Do I have a choice?
We waited longer than I could control my breathing exercises. Filth filled my nostrils.
“Whatta you want?” a voice called through the closed door.
“Ms. James?” Frank said, lightening his tone to increase his sweet quotient. “I’m here from Sound View Laboratories. It’s been years, but it turns out there’s an unclaimed paycheck for you.”
Money, as they say, opens doors. In this case, it flew off the hinges to reveal a plump, full-breasted woman with a cigarette stuck precariously to her bottom lip.
“Bullshit,” she snarled, pulling a wad of dry, damaged hair into a loose bun while she took a puff on her cigarette. “Dr. Prentice cut me off years ago.” She threw her head back and stared at me under heavy lids, strands of limp locks falling back to her shoulders. “You’re the daughter.”
It wasn’t a question. Lizzy James knew exactly who I was, because as my mother had noted yesterday, my father didn’t hire stupid people. I watched as she walked back into her apartment. Her jeans were snug and traces of a swagger that twenty years ago might have turned a few lab assistants’ heads sashayed across the room. She left the door open.
“I read in the paper about that crap he pulled last year.” She extended a tobacco-stained finger toward Frank. “I recognize you.”
“I’m a cop.”
I shot a look at Frank as if to say, That’s the lead I’m following?
Lizzy James blew smoke out of the side of her mouth, sat back into her couch, and crossed her shapely ankles, the only part of her that didn’t appear bloated. She nodded for us to sit. “For the record, I loved that job, and I was really good at it.”
I glanced back over my shoulder, eyeing Lizzy’s soiled recliner. I held my breath and took the plunge. The chair’s springs were loose, sending the slider back a few inches. Lizzy laughed as I pulled myself out of the spongy hole in the seat cushion. “So why did you leave?” I asked as I looked around the room hoping to spot a Sear’s family portrait with a child that looked frighteningly like me.
“Dr. Prentice offered me something better,” she said, and then corrected herself. “At least, I thought it would be better. Fewer hours, no commute, more money. Turned out the job was temporary.”
Frank’s wheels were churning. I could see, as his jaw rotated, he wanted to turn the conversation toward Lizzy’s personal life and a reference to her children, but Ms. James was moving in a decidedly different direction.
“What was the job?” Frank asked.
Lizzy held her hand out, palm up, requiring Frank to reach into his pocket for a stack of twenties. With the agility of a card dealer, the cash disappeared into Lizzy’s cleavage. I had always wanted to do that, jam a roll of bills in between my breasts and actually have it stick. We waited while Lizzy adjusted her blouse.
“Surrogate,” she finally said.
I jolted, causing the recliner to roll backward about a half a foot. Had I heard correctly? Because it sounded as if my father had paid this woman to carry my baby. I glanced at Frank to see his Adam’s apple bursting from his neck.
“Where’s the child?” I asked, grabbing onto an end table for support.
“There is no child,” Lizzy said as if I didn’t understand the concept of a surrogate as a hired vessel.
“I know what surrogate means,” I snapped. “Who did you carry the child for?”
“I don’t know, but I can tell you they must have been pretty disappointed.”
“Why?” Frank asked.
“Because I couldn’t carry to term. The baby died at twenty weeks.” Lizzy stubbed her cigarette out. “Your asshole of a father fired me. Said I was a bad carrier.” She laughed raucously and pointed to the family photo I’d been looking for. Three kids all gussied up for Christmas stared back. “Bad carrier, my ass. Tell that to the rug rats.”
Frank stood up without fanfare and walked out. What was the point of staying if there was no baby? Obviously, this wasn’t what either of us had expected. As for myself, I’d played this moment over in my head so many times. I had cleverly constructed long and short versions of the Great Baby Reveal. In the long version, a well-meaning woman in mom jeans looks longingly at the baby she’d been raising and then unselfishly hands the infant over to me. In the short version, I’m hugging the most beautiful baby in the world while Ms. Mom Jeans fades conveniently into the background. Never, in any of my fantasy soap opera moments, did I expect to find out my child hadn’t survived to be born. Clearly, neither did Frank. For him, this was his only shot at a relative.
