Most Wanted

by Lisa Scottoline

  “We already have more information about him than most people have before they get married. We have three generations of medical history on him.”

  “That’s not the point, it’s not the same thing.” Christine thought fast. “You can have a résumé, but it’s not the same thing as meeting them. You could meet somebody online, but that’s not the same as a real date.”

  “Excuse me if I don’t want to date Zachary. Excuse me if this whole thing is completely galling and mortifying and humiliating, and all you do is think about yourself!”

  “No, you’re exactly wrong.” Christine felt resentment and bitterness welling up from deep within. “All I do is think about you. Since the day of your diagnosis, all I have done is worry about your feelings, your emotions, how embarrassed you were, that you felt ashamed and humiliated. I lied to my friends at school, and I didn’t even tell Lauren until I couldn’t keep a secret anymore. Everyone around you is protecting your feelings and your ego just because you have a medical condition you can’t own up to. Because you never accepted that it’s biology, not manhood. I’m sick of worrying about you. I’m officially done worrying about you. I’m tired of saving your face for you. Grow the hell up!” Christine stood her ground. “And you know what else I realized? That being a father is a decision. It doesn’t have to do with DNA or anything else. Zachary is the biological father of this child, and right now, what I’m saying is that this child doesn’t have a father—”

  “I’m the father!”

  “Then act like it. You have to care about this baby, and you have to take care of this baby—”

  “I do care about the baby. That’s why I want to sue Homestead.”

  “That’s not why you want to sue Homestead. You want to sue Homestead because you’re angry. You’re angry at them for picking Jeffcoat. You’re angry at yourself because you’re infertile. You’re angry at the world and you’re taking it out on Homestead! You don’t really care about the baby.”

  “And you say you care about the baby but you really care about Zachary. You admit you have a connection with him. How am I supposed to deal with that?”

  “Admit that you have a connection to him, too.” Christine was freewheeling, but it was her heart talking. “Because if this is going to be our child, and you’re going to be the father, then you do have a connection to Jeffcoat. Share it with me.”

  “What are you talking about? What are you asking from me?”

  “Zachary is down there, he’s in prison. He’s our donor and he could be in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. I’m not going to turn my back on him.”

  “You didn’t, you got him a lawyer!”

  “And I’m not going to wash my hands of him just because I did that.” Christine felt like it was finally time for her to face her feelings. “I’m worried about him. I feel bad for him. I think he’s innocent. I don’t think he committed that murder—”

  “Christine, you’re being naïve. You heard what Gary said.”

  “Either way, I have to find out for myself.” Christine knew what she wanted to do, and it wasn’t stay home, obsess about Zachary, and weed her garden. “I want to go back down there and see how I can help him. I want to make sure he has what he needs—”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “I am asking you if you would come with me.”

  “No!” Marcus snapped. “Absolutely not. I’m not going down there.”

  “Marcus, please. Come with me.” Christine tried to think of an argument to persuade him. She felt a glimmer of hope that if they could go together, they could get their marriage back on track. “When this baby grows up, do you want to tell him that his biological father is behind bars, a murderer? Would our baby feel good when he finds out that his biological father was in jail for a crime he didn’t commit? And that we didn’t help him when we could? Do you know what that can do to a child? Can’t you think ahead? Can’t you get past the fact that we needed a donor?”

  “Christine, enough. You’re asking too much. You’re just asking too much of me.”

  “I can deal with it, why can’t you, Marcus? I can’t deny that he exists and that he’s in trouble. Come with me or not.”

  “You can’t go!”

  “You’re my husband, not my principal.” Christine folded her arms. “Are you coming with me or not? It’s your choice.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The next morning, Christine crossed into New Jersey, glancing at the dashboard clock, which read 9:15. She’d gone to bed last night without another word to Marcus, who’d slept downstairs with Murphy and Lady. She’d packed some clothes and sneaked out at five thirty, with nobody even stirring, which didn’t surprise her. Marcus was the heaviest sleeper in history, with the dog a close second. She suspected the cat saw her go but didn’t care.

  Rain pounded on the windshield, and the wipers flapped to keep it clear. Her stomach had finally stabilized after a bout of morning sickness, and she was making excellent time driving south on I-95 in remarkably light traffic. Marcus hadn’t texted or called, and she wasn’t about to contact him. But she had some bases she had to cover.

  Her phone was on its holder on the dashboard, and she waited until it was safe to dial, then pressed the phone screen for her mother’s number. The phone rang only once, and her mother picked up. “Hey, Christine, how are you this morning?”

  “Great, I just wanted to see how you guys were.”

  “Your dad’s having some breakfast. We’re out of ketchup, so he’s not a happy camper.”

  “But how are you?” Christine asked, making it a point. Her mother had become such an excellent caregiver that she routinely placed her needs second.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Did you sleep okay?” Christine knew her mother had been having trouble sleeping.

  “Great. We had the air conditioner on. So what are you doing? You sound like you’re in the car already.”

