“And more importantly,” he replied, “got Henry some professional help. K, what would you think about setting up a robo-lawyer service to help people like Henry who get slapped with misdemeanors but can’t afford a lawyer?”
“Robo-lawyer?”
“Yeah. We design a computer program that can provide online assistance. Not actually practicing law, but telling people where to go and what to do.”
“Is that viable?”
“The UK has a robo-lawyering computer program that has handled more than 10,000 traffic cases—and has a success rate over 90%. It’s a great way to treat cases that are not important enough to hire an attorney for, but can still cost people lots of money or lead to a loss of driving privileges. Some US cities have a similar service to help inmates file prisoner grievances. We could bring the same concept here to deal with all these misdemeanors. I think Jazlyn would cooperate. We could set up free-access computer terminals for people like Henry, with someone to help them use them. Maybe law students who want a taste of the real world.”
“I like that idea very much,” K said. “Draft a proposal for me.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Well...maybe not right on it. I’ve got a case that needs your immediate attention.”
He always did. “You mentioned that before. Something about a disappearance?”
“A notorious disappearance,” K said. “One of the most famous missing-persons cases in St. Pete history. Happened about fourteen years ago. Anyone remember a kid named Ossie Coleman?”
Maria’s hand rose to her mouth. “OMG. I do. The little boy. I was a teenager when that happened. It was all over the news. His photo was on every corner and every telephone pole.”
Garrett agreed. “And not just locally. All across the country. I was in the prosecutor’s office when that case broke.”
“Am I remembering this right?” Maria continued. “His mother took him to a motel and was found with a bullet hole in her head. Everyone assumed she shot herself. The boy disappeared and hasn’t been seen since.”
“That’s the case,” Garrett said. “And the mother left a note behind. It read, You will never find him. It was bizarre. You’ve lived around here all your life, Dan. You must’ve heard of it.”
“I remember that creepy note. I don’t suppose the envelope was addressed?”
“No. No one knows who she was hiding the boy from. Or where he went. The police did everything possible to find him. The FBI got involved too. They looked at everything—cellphone logs, email accounts, every scrap of forensic evidence found in that motel room. They decided the mother’s death was suicide, but there was another man murdered not far from the motel by the same gun. Very confusing. And none of that explains what happened to the boy. Every now and again we got reports, sightings. But they all turned out to be false.”
“Was the mother running from an abusive husband?”
“No. She was a widow and she lived alone.”
“I remember it too,” Jimmy said, swallowing a bite of risotto. “It was the talk of the town. Lots of charity fundraisers. They created a Find Ossie fund.” He paused. “But this was apparently a problem money couldn’t solve.”
“Why does this need our attention now? Do we have a lead?”
“Even better,” K said. “We have a boy.”
Maria lowered her plate. “Someone found him?”
“He found himself,” K said, “or got free, or—something. The details are sketchy and it hasn’t hit the media yet. He showed up last week and the police have kept a lid on it so far. They’re hoping to investigate more before it becomes a media firestorm. But unfortunately, some of the boy’s relatives—assuming he is Ossie Coleman—found out. They were called in to offer an opinion on whether he really is Ossie. And they are not happy he’s resurfaced. Expect it to be all over the internet soon.”
“Is money involved?”
“Tons of it. An estate of something like a billion dollars, plus intangible assets that are difficult to value. Ossie’s grandfather did very well in the tourism industry. Came up from nothing, built one little hotel into a chain. He had four sons—and the eldest married Ossie’s mother, after Ossie was born. Ossie would stand to inherit a fourth of the estate, if his identity is verified.”
“What does Grandpa say about this claimant to the family fortune?”
“I haven’t talked to him,” K replied, “but my sources tell me he’s guardedly optimistic. He hopes this kid is the real deal—but he’s also aware that there is a strong motivation for someone to pretend to be Ossie.”
“There must be DNA records on file somewhere. Blood. Or dental records. Or baby footprints taken at birth.”
“You’d think, but apparently all such records either never existed or disappeared.”
“Or have been disappeared.”
“Very possibly.”
“Given how antiquated some of the record-keeping in this town is,” Jimmy said, “anything is possible.”
“Sounds like this is a case for forensic detectives,” Garrett said. “Not lawyers. And I don’t see why this would be urgent. No one inherits while the grandfather is alive.”
“But the grandfather is in poor health,” K answered. “He has COPD. Smoked as a young man, I gather. Has been in a wheelchair for years. No one can say for sure, but—his days are numbered.”
“And if there’s an unproved claimant when he dies,” Garrett added, “the estate will go into probate and it could be many years before anyone gets anything.”
“Yes,” K said, “unless the new heir apparent is either included or specifically excluded before Granddad dies. That’s why one of the heirs has filed a suit requesting a declaratory judgment that this young man is not Ossie Coleman. He’s hoping to get this matter resolved before the grandfather dies.”