I dug deep into my short pockets. No money, of course; Freegans traveled light when it came to the green stuff. Instead, I snapped off the watch I’d rescued from a Dumpster a few months back. It was one of my better finds, requiring nothing more than some spit polish and a new battery. I handed it to Lizzy.
“I’m going to guess you were just as smart as those lab assistants.”
Lizzy’s eyes scanned over her squalid apartment. “I deserve this, don’t I?”
“Why do you say that?” I asked as I moved from my death-trap recliner to the germ-infested couch.
“Because I’m smart, and I screwed up.”
“Was it the drinking and the smoking? Is that why you lost the baby?” My baby, I wanted to say.
In an act of selflessness, Lizzy blew her secondhand smoke away from my face although the smell, strangely, was a pleasant relief from the stink of the apartment.
“No, I was completely clean. I wasn’t taking the drugs I stole.” She laughed at the memory. “I sold them, but your father caught me. He told me he had a better way for me to make money. The problem was that I had lied to get the first job managing the storage room in the lab. I told your father I was twenty-one when I was actually sixteen,” she said, shrugging her soft shoulders. “That’s why I lost the baby. I couldn’t carry because I was too young. Despite what you may think,” she said as she ran her hand down her curves, “my body wasn’t ready at sixteen.”
“You passed for twenty-one at sixteen?” I said in total amazement until I realized that Lizzy James currently passed for a woman in her forties at the ripe old age of thirty-two. I remembered what Jimmy had said earlier in the day about appearances. I had just assumed Liz James was older.
“I really wanted that surrogate thing to work out,” she continued, “because your father promised me twice the money for the next baby if I carried well the first time. Apparently, a good first pregnancy is a requirement for surrogates.”
You poor woman, I thought, practically a child when my father sunk his claws into you. Bright, savvy, healthy, and in need of money. What a find for my father. But like every scientist, he would have to put her to the test before she carried his prized possession—my egg and my brother’s sperm. He must have impregnated her with someone else’s embryo to test her viability before he risked implanting mine. If Dr. Grovit and Dr. Wilson were correct, Teddy and I had only supplied one fertilized embryo. He had to ensure the surrogate was viable. But Lizzy had failed. That meant the chance someone else had carried my egg still existed.
“Were there other surrogates?” I asked.
Lizzy rose and walked to a cluttered desk. From the bottom drawer, she located a folder and pulled out a wrinkled newspaper. “This is a newsletter from the lab, and this”—she pointed to a group photo on the cover—“is a picture of the lab assistants.”
I took the newspaper and stared at the faces. I recognized Dr. Wilson with his red hair, as well as Lizzy. She was quite a looker at sixteen. “This woman,” Lizzy said, indicating the woman next to her in the photo. “I don’t remember her name, but I think she organized the surrogates.”
I looked closely. Yet another woman’s face to evaluate, but again, it wasn’t anyone I had seen before. No matter. It was still a lead. I headed for the door, down one fancy timepiece but up a valuabl
e clue.
twenty-six
In the few minutes I had spent alone with Lizzy, Frank had regressed to a full-blown hissy fit. From across the courtyard, I could see the signs of frustration as he circled the car.
“Stop your snuffling. She’s not the surrogate,” I said as we settled into the Gremlin. “My father had only tested her viability as a surrogate. Had she past the test, then he would have implanted my egg.” I handed him the photo. “Lizzy thinks this woman knows something about the other surrogates. We passed a Staples on the way here. I want to fax this photo to my mother and Dr. Wilson.”
Frank regained his composure and stepped on the pedal. “Thanks,” he said.
The red-shirted man at Staples faxed off our photo in a snap while Frank successfully conferenced in Dr. Wilson and my mother. We moved to a quiet aisle in the store and put Frank’s phone on speaker.
“Anybody?” I said.