  “I’m having fun.” Christine felt a twinge of guilt but let it go. She had to keep lying or her mother would worry. “I’m going back down to Lauren’s family’s house for a few more days. She had to go back, but I’m staying to decompress after school.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea! Good for you! You do so much, you need the break. Is Marcus going to join you?”

  “No, he has to work, and Lauren can’t leave the kids.”

  “So you’re all by yourself?”

  “Yes, but I’m looking forward to it. I bought a bunch of books and I’m going to read myself into a coma on the beach.”

  “Oh that does sound wonderful,” her mother said, and Christine could hear the wistfulness in her tone.

  “I wish I could’ve brought you, Mom.” Christine realized her parents hadn’t taken a vacation since her father had been diagnosed, five years ago. Changes of scenery and routine disturbed her father, so they stayed home.

  “Another time.”

  “Yes, another time,” Christine said, knowing that there would be no other time. Her mother knew the same thing, but they said the words anyway, a comforting call-and-response between a loving mother and daughter.

  “I better go, I need to help your dad with breakfast.”

  “Can I say hi to him?”

  “Not just now, okay, sweetie? I want him to finish his meal.”

  “Of course. Tell him I said hi and I love him.”

  “I will. Love you. Drive safe. Stop if you get tired. Don’t go in the water after you eat.”

  Christine smiled. “Yes, Mommy.”

  “What a comedian.” Her mother chuckled, then hung up, and Christine pressed the button to end the call, then called Lauren, who picked up after three rings.

  “Christine! Sorry it took me so long. I’m trying to pack two bicycles in the back of the car and they got tangled up, the pedal of one got stuck in the spokes of the other.” Lauren sounded exasperated. “I told Josh we need a bike rack, but does anybody listen to me? No.”

  “So it’s that kind of mornin
g.”

  “Yes, in other words, typical. What are you up to?”

  “I’ll tell you if you won’t worry, because I’m on my way.”

  “Where?”

  “Do you want to hear about the fact that my father-in-law is becoming a father again, the tattooed alcoholic we met in West Chester is dead, or that I’m on my way back to Pennsylvania?”

  “What?” Lauren said, astonished, and for the next thirty miles, Christine filled her in on what had happened. Lauren had the reaction Christine had expected, which was generally “are you really sure,” “you need to be careful,” “I’m not sure if you should be doing this,” and stopping just short of, “wait an hour before you go in the water.” But after Christine told Lauren what her plan was and convinced her that it was safe, or at most a waste of time, her best friend came around, reluctantly. Which was why the two women were best friends forever, because each one always believed in the other.

  Lauren said, “You have to promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I’ll be careful, I’m careful. But don’t you think it’s suspicious that Kent turned up dead?”

  “I don’t know why you think it’s suspicious if the police don’t.”

  “Because they have no reason to believe her death is suspicious. They don’t know what she saw, they never called her back.”

  “True.”

  “Let’s assume Kent was murdered because she saw the killer on the stairs the night Gail Robinbrecht was killed, or because the killer thinks that she saw him. That means that Zachary isn’t the serial killer.”

  “You’re creeping me out with all this talk of Kent getting murdered and serial killers.”

  “It happens.”

  “Not in our world. Our world is kids and bicycles and Crayola and standardized testing.”

  Christine smiled. That used to be her world, but she didn’t know where her world was any longer. She wasn’t a teacher anymore, and her previously happy marriage was in trouble. She knew she wanted to be a mother, and she knew she wanted to be the mother of the child she was carrying. But that loop kept leading her back to Zachary Jeffcoat.

  “I’m worried about you and Marcus.”

  “Me, too.” Christine drove on, rain pounding against the windshield. “I know this is going to sound strange, but that’s part of the reason I’m going. I wish I could pretend Zachary doesn’t exist, but he does, and I’m not going to be happy unless I try to help him, one way or the other.”

  “What if you can’t help him?”

  “Then at least I tried. Unless I try, it’s going to bug me. You know how I am.”

  “Curious.”

  Christine smiled.

  “But what about Gary? Does this mess up your lawsuit?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m doing what you call self-help.”

  Lauren sighed. “How long do you think you’ll be down there?”

  “I don’t know, a couple of days? I’m going to play it by ear. If my mother calls you, back up my story. I’m at your house at the Jersey Shore.”

  “The house is getting a lot of use for a house that never gets any use.” Lauren chuckled. “What does Marcus know?”

  “I didn’t lie. I told him where I was going.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He’s angry. So be it.” Christine knew she sounded tougher than she felt.

  “So what do I tell him if he calls here?”

  “He’s not going to, but if he does, tell him to call my cell. I made a reservation at the Warner Hotel in West Chester.”

  “That town has a hotel?”

  “Just the one, it’s a converted movie theater.”

  “So no Jacuzzi.”

  “Not likely. It looks nice online.” Christine braked when the downpour intensified, and a passing truck sprayed her with grit and water. “Okay, I should go. The rain is bad.”

  “Stay in touch. I’ll give you a call to check on you.”

  “Take care, talk soon. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” Christine hung up, with only one more phone call to make. She pressed Griff’s number, and the lawyer answered on the first ring.