“Is he likely to succeed?”
A long pause. “Now you’re getting to the heart of the problem. All my sources say the young man seems genuine. He looks like a member of the family and there’s not a hint of dissembling or sham about him. If he’s not Ossie Coleman, he’s the Meryl Streep of pretenders. But he’s having severe memory problems. Interested, Dan?”
“You think he’s the real deal, don’t you?” In the past, Mr. K had always steered them toward people who needed help, deserved help, and couldn’t get it anywhere else. He had to assume this case was more of K’s humanitarian intervention. “That’s why you want us to handle this, right?”
“I want to know the truth. The lawsuit isn’t about truth. It’s about rich relatives using their economic advantage to push the court into a hasty decision that cuts the kid out before he can do anything to stop it. The court might appoint a guardian ad litum for the boy, but they won’t appoint an attorney. Not for a civil suit.”
Maria smiled. “So we’re going to be his attorney, aren’t we?”
“That’s the assignment. How do you feel about helping this boy fight off a pack of relatives who don’t feel a quarter of a billion dollars is enough?”
Jimmy grinned. “Sounds fun. But what if he turns out to be an imposter?”
“Learn the truth, Jimmy. If he’s a fake, you drop the case.”
“Understood.”
“Dan, are you in? You’re going to face some serious opposition on this one. Probably some big-firm lawyering. Endless discovery and motions practice. The Coleman family is resourceful and well-connected.”
He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Can I meet the kid before I commit? Then I’ll have a better sense of how I feel about this.”
“Agreed. I’ve emailed my file to Garrett. He can make copies for all of you. Garrett can start the research and Jimmy can talk to everyone he knows, everyone who’s had any contact with this case. Which will be a lot of people. But Dan—let me tell you one other detail before you see it in the file. The Coleman family has an expert. His name is Bradley Ellison.”
&nbs
p; His lips parted slightly. “The Bradley Ellison?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Maria looked at them blank-faced. “Am I supposed to recognize this name? Is he a famous chef? Extreme sports nut like you, Dan?”
He shook his head. “He’s the detective whose testimony put my father behind bars. For a crime he didn’t commit.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh. Wow.”
“He’s retired from the force now,” K said. “But he stays active. Investigates cold cases. Get this—he’s a crony of Conrad Sweeney.”
“Why am I not surprised.” Sweeney was the most prominent power broker in the city, wealthy and influential. He and Dan had crossed paths more than once in the past. Sweeney tried to railroad Camila with a trumped-up murder charge. He wanted her out of the way because she wouldn’t be his puppet. Of course, Sweeney always worked through minions, never doing anything that might blow back to him.
“I have that from several sources,” K continued. “I don’t know all the details, but Sweeney and Ellison have worked together more than once.”
“So they might be working together now.”
“There’s a lot of money at stake. Anything is possible.”
His brain raced, putting the pieces together. “Was Sweeney involved in what happened to my dad?”
“I don’t know, Dan.” Long pause. “But I can’t eliminate the possibility.”
He set down his plate. “We’ll take the case. When can I meet the boy?”
“He’s staying at a foster home. The address is in the file. Are you going to be able to stay objective, Dan?”
“Of course. I’m a professional.”
“Yes...but—that’s not all you are. You were shaped—”
“Let me talk to this kid. We can go from there.”
“Very well. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”
Maria placed a hand on his shoulder. “Dan, if you need to—”
“Let’s get to work. Garrett, I want to read that file before we talk to the boy.”
“Already in your inbox.”
“If we hurry, we can talk to the kid first thing tomorrow morning. Let’s all rendezvous again tomorrow evening.”
“Dan,” Maria said, “you don’t have to bury—”
“We’ve got work to do, team,” he said, carrying his plate back to the kitchen. “There’s a young man who needs our help. Let’s make sure we don’t let him down.”
Chapter 5
Harrison Coleman closed the medicine cabinet. The face in the mirror stared back at him.
Is this what it’s come to? Is this the only way you can get through the night?
The answer was a resounding: Yes. He picked up the water glass and downed two X-embossed pills, fast. Then catching his reflection again, he held up his right hand, making the shape of the letter “L” with his thumb and forefinger, and pressed it against his forehead.
Loser. Weak loser. You pretend to be a good person, but when it comes time to take a stand, you buckle. You caved all those years ago. And you caved just now, when someone told you he desperately needed your help.
Coward.
He stepped out of the bathroom, wringing his hands. He had to get his head together before the show started. He was the chief production officer these days, and at the Gresham Theater, just down the street from the Mahaffey, one of St Petersburg’s top performance venues, that meant something.
He stepped out of his office and was soon backstage. All kinds of crewpersons bustled about, taking care of business. He could see the plush seating, the elegant European-style loge seats. This was a fine theater, and his association with it gave him pride. All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players...
