massive house.
Resting on his elbows, Palmer held up the monocular with one hand and controlled it through the tablet with the other. He progressed window by window, gaining a sense of the house’s inner layout. In one wing he saw a kitchen large enough to run a restaurant. A group of eight men rose from a large table and cleared their dishes under the appreciative eye of a motherly cook. The men were all smiles, apparently satisfied with the meal and respectful of the woman. They all towered over her tiny form.
The men disappeared from Palmer’s view for a moment, then he spotted them passing by an open doorway at the far end of the kitchen, filing down a hallway. A moment later, he heard the faint sound of engines starting.
Perhaps they’re leaving, Palmer thought, hopefully.
For the next hour, Palmer observed all that could be seen from his vantage point. A few guards patrolled the exterior of the house, always remaining in the halo of site lighting. The men never ventured into the untamed sea of dune grass. That the house was guarded told him there was something or someone worth protecting inside.
The old cook departed and the kitchen went dark. Then he saw his Deena.
She walked into the great room and stared out the window as if she was looking right at him. He knew the glow in which she stood made it impossible for her to see him, yet the illusion of connection remained. She and the three men who followed her all held glasses, likely an after dinner drink. Palmer recognized Deena’s father, with whom he shared a mutual hatred, and the man he had beaten. Both represented barriers to his permanent reunion with Deena—as such they both had to die. Palmer did not recognize the third man. He captured a still of the man’s face and ran it through a facial recognition program that would run a comparison against images published in the Hampton’s summer society pages. The program quickly returned an image from a tennis fundraiser that identified the man as Dante Toccare.
Unfamiliar with Toccare, Palmer ran a search and uncovered a series of articles in the Times and Post that referred to him as a reputed mob boss and the low-profile head of a New York organized crime family. Palmer was uncertain how Toccare fit, but the house and the armed men surely were his.
Deena and her companion were both dressed as they were in Pennsylvania, and the trace from her phone indicated they came here directly from the farm. His bold taking of his son must have startled them, sent them quickly scurrying for refuge. And haste implied a lack of planning and preparation.
As at the farm, they wouldn’t expect him to act so soon.
SIXTY
9:40 PM
“Walter, please show your daughter to the guest rooms,” Toccare said graciously. “She’s had a long day. Our other guest and I have a few more things to discuss.”
As father and daughter ascended the grand staircase, Toccare led Nolan back into the library. They sat in leather club chairs facing each other, nursing glasses of a 2003 Conte Alambicco Magnifica grappa. Nolan detected hints of fig and orange blossom in the potent digestivo.
“What’s on your mind?” Nolan asked.
“I thought about what you said before dinner. We’re a lot alike, you and I.”
“How so?”
“Family is very important to us—it’s the most important thing in life. All the money and power in the world is worthless without family. Your father taught you well.”
“That he did.” Nolan noted a golden crucifix on a high shelf. “Are you a Roman Catholic?”
“Madonna, such a question. Yes, I am.”
“Me, too. My father, a man who feels dishonored because he could not prove his innocence, just became the new U.S. ambassador to the Vatican. He is a good man.”
Toccare held his glass up. “To your father.”
Nolan joined the toast and took another sip of grappa.
“So, this is about honor, not money?” Toccare asked.
“It’s about the truth. My father and the boy who died both deserve the truth. Had they found me in time, the child might still be alive.”
“And the money?”
“My father gives more than that to charities every year.”
“You asked me if my grandson’s life was worth five million—to me, it’s priceless. I’m not admitting to any part in the unfortunate situation involving your father, but it’s possible something might be done for the sake of his honor. In exchange, I want something from you.”
“What?”
“Everything you know about what happened to the boy in Florida—so we know what to look for in my grandson.”
“That can be arranged, but I want you to think bigger. If there are any other children out there who were conceived in an unusual way—seven, I believe—their parents should be notified and the children should have their entire genome sequenced and checked for defects. At your cost. I’m sure Jamison can create a shell to protect you while helping these kids, if they need it. And then there’s the alleged biological fathers.”
“What do you want for them?”
“Exactly what they want, the truth. Each one, including my father, is to receive written notice that they are in fact not the father of John or Jane Doe. Pad it with some legalese and boilerplate about the paternity tests only being probabilities—something they can hang their hat on as proof that they were telling the truth. Also tell them that even though they are not the fathers, they and their family members may be very good matches for transplants, just in case. My dad will be happy if you sent his money to the family of the boy in Florida, but the rest of the men should probably get their money back with interest, just to stave off any inquisitive lawsuits.”
“Forty mill plus—that’s pretty steep.”
“Maybe, but children are priceless, and hurting them is bad business.”
“Agreed,” Toccare said, then he held up his glass. “Salute.”
SIXTY-ONE
10:05 PM
Palmer found the van as he left it with Kirk Young lying on his back, still restrained in a dreamless sleep. He removed the transdermal patch from the boy’s hand and replaced it with one containing a different chemistry. His son would soon regain a level of consciousness permitting directed movement and response, but devoid of self-identity or the ability to act on independent thought or action—a sleepwalking, puppet state.