Proof (Caroline Auden Book 2)

by C. E. Tobisman

  Boyd pointed her toward a battered chair in front of one of the computers.

  “Our database is huge—it’s statewide. I’ve put in some search parameters so you’re not here until next Tuesday. You told me you’re looking for a Caucasian woman, thirties, with red hair, correct?”

  “She’s got a tattoo around her wrist, too.”

  “Okay, so then you’ve only got a few thousand mug shots to flip through,” Boyd said.

  Caroline examined his face for sarcasm. She found none.

  “Ring the bell whenever you finish.” Boyd pointed to what looked like a doorbell affixed to the wall beside the computer table. “Captain Nelson will come see what you’ve got.”

  After Boyd departed, Caroline returned her attention to the interior window facing the break room. Captain Nelson had entered with a parole officer. They sat together at a white table with their backs to the television.

  Soon, a third officer, a woman with lieutenant stripes, joined them. Apparently they would be enjoying a meeting over doughnuts and stale coffee. None of them watched the C-SPAN hearing.

  Caroline viewed the soundless proceedings on the television for a few more seconds. Whatever was going on, it was clear the nays had it.

  Exhaling, she sat down on the ancient chair.

  The center sagged three inches, absorbing the weight of her butt like quicksand.

  Giving up on comfort, Caroline focused on the computer’s screen.

  She had a thief to find.

  Two hours later, Caroline had seen a thousand faces. Some were green eyed. Some had red hair. Others had tattoos. None was Patricia.

  Now they were blurring together.

  It was time to stop.

  Caroline rang the bell and closed her eyes.

  Inside her eyelids, the parade of faces continued, phantom images cast up by her brain. One after another after another. Young women, their eyes wide with mortification at having landed in front of a camera at a police station. Older women, with resignation in their expressions, as if this were one of a series of photographs, taken over the years like school pictures in a yearbook.

  But no Patricia.

  The watch was gone.

  The knowledge settled in Caroline’s soul. She’d run out of places to look. Soon Captain Nelson would show her out, and that would be the end of her pursuit of Patricia.

  The nays have it again, she silently mused.

  When she opened her eyes, Caroline noted that Captain Nelson had left the break room. He was probably on his way to let her out.

  The parole officer and the lieutenant still sat together at the white table in the break room. The broadcast behind them had moved on to a story about local government.

  On the screen, a woman in a red suit stood at a podium, speaking to a small audience, some of whom held balloons. The crawl at the bottom of the screen revealed it was a ceremony dedicating a new affordable housing project in Pico Rivera.

  Smiling, the red-suited woman stepped aside to welcome the main speaker to the podium, a man with hawkish features and a broad smile, wearing a suit without a tie.

  Caroline’s eyes narrowed.

  Something about the man’s face was familiar. Something in the pronounced cowlick of his auburn hair. Something in the set of his bright eyes and the enthusiasm of his delivery. Although Caroline couldn’t hear his words, she saw how the crowd leaned forward, charmed by his infectious energy. It was an energy she’d seen before.

  Suddenly, Caroline placed it: Duncan Reed. The man’s face was younger and his stature much taller and broader, but the resemblance was uncanny. It had to be his son.

  The eyes of the man at the podium shone with pride as he gestured toward a row of workers in green shirts standing behind him. Some wore tool belts and boots. Others wore hard hats. All wore the same slogan—HELPING YOU HELP YOURSELF—that Caroline had seen on that pamphlet at the soup kitchen.

  A prickle ran down her arms.

  Oasis was everywhere. On the streets. In nursing homes. And now, apparently, in the construction industry.

  The sheer sprawl of Oasis tickled some instinct. Some concern about its benevolence.

  Pulling her laptop from her bag, Caroline fired it up to confirm her suspicions.

  Sure enough, Duncan Reed’s Wikipedia page revealed that he had a son named Simon, who was a developer. Simon had launched Greenleaf Development ten years earlier, parlaying an initial investment from a handful of financiers into one of the biggest development companies in the city. In addition to handling high-end commercial projects, Greenleaf Development built affordable housing and other city buildings. It regularly partnered with Oasis to hire tradesmen.

  Watching Simon’s face on the break room TV, Caroline marveled that he hadn’t been courted by some reality TV producer. He was naturally telegenic. Like his father in his prime.

  Fascinated, Caroline opened a recent link on the KTLA local news website.

  Simon sat with a journalism student at El Monte High School. The title of the interview, according to the website, was “Partnering with the City to Improve the Lives of Its Citizens.”

  “Most people don’t ever see Skid Row,” Simon said, sitting in a simple folding chair in the middle of a school auditorium. “They never drive down there. They never see the tents.”

  The student reporter across from him nodded.

  “But I grew up there,” Simon continued. “I spent my childhood working with my dad at Oasis—it was just a bunch of beds back then, plus all of these cardboard boxes filled with these little scraps of paper on which we’d record everyone who came in for help. It was absurd, really. My dad always meant well, but organization isn’t his strong suit.”

  Simon smiled, and perhaps unconsciously, the reporter smiled back.

