His dark skin and vacant eyes look me over as I formulate an answer. Everything looks good on Marcel, and nothing looks good on Marcel. He's an enigma. Attractive to the ladies, yes, but doesn't seem interested in long-term. He likes hopping from job to job for me and solving ridiculously complicated cases with his massive experience and quick mind. As well, nothing escapes Marcel. He's never been anyone's chump, has never been gamed, and is the first to know when the fix is in. He's literally saved my life maybe a half dozen times, and he's saved my professional life maybe fifty times with all the cases he's turned into wins for me. I love the guy like a brother, but Marcel's not the kind of guy you want to say that to. Between us, we just know what we know, and that's that we're a good combination. We fit. If it were man/woman, you might say it's a marriage of convenience. With an overlay of trust and caring. Except don't tell him that, at least not the part about caring. It's okay that it's there, but it's not okay to discuss it. Not with Marcel.
"So you've found the pediatrician's widow?"
"I have. Eva Easter lives in Liberty Lake on Sprague Road. Right across from the golf course. She looks like she's not hurting for anything. But no, I haven't approached her yet."
"Good." He would ordinarily leave the approach to this kind of resource in this kind of case to me. It's just the way we work.
"What do you say we drive on over and talk to her tonight?" I ask, more than a little panicked by the few days left to rescue Cache.
"She's eighty-years-old, Boss. Tonight wouldn't be good. People that age hit the hay pretty early. Let's drive over in the a.m. And we should call her first."
"Fair enough. I'm having trouble restraining myself, that's all. Cache needs something done like yesterday. I've got my fingers crossed on this one."
Day 22/30
The next morning, I'm up before the sun and ready to go. Marcel gets me calmed down—breakfast first in the hotel restaurant--and at seven o'clock we drive out to Liberty Lake. It's an old house, 1970's probably, set back from the road on a circle drive. The front windows are two stories tall—you can look right inside. There are no cars in the driveway, but there is a garage. I'm thinking she's got the car in there. So we hop up on the front porch and ring the bell. We ring it several times, and there's no response. Knocking hard on the wood frame produces no results either. Marcel tells me to stay put and heads for the backyard. I can see him reaching over the gate and opening from the other side. Then he's inside and disappears around the back corner of the house. So I wait.
Five minutes later, Marcel is back. His shoes are muddy and his hair mussed.
"I tried to crawl in through a basement window, but it's got electronics."
"Meaning there's an alarm system?"
"Exactly."
"Well, what the hell were you doing trying to break in any way?"
"She's your kid, Boss. I'd kick down the gates of hell to save her."
He's got a point. Anything goes, I decide. But first, I'm going to try the neighbors and see if they can help.
Next door sits another house maybe half the size of Eva Easter's place. I step up and ring the bell. This time, there's an answer. A stooped little man standing with the aid of a walker peers out through the screen door. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for Eva Easter, next door. I'm wondering whether you have any idea how I might get in touch with her."
He squints at me. "You kin?"
"No, I'm—I'm a lawyer."
"She's not in trouble, is she? Eva's rock solid so I'd be surprised."
"No, no trouble. Dr. Easter treated a patient who's a client. We're trying to track down some old medical records on her."
"Eva's probably burned all his stuff. She said too many memories. Not like a lot of old people like me. She cleaned house after Henry died. I think she probably threw out all his files and stuff. There was a huge fire out back, and she was throwing clothes on it, books that belonged to him—everything. That was back when you could have fires, back before the goddam fools at city hall made everything illegal on your own property. Can't even have a fire. They'll arrest you if you do."
My heart has sunk to a new, all-time low. The image of Eva Easter burning Cache's medical chart is just too, too depressing.
"Thanks for that. I'd still like to talk to her, sir."
"She's back in Rye. Got a son there. He never amounted to much—teaches junior college. Probably couldn't get into medical school. That's my guess."
"Do you know his name?"
