by Diane Capri
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Jess’s phone rang. A local number appeared on the display. “Jessica Kimball.”
“This is Charlene Mackie.” She cleared her throat. “Where are you?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m heading down to Portland to check on the details on Peter Whiting’s birth certificate. I wondered if you want to come along?”
Jess frowned. “I already have the birth certificate.”
“Yeah…but we want to corroborate it with the hospital records.”
It was a tempting idea. On the other hand, Charlene had produced the green jacket for Nelson, which got Jess arrested.
“I don’t—”
“I’m sure you’re not happy about last night. For what it’s worth, I didn’t expect Nelson to arrest you.” Charlene paused. “But the Whitings are homeless. We need to find out who’s responsible. We didn’t have much choice.”
“I do understand. It’s…”
“I thought you were interested.”
Maybe getting in a car with Charlene was a little reckless, since she’d so gleefully broken into Jess’s car and retrieved the jacket that got Jess arrested. But she probably wasn’t dangerous. The woman was a cop, after all. “Give me ten