He knew some people assumed he got his job through money or connections, but the truth was, he had worked hard and earned this.
Except he didn’t deserve it, did he? He didn’t deserve anything, except to die like a dog, which was what he was. Why keep dragging it out? To be or not to be, that is the question, right? He didn’t need to be.
He strolled through the backstage area, technically checking to make sure all was as it should be, but in reality, barely paying attention. Everyone had signed the call board. Everyone knew their jobs. They were brimming with talent—unlike him.
“Showtime in ten, boss.”
He nodded at the stagehand passing by, smiling a little. They tolerated him, even humored him. But they did not love him. They never would.
Why should they?
He could go outside, watch the crowd arrive, or better yet, return to his office. No one needed him.
The only time anyone had needed him—he’d been a complete failure.
When he returned to his office, he noted the chess table beckoning, urging him to make the next move. He needed to play more often if he wanted to maintain his grandmaster rating. He moved his remaining rook to an appropriately threatening position. That would do for now. Later he’d come back and play the other side. He was nearing the famed Lucena endgame, and he wanted to explore the possibilities.
He stepped into the bathroom and disrobed. It had been a long day and he needed a shower. That was why he’d had this tub-and-shower combo installed in the bathroom adjoining his office. He needed it. Sometimes he showered twice, even three times a day. He tended to sweat and sticky clothes and musty smell were not the ticket to success in the theatrical world.
After he finished, he dried off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stared at himself in the foggy mirror for far too long.
Who the hell are you, anyway?
He left the bathroom and entered his main office, thinking he would pour himself a drink. He didn’t notice at first. He walked to the desk, shuffled papers pointlessly for a moment or two.
Then he looked up.
He was not alone.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
“How long have you been there?”
“What difference does that make, Harrison? I’m here.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve come hoping for complementary theater tickets.”
“No.”
“There’s no need to be rude.”
“That remains to be seen.”
He stayed behind his desk, as if a rectangle of plywood would somehow protect him.
He could see his visitor staring at the theatrical posters on the wall. “Are these all plays you’ve put on?”
“Yes. Not all here.”
“You go in for all that Shakespeare stuff.”
He stifled a smile. “You could put it that way.”
“I can’t understand what people are talking about when they talk Shakespeare. Seems pretentious, if you ask me.”
“You’re not the first to say so.” Because insecure people always criticize what they don’t understand.
“You must like that Henry VI.” He pronounced it, “Henry Vee-Eye.” “You’ve put it on often enough.”
“No, you—” He swallowed his original response. “That’s four different plays. Parts 1-4.”
“Four plays about one guy? You’d think if Shakespeare was so great, he could tell the story in one play. Just leave out the boring parts.”
“Shakespeare’s audience loved history plays. A series of four plays was an artistic triumph—and also a great commercial success. Shakespeare was quite the businessman, you know.”
His visitor turned. “If people can make money with these stupid plays—why are you such a loser?”
“I—I don’t—Look, why are you here? I have work to do—”
“I doubt it. You look completely unnecessary from where I’m sitting.”
“I’m the chief production officer.”
“Meaning you don’t do squat.” He pivoted. “What would your pal William Shakespeare say about your miserable life?”
His voice choked. “A tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing.”
“That sounds about right. I think it’s time that misera
ble tale ended, don’t you?” The sound of music outside boomed. The overture was underway. “Good. That will cover the noise.”
He saw his visitor approach but did nothing to stop him. His hands trembled. “The play’s the thing, wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.”
“Your conscience has finally caught up with you, Harrison. Now it’s time to ring down the curtain.”
Chapter 6
Dan sat in the passenger seat reading files while Maria drove the company car—a Jaguar F-Pace SVR that Mr. K provided for their business use. She preferred to drive and he’d gotten used to it—but he would be happier if she weren’t constantly distracted by the black band on her right wrist.
“Fitbit chastising you?”
“I’m way behind on my steps for this week.”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“And I’m already behind.”
“If you’d rather, you can get out and walk.”
“It’s twelve more miles to the foster home.”
“That would put you ahead. For at least a few days.”
“Dan, I feel you do not support my desire to remain fit.”
“Is it that you want to be fit, or that you want to fit into your skintight designer jeans?”
She smiled a little. “Well...both. Is that a problem for you?”
He shrugged. “If you’re going to pay for those overpriced Gucci jeans, you might as well get the maximum benefit.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“So—no freakshake after the interview?”
“Now you’re being cruel.”
“I hate to see you controlled by wearable electronics.”
“Don’t be so judgy. I saw you looking at your phone a few minutes ago.”
“Because Garrett sent me more research. Some of it is startling. I had no idea kids disappeared as frequently as they do. Did you know over 25,000 children were reported missing last year? According to the Center for Missing and Exploited Children.”
“How many of those turned out to be runaways?”
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