  “My dad’s been helping people all of his life,” Simon continued. “Even though I’ve gone in a different direction, I like to think I’m carrying on his work.”

  “You mean your public-private development projects,” prompted the reporter. “You’ve faced some criticism for some of those.”

  Simon inclined his head in a way that suggested he wouldn’t deny the criticism existed.

  “Some people get angry when we tear down an old building,” he said, “but the city owns many properties that aren’t being used for much. By partnering with us to develop those properties, we create value for the city.”

  “And make a profit for yourself and your investors?” the intrepid journalist pressed.

  “Sometimes,” Simon allowed. “But we also assume great risk. When the market tanks, as it did not too long ago, it can become difficult for us to sell our projects. We share profits with the city when our projects are successful, but we bear the risk of all losses when they aren’t. It’s a ‘heads we both win, tails only I lose’ deal with the city—the city always benefits from these arrangements, while we sometimes get stuck with the carrying costs.”

  As Simon droned on about the economics of his projects, Caroline minimized the interview and kept reading.

  In article after article, Simon had been hailed as a real estate genius. He marshaled low-income housing tax credits and bonds, land swaps, and private investments to build projects that he sold, often at large profits, according to his public relations people.

  His latest development would be his largest yet. A fifty-three-story building to be constructed on city-owned land on Bunker Hill. Although the city council had yet to approve the project, it seemed a foregone conclusion that it would—and that Simon would benefit.

  Five floors of the Bunker Hill building would house city offices, ensuring an anchor tenant. The rest of the building would service high-end clientele. Law firms. Private equity firms. Companies in the types of industries that were least affected by the economic downturn. Industries that might benefit, as well, from the close proximity to city offices and the powerful people that occupied them.

  Caroline considered the information.

  Like his father
, Simon Reed appeared to be a do-gooder. But unlike his father, Simon was making a profit from his purported benevolence.

  What about his investors? Who were they?

  Caroline probed the Internet for the names of those who were getting rich with Simon. She ran searches for Greenleaf Construction and Oasis. She tried searching the names of the projects those entities had built together.

  But she found nothing. She discovered no mention at all of Simon’s investors except for an interview where he’d talked about the difficulties he’d faced finding money for his initial projects—apparently, people had been unwilling to take a chance on a new and unproven developer. In the interview, Simon had crowed about how grateful his investors were to him now. But he hadn’t provided their names.

  The dearth of information bothered Caroline. People who built popular projects took credit for them. Always. Goodwill was a valuable commodity in the business world. Simon knew that. He touted his projects and their benefits to the city at every possible occasion. He marketed himself as the guy with the good ideas who was doing good in the world.

  What about Oasis’s training program for CNAs? Had that been Simon’s idea, too? Was it another cash cow he’d created and now was milking to great effect?

  Caroline’s searches yielded no answers.

  Instead, she learned that ever since Duncan Reed had suffered a stroke, Simon had overseen management of his father’s charitable endeavors, including Oasis. Rejecting suggestions to turn over the reins to an independent board of trustees, Simon had insisted on maintaining personal control, citing the fact that his disabled father was estranged from the other Reed child, Simon’s sister, Mary, who apparently resented all of the years that her father had spent acting as the nation’s father rather than as her own.

  There was no picture of Mary on Wikipedia, just a short note about her existence. An afterthought at the end of the Wikipedia entry.

  Caroline studied Simon’s face on the minimized interview still running in the corner of her screen. The real estate developer exuded charisma. That he’d persuaded city government to support his projects wasn’t surprising.

  More searches yielded clips of Simon dedicating buildings and appearing at hearings before the city council. In each video, he brought the same infectious energy that he’d shown in the C-SPAN clip still playing on the police break room’s television.

  Caroline was just about to stop watching when something caught her eye.

  The clip playing on her laptop showed the dedication of the newly restored County Law Library. In the video, Simon walked along a row of green-shirted Oasis workers, shaking hands. But it wasn’t anything about the revamped building or the smiling workers that made Caroline pause. It was something on Simon’s wrist.

  A green glint. A square housing. A large face with darkly vivid hour and minute hands.

  Caroline’s scalp tingled with recognition.

  It was the watch. Her family’s watch.

  She checked the date stamp on the video.

  The County Law Library event had taken place on August 31.

  That was two weeks ago. Eleven days before Grandma Kate had died.

  A flock of goose bumps landed on Caroline’s neck and skittered down her shoulders.

  “Any luck?” came a voice from behind Caroline.

  Spinning around, Caroline found Captain Nelson standing in the doorway, his inky-black hair reflecting the fluorescent lighting.

  “Is anything wrong?” the police officer asked. His eyes held concern.

  “I’m fine,” Caroline said, her eyes traveling back to her laptop.

  The video clip had ended. Beyond the computer, the meeting in the break room had ended, too. The lieutenant stood beside the parole officer, showing him something on a tablet.

  But neither of their eyes were on the tablet.

  They were on Caroline.

  The hairs at the back of her neck rose.

  “See someone familiar?” Captain Nelson asked.

  Caroline opened her mouth to tell him about Simon Reed and the watch.

  But the words froze in her throat.