He squints even harder at me. "Are you okay, son? His name's Easter, just like his ma and his old man. Easter. Rye, New York. There you go."
The door begins closing.
"Wait! Do you have any idea how we might get inside the house?"
The door opens up again.
"Sure do. I've got the key."
"Please, let us in!"
"What for?"
"We need to look for Dr. Easter's files."
"No can do. Those would be confidential. If they even exist at all."
"Sir, this is a matter of life and death. My daughter is going to die in five days if I don't get those records."
"Who's that?"
"Cache Evans. You probably have never heard of her."
"I can read. She's the one got sent to jail for killing Hiram Wilberforce? That the one?"
"Yes. Can you help us help her?"
"I never was one to cotton to criminals. No matter what their excuse is, they're all rotten."
"Mr.--"
"Sylvester Hammerstein. My friends call me Sly."
"Mr. Hammerstein, let me be blunt. I'm going to get inside that house with or without you."
Marcel steps closer to the screen door. "Listen, Sly; you need to help us. I don't know what might happen if you don't step up and do this girl a good deed. Are you following me, Sly?"
I catch a sideways look at Marcel. The eyes are slit like he gets before he strikes. I want to reach out and pull him back but don't.
Sly Hammerstein begins closing the door again.
"Leave it open, or I'm coming inside open or not. Now you get up off your couch and get us inside, sir."
"I'm calling the cops. Get the hell off my porch."
"Sir, you are not calling the cops," Marcel says through gritted teeth. "I'm going to count to five, and then I'm coming in. I'm going to make it look like you attacked me so when they come for your body they'll know I was the victim. One, two--"
"All right, all right, all right. Jesus, man. What's got into you?"
"Your nasty attitude, that's what. Now you be a good boy and get that key and take us next door and let us in. Three, four--"
"I'm looking right now. There, I've got it in my pocket on my keychain. Eva wanted me to have it. I guess she figured I'd need it if there's an emergency."
"Put it in your book, Sly. This is an emergency."
"How's that?"
"If you don't take us next door this minute we're going to have to call for an ambulance. To haul your sorry ass to the hospital."
He pushes open the screen door and comes out onto the porch. Sly Hammerstein must be ninety-years-old. I'm feeling half-bad for letting Marcel scare him witless, but the other half of me is grateful Marcel's here.
The three of us cut across Eva's front lawn. Up on the porch we go, Marcel extending a hand to pull Sly up, too. He hands the keychain to Marcel. "It's the brass one," he says. "On the separate ring from the others."
"Jesus, Sly, how come so damn many keys?"
"Everything's locked up. My garage, my lawnmower shed, house, garage. I might even have a boat I've forgotten about. Don't get old, fellas."
Marcel tries the key and the door swings open. Sly enters a code into the security system's keypad. "Street address," he says with a wink. "That's the code."
We're inside and already rushing throughout, looking for something that might be holding files. Nothing on the ground floor, so we head downstairs to the basement.
An
d there, spread across one wall, is file cabinet after file cabinet. I count seven file cabinets in all. Maybe—just maybe—
Marcel is opening and closing drawers, high-speed.
He reaches the last file cabinet then turns to me. "All empty, boss. Must have been the fire."
"But why would she still have all the filing cabinets? Doesn't add up."
Marcel looks at Sly, who shrugs. Then he asks the old man, "Does she have a storage locker anyplace?"
"No, but she's got the garage. We ain't looked in there."
Back upstairs we double-time, then through the kitchen and out into the garage.
Empty. Not even an automobile. We've struck out here.
"Now what?" I ask Marcel. Locating evidence is his specialty.
Sly pulls out a pipe and packs it with Prince Albert. He doesn't light up, just sticks the stem between his front teeth. Then he removes it. "Maybe Junior's got them. Ever think of that?"
"Why would Junior have them? He's clear the hell back in New York teaching community college."
"Nope, that's Russell. You haven't asked me about Junior. He's a pediatrician in Coeur D'Alene."