“It’s Carolyn Corey,” Dr. Wilson said. “She wasn’t a lab assistant.”
“What was she?” Frank asked.
“Good question,” Dr. Wilson said. “I’m not sure why she’s in that picture. I just know she worked at the labs.”
“Wait,” my mother added excitedly. “I think I recognize her.”
I clapped my hands and winked at Frank. I loved the new and improved version of my rehabilitated mother.
“I think this woman came to our house the day of your procedure,” my mother continued. “It’s the freckles. I remember thinking how young she was at the time.”
I thought we’d lost the three-way connection as Frank shoved the phone into my hand. Then I realized we were all simply speechless at my mother’s recollection.
“I remember,” my mother broke the silence, “because this woman thought I was the patient, and yet there I was, with a half bottle of empty Chardonnay in my hand when she arrived. She seemed surprised to find out it was you.”
I turned to Frank, who was pounding away at a Staples computer since I still held his phone. “Can we find her?”
“Done,” he said. “She’s a local obstetrician.”
twenty-seven
Frank handed me his phone as he started the car. “Dial the guys and put ’em on speaker.”
“Hey boss,” Lamendola said. “Can you meet us? We got a lead on an auctioneer that might know Bob. He owns a local pawn shop.”
I had hoped our next step was Dr. Carolyn Corey, but Bob’s murder came first so I didn’t bother asking Frank. In reality, there was no urgency. Dr. Corey had no idea we wanted to speak with her and in all likelihood, she’d be doing the same thing tomorrow as she did last week and the week before.
The address of the pawn shop, located in the mid-island town of Commack, wasn’t far from the Carmen House apartments and therefore within reach. Commack was famous for two things: Rosie O’Donnell’s childhood home and the Commack Motor Inn, a sleazy hotel where teenagers and cheating spouses went to have sex. Besides these places of interest, Commack was a flat slice of Long Island good for farming and strip malls. Unlike the quaint shops of Cold Spring Harbor, Commack’s shopping district spilled out for miles.
The pawn shop we were looking for was located on a main thoroughfare across the street from a large chain supermarket. I had a love/hate relationship with superstores, especially the type that sold food. I knew that for every oversized shopping cart stuffed with excessive calories, almost a third of the food would go uneaten and ultimately be trashed. This endless supply of wasted food was a nice supplement to my own shopping budget. Between Harbor House’s farm and Dumpster diving at stores like these, my food expenditure was only a few dollars a week. Although I was always thrilled to find a box of cereal past its expiration date, knowing that perfectly good food had been tossed drove me crazy.
While we waited at the intersection, I spotted a mom with three small children maneuvering a top-heavy cart to her car. I was about to shake my finger disapprovingly at her empty calorie haul when Frank grabbed my hand.
“Save your judgment for the auctioneer,” he said as we pulled in. “I’m curious to see if this guy is legit. Pawn shops are notorious for attracting shady people.”
The store was bookended by the Happy Roses nail salon and a Laundromat. Nail salons. There was another commercial enterprise that made me question humanity. How can you relax when the person pushing your cuticles back is wearing a face mask to avoid inhaling toxic lacquer? I was about to take a jab at the nail place when Frank pointed to the window of the pawn shop. Lamendola and Cheski were at the glass counter trying on watches.
“Thinking about retirement?” Frank asked as we walked in.
“Can’t come soon enough,” Cheski replied and then added, “The auctioneer’s name is Sally, short for Salvatore. He’s taking a phone call in the back.” Cheski handed Frank a watch to try on while I busied myself with Civil War memorabilia. I inched over to the jewelry and a velvet tray of wedding rings. Strangely enough, I hadn’t formed an opinion on weddings. I figured someday I’d make a commitment, and I assumed that when I did, it would be nontraditional. I had never, however, considered the meaning of a ring or the size for that matter. A row of sparkly diamonds smiled brightly at me, and for a split second I felt a twinge of consumerism creep up. For sure, I’d never find a diamond ring at the bottom of a Dumpster … but hey, you never know.