  Something was wrong.

  The DA’s obvious failure to conduct a complete investigation of Oasis.

  Chief Deputy DA McFadden’s sudden interest in the Oasis matter.

  Boyd’s promotion to the main office.

  Some ancient neural patterning, tucked deep within her genes, hissed a warning. She was vulnerable. Or maybe she was paranoid—that other possibility shouldered its way into her mind like an unwanted party guest.

  Captain Nelson raised his eyebrows in silent question.

  “I found nothing,” Caroline said. “Nothing at all.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Hurrying away from the police station, Caroline tried to explain away what she’d seen. Maybe Simon’s watch was just one of a similar style to the one her family had owned. That was a far more likely explanation than he’d gotten it from Patricia Amos.

  And yet there was a clear connection between Simon and Oasis—and, therefore, a clear chance of a connection between Simon and Patricia. Plus, Caroline’s grandparents had always described the watch as one of a kind. So it could very well be her family’s heirloom.

  The possibilities chased one another like fireflies at dusk.

  Was it real? Was it paranoia?

  There was no one to tell her. No one to calm her.

  Her mother was at sea, literally. Unreachable and possibly manic even if she could be reached. And her father lived across the country. With his new wife. With his new family.

  Seemingly of their own volition, Caroline’s feet brought her back to her office.

  Absently, she swiped her card to gain access to the elevator.

  Unthinkingly, she keyed her password into the lock and entered the small suite.

  She stopped short at the sight before her.

  A cascade of ruby-red roses filled the entry, their silky petals strewn around the carpet.

  Sitting at the desk beside them, Amy crinkled a wad of silver wrapping paper in one hand. In her other hand, she held a framed five-by-seven photograph. The smile on her face suggested that whatever she’d received was better than a puppy.

  “Whatcha got there?” Caroline asked, tiptoeing through the flowers.

  “Oh! Don’t worry about this. This, on the other hand—” Amy opened her macramé purse. She withdrew what looked like a small key fob. Three inches tall, it was shaped like a black ninja, its plastic arms frozen midpunch.

  Swinging on the ring beside the ninja, Caroline recognized her own apartment key. She had a copy of Amy’s key on her own ring. It was a small concession to adulthood to have a backup key somewhere out there in the universe.

  “I did all of those coding exercises like you said,” Amy said, removing the ninja from her ring of keys.

  Caroline raised an amused eyebrow at the tiny utilitarian action figure. “Thumb drive?”

  “He’s cute, isn’t he? I just had to get him,” Amy said.

  Caroline smiled. Amy had a penchant for plastic junk, evidenced by the row of snow globes and fading magnets on her file cabinets.

  Amy handed the ninja key fob to Caroline.

  “If you could do your code review for me before Friday afternoon, that would be super awesome. Then I could go on to the next batch of exercises. If I have time this weekend—Hector and I have some plans . . .”

  “Sure,” Caroline said, pocketing the ninja. “You’re almost ready to apply for a job.”

  She lacked the spirit to follow Amy’s trail of bread crumbs to a fuller explanation of whatever good news Amy was hinting at. Caroline knew she couldn’t eradicate the distracting sadness from her voice, and she didn’t want Amy to think that she disapproved.

  The fact was, she’d miss Amy when she left for a job in tech. What Boyd had said about her inability to trust wasn’t totally true. She trusted Amy. Amy managed the practice’s calendar. She caught Caroline’s mistakes in pleadings.
She provided another good mind to help think through thorny problems. And she was a friend.

  “Don’t get that look,” Amy said. “Once I get a new job, I’ll still come back and visit you and your totally subpar new assistant. You guys can share your new stories about your adventures.”

  “Yeah, speaking of those,” Caroline said, deciding not to mention that she probably wouldn’t be able to afford another assistant. Instead, she told Amy about her visit to the police station and what she’d discovered about Oasis.

  “If they’re running a big scam, you’d think someone would’ve sued them by now, right?” Amy said when Caroline finished.

  Caroline heard the note of skepticism in Amy’s voice, but for the first time, she also heard a hint of curiosity.

  “I bet if we could see that Patricia Amos lady’s personnel file at Oasis, we’d find out all sorts of useful information,” Amy said, her eyes hopeful.

  “No hacking,” Caroline said.

  Growing up, she’d hacked for fun with her father—until they’d gotten caught. Although her dad had avoided serving time for what had really been Caroline’s ill-conceived effort to hack a hospital firewall, she still carried the shame of it close to her heart. In leaving software engineering for the law, she’d tried to leave her past transgressions in the past. She knew her dark skill set could still prove useful. But only when warranted.

  “Sometimes you’re the fun police,” muttered Amy.

  Caroline didn’t wait to see Amy’s frown. She knew how Amy felt. She felt the same tug. The ability to access hidden information was addictive. But it was fire, pure and simple. You didn’t play with it unless you had to torch something. While that might be coming, Oasis didn’t justify a conflagration. At least not yet.

  Heading toward her office, Caroline called back to her assistant, “I just need to do a little research. Then we’ll decide what to do.”

  When Caroline reached her desk, she paused. She had to decide where to begin.