Coeur d'Alene is just across the Idaho/Washington border.
"It's not thirty minutes from here," Sly adds. "Why not just trot over and ask him?'
"Seriously?" says Marcel. "Were you going to tell us about Junior?"
"It's not like you asked," Sly says, biting off the words. "You can't ask me to do your job for you, Mister."
"C'mon," Marcel tells me. "We're going to Idaho."
We leave Sly Hammerstein to lock up behind us. He's still fiddling with the front door as we drive off in a great rush, headed east.
As we're driving east, my phone chimes. The prison at Purdy is calling. They are calling collect. It can only be Cache, of course. I accept the call without hesitating.
"Hello?"
"Michael, it's your daughter, Cache. They're being terrible to me here!"
"Okay, what are they doing?"
She's crying now; sobbing. I close my eyes and try to think, try to imagine where she is as she's calling. Probably a pay phone down the hall from her cell. I can see the spiral of silver wire connecting the phone to the wall. I can see the airborne transmission of her call to my cell tower, then to me. I can see these things because I am her father and I'm trying to keep a connection to her through all of this. I haven't been able to release her from my mind not even for a second. This call is my reward.
Again. "What is the problem?" Besides the fact they're going to kill you if they can.
"They want my organs and my skin and my eyes and my bones."
"I don't follow."
"They make sure I'm dead first. Then they harvest my body so other people can live. They want my kidneys and liver and lungs, too."
"Oh, my God. I'm so sorry, Cache. How did this come up?'
"The social worker came to my cell. She said she had something very important to talk to me about. I didn't know what, so I said sure, go ahead."
"Okay."
"So she starts telling me about all the people who will probably die in hospitals the same day I die because their liver failed or their dialysis no longer worked. All this terrible stuff about dying people. Then she asked if I would like to try to save some of them. I didn't know how I could do that but I said sure, I'd like that. So she had papers for me to sign. Organ donor papers."
I didn't know they want organs from HIV-infected donors. But that's not the point here, so I let it go.
"I'm so sorry this happened, Cache. Nobody called me about it first."
"Well, should I sign? I want to help those people. But I don't want to die either. How can they want parts of me to live but not all of me?"
What can I say? It becomes a jumble in my mind because I don't have an answer and I realize I'm too close to her to be objective. Should she sign? Can I even answer that? I don't want my dead daughter's body sliced up by a bunch of do-gooders. It revolts me. I shiver; Marcel eyes me from behind the wheel. "Boss?" he inquires.
I'm shaking my head. Then, to Cache: "Tell them there's no need for that conversation because your dad says you're not going to die. Tell them to ask someone else for a heart. Tell them to check back in about sixty years. Never mind all that. Just tell them no." I'm as honest with her as I can be, but I also know one sad truth about myself that I don't want her to know: If they were to ask me, once her heart has stopped beating, I would tell them yes, take what they can use. Her mother—the health sciences graduate—would want them to harvest as well. And I, the eternal do-gooder, would want that too. I can tell her none of this and don't. Now I've got a secret from her, and she's already made me promise always to tell her the truth. Oh, my Sweet Jesus. Now, what do I do?
I just lied to her, is what I did. It's only been three weeks since I promised I wouldn't lie and here I am already back to my old deceits.
Now she's crying uncontrollably, weeping into the phone. I can hear a stern voice calling out. I can hear her being ordered to hang up, that her three minutes are up. Then the line goes dead. Just like that, and she is gone.
"What is it, Boss?"
"They want to harvest her organs after they murder her."
"That's probably a good thing, Boss. She could help a lot of people."
"Don't tell me that, Marcel. Never tell me that again."
"Sorry, Boss. It's a different case this time since it's your daughter."
"Tell me about it."
We ride along without another word until we reach Coeur d'Alene. Marcel neatly drives us right up to the doctor's street address. We park at a long, low new building just outside the other end of town. It has the windswept design of a B1 bomber, and I'm guessing the doctor, and his cohorts own the place. One day they will sell it off, add the profits to their 401k's, and leave for Florida. Or San Diego. Whatever.