Sally, the auctioneer, emerged from the back room. I don’t know what I expected—maybe a fast-talking southerner with a checkered shirt and a cowboy hat—but it certainly wasn’t this auctioneer. Salvatore Riggi was young, maybe early thirties, and dressed in business casual—slacks, a button-down, and no tie. He shook our hands calmly and repeated each of our names at least once and then offered us a seat at a pawned dining room table.
“I know you have some questions about my clients, and I’m happy to help. What do you need?”
“We have a couple of questions about storage default auctions, but first, maybe you could tell us how you came to own the store?” Frank said. By his question, I guessed Frank had been expecting a more seasoned pawn shop owner as well.
“Sure,” Sally said, and then he went on to describe his unusual but rather lucrative career path. “I worked here in high school and through college, loading the heavier pieces to and from people’s cars. It was grunt work, but I loved the idea that something amazing, a real treasure, could be found in boxes of junk.”
My ears were burning while my heart melted. A fellow junk aficionado? I wanted to swipe one of the pawned rings and propose to Sally Riggi on the spot. Instinctively, Frank slid his chair closer to mine. Where had this guy been hiding all my life? Sally went on to explain his decision to major in art and his subsequent graduate degree in appraisals from Sotheby’s. And an art major?! Could this get any better?
“At the end of the day, I didn’t want to work in a Soho gallery selling overpriced art to overpaid New Yorkers. I wanted to dig for the good stuff. So I got a loan and bought out the owner of this place, who was ready to retire anyway. The auctions help me build a client list. I keep careful track of each bidder’s interests and then I develop a one-on-one with the regulars. There’s no magic. The key is to cultivate a personal relationship with each client, and as it turns out, I’m pretty good at it.”
“When I called earlier,” Cheski said, “I asked you about one of your clients. A heavyset guy?”
“Absolutely. Bob, the Outsider Artist. I don’t do a lot of business in dolls, but when I stumble upon a cache, I call Bob.”
“Have you seen any of his artwork?” I asked.
Sally’s eyes lit up. “I was so impressed that I’ve tried to find him an agent. Actually, I owe him a call.” Again, another person in Bob’s network that didn’t know he had passed.
“So you’ve been to the HG storage site?” Frank asked.
“Oh yeah. I’ve done maybe six or seven auctions for them over t
he years. Bob is always there.”
Frank’s jaw pounded away, and I knew he was evaluating the extent to which he could trust Sally Riggi. The signs were positive. The store was clean, organized, and professionally run. Sally seemed knowledgeable and forthcoming, and he had no hesitation meeting with us on short notice. We sat in silence for a few seconds until Frank delivered the bad news about Bob.
“Wow,” Sally said. “I had no idea. I thought you were here to investigate stolen goods. I was prepared to open my books.”
“That’s good to know, but what we’re looking for now is information about a murder,” Frank said. “Is there anything else you can remember about your interactions with Bob?”
Sally opened a folder in front of him and ran his finger down the page. “I don’t know if this will help, but recently Bob had been buying old computers. I think maybe he was working on a tech-themed art piece.”
“How many computers had he purchased?” Cheski asked.
“What he’ll do is wait for another buyer to take a whole unit, and if there’s a computer in the unit, he’ll buy it piecemeal for maybe twenty bucks. I’ve seen him buy three or four at a single auction.”
“Does everyone know each other at these storage unit auctions?” I asked.
“The regulars know each other. Bob had a couple of buddies on the circuit, and recently his daughter tagged along.”
Frank held his hand up to stop us from asking wild questions. “Did he introduce her as his daughter?”
Sally shrugged. “No, I just assumed it was his daughter.” And then Sally the auctioneer went on to describe a young woman who sounded an awful lot like the skinny-jeaned woman from the recycling center.
“When was the last time you saw Bob?” Frank asked.
“About a month ago at a storage auction in Queens. His daughter was with him, and now that I think about it, Bob started buying computers at about the time his daughter joined him. Maybe a year ago.”
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