  “Christine. I’m busy.”

  “Can I meet with you this afternoon?” she asked, with hope.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Christine walked down the hall toward Griff’s office, gearing herself up. It was one thing to have a plan and another to put it into action, especially when it required convincing Griff the Gruff. She reached the end of the hall and opened the door just as he hung up his landline.

  “Why are you here?” Griff frowned, and Christine was pleased to see he was better groomed than the other day. His hair was almost tamed with something pomade-y, and he had on a white oxford shirt, a red-and-blue bow tie, and a boxy blue-and-white seersucker suit, like a demented Atticus Finch.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Griff. You look very spruced up.”

  “Did I ask you?”

  “No, that’s called being polite.” Christine sat down. “You should try it sometime.”

  “I’m too busy.”

  “On Zachary’s case?” Christine scanned the desk, which was newly cluttered, strewn with pencils, pens, and yellow legal pads covered with scribbled notes. To the right of the computer keyboard was a stack of expandable accordion files stuffed with papers and Xeroxed cases.

  “None of your business. Why are you here? I’m busy.”

  “Good.” Christine reached into her purse, pulled out a manila envelope, and slid both across the desk. “My résumé is inside. I’m married, thirty-two years old, and I’ve been a reading teacher at an elementary school for the past eight years.”

  “Why do I care?” Griff didn’t even glance at the envelope.

  “I want to be your paralegal. At no cost to you.”

  “No.” Griff pushed the envelope back. “Good-bye.”

  “Why?” Christine had prepared for the reaction. “You’re busy, you need help. You said you’re a one-man band. You don’t have to be.”

  “This is about your book. Admit it.”

  “No, it’s not.” Christine cringed inwardly. “I put Zachary’s interest ahead of my book, didn’t I? That’s already been established. I just want to help Zachary and I’m interested in the case.”

  “Why?” Griff’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses, which were remarkably unsmudged.

  “I think he’s innocent.”

  Griff harrumphed. “That’s proves you’re not qualified to work in criminal law.”

  “You don’t think he is?”

  “I’m not discussing the case with you.”

  “Okay, but I’m qualified. You don’t need a degree to be a paralegal. I have a degree in education. I’m a college graduate, University of Connecticut. I can be taught to do legal research, and factual research is common sense.”

  “Voltaire said common sense isn’t common.”

  “Luckily, Voltaire’s not here. After what happened with Linda Kent, I think something suspicious is going on and I want to get to the bottom of it.”

  “No. Good-bye.” Griff’s phone started ringing, but he ignored it.

  “Be practical. You can’t do it all, and there’s no money to hire staff. Somebody needs to follow up about Linda Kent.” Christine gestured at the ringing phone. “I’m sure the FBI’s calling you, and the other state jurisdictions will want to talk with you, just like you said. You can’t do it all yourself, can you?”

  Griff pursed his dry lips but didn’t reply. The phone stopped ringing.

  “I promise I’ll be completely loyal and I’ll keep everything we learned confidential. I’m much more responsible than anybody you’d get off the street, and I already have a rapport with Zachary.”

  Griff didn’t say anything, so Christine kept talking.

  “I’m good with computers, unlike somebody we know. The FBI and other authorities will need to email you. They’re not all going to be able to call you on the phone, especially if you
don’t answer. You have to be realistic, if not for your sake, then for Zachary’s. If you stay in the Dark Ages, that’s not going to serve your client. Let me help.”

  “I don’t think so.” Griff shook his head, and the phone started ringing again.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

  “No.”

  Christine half-rose, reaching for the phone. “Let me, I can take a message.”

  “No. Sit back down. I know who it is.”

  “Who?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Why aren’t you getting it?”

  “Phone calls are always somebody else’s agenda. Remember that.” Griff held up a knotted index finger. “People would get more done if they would ignore the phone calls of others. Work their own agenda. Like me. I have my own agenda. Do you know where the word agenda comes from?”

  “I’m guessing Latin?”

  “Of course. Actually it is a Latin word, the neuter plural of agendum. It means ‘things that need to be done.’ As in, answering the phone is not my agendum, my thing that needs to be done. My agendum is my client.”

  Christine resorted to Plan B. “I’m going to do factual investigation on this case, whether you like it or not. You can’t stop me.”

  “So do it. Why bother me?” Griff shifted his knobby shoulders inside his jacket, which was too big, undoubtedly from his younger days.

  “Because if I do it as your employee, then it’s privileged, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have to reveal it to the FBI or in court. That’s what you taught me, am I right?”

  Griff didn’t reply except to frown, a fissure between his unruly eyebrows.

  “But if I do it on my own, it’s not privileged and it’s not confidential. I have to answer questions about it, and I can also tell anybody I want to. I could print anything I wanted to. I could go to the newspapers myself. I could put it on that crazy new thing called the Internet.” Christine paused to let it sink in. “The only way you can control me is if you hire me. Either way, I’m going forward. It benefits Zachary if we work together, not against each other.”