Marcel leads the way inside. Large waiting room, plenty of tables piled high with Fisher-Price for the pediatricians' endless string of clogged noses and ear infections. The walls are slathered with cutouts of yellow chickens and white ducks. Plus, children stretched across mothers' laps as well as posted at the kiddie-accessible tables until names get called, and they hurry away. What follows, of course, is a week of antibiotics and a re-check. I would hate to work here.
"Dr. Easter, please. We need to speak with him," Marcel is saying to the woman behind the glass barrier. She doesn't respond directly. Just gives him a puzzled look.
Then she says, "Are you the parent of one of our patients?"
Marcel turns to me, so I step up. "I'm the parent of a child who Dr. Easter treated fifteen years ago."
"You must mean Dr. Easter Senior?"
"That's right."
"And you want to see his son?"
"That's right. It's critical."
"What can I tell him it's about?"
"I just told you. About my daughter fifteen years ago."
"I'll check with his nurse. I know he's booked all afternoon."
I look down at my watch. It's only eleven in the morning. Might we have to wait here until the close of business? So be it.
"My daughter is going to die in eight days if I don't get to see Dr. Easter right now."
"Goodness."
"Yes. Please ask him to come up here immediately."
"I will, sir."
She disappears into her headset, back turned to us. Then she turns back around.
"He's coming. He just has to finish up with an earache."
"Of course."
"Let me take you into the kitchen. He'll be right along."
We're led down a short hallway to the kitchen, which is a small room with two metal tables, a soft drink dispenser, and a coffee pot that smells of very burnt coffee.
"Don't, boss," Marcel says when he sees me eyeing the coffee pot. "Please."
We settle at one of the tables just as a doctor wearing a white lab coat strides inside.
"Dr. Easter. Melanie says i
t's an emergency? What's up?"
"I'm attorney Michael Gresham, and this is my investigator. We need a file from your father's records."
"Who was the patient?"
"Cache Evans. She was probably between thirteen and seventeen.”
"Your relationship to Cache?"
"I'm her father."
"Wait just a minute. Let me go to my office and check our database. Help yourselves to some coffee. There's water in the refrigerator, too."
That latter sounds good; Marcel grabs two chilled bottles, and we drink up.
Dr. Easter doesn't take five minutes to return and give us the news.
"Unfortunately, her records have been destroyed. But I'll tell you who might have copies."
"Who would that be?"
"Spokane Health Department. It looks like the file contained an infectious disease badge. That would've involved Spokane Health."
"All right, doc, thank you."
He abruptly turns on his heel and leaves us there, water bottles in hand, our next clue resonating off the walls.
Marcel touches my shoulder and guides me out of the room. It's a fair thing to do: I've almost succumbed to the feeling this isn't going to happen for Cache. But then I buck up as soon as Marcel touches me and we leave the office, out to our Highlander.
By the time I'm sitting down again, I'm feeling dizzy and light-headed. Air intake is slowed way down, too. Now what?
"Eleven-thirty, Boss. Time to head back to Spokane."
"Floor it, Marcel. No time to waste!"
We roll into Spokane at twelve-ten and follow Marcel's phone GPS to the county health department. Inside we go, hurrying to the front desk, where we are met by a young man with a thin mustache. His black hair is swept back in a very smooth pompadour like the old pictures of Valentino. Very today.
"What can I help you gentlemen with?"
"We need access to the health records of a young lady by the name of Cache Evans. The records would be about fifteen years old. I'm her dad, and she desperately needs certain medical records out of her file."
"Goodness, let's make that happen. Fill out this form, please, and I'll send it back to records. What you're looking for may or may not be restricted from all eyes. Plus, I'll need to check the birth certificate we have on file for her and confirm that you are in fact her father. What is your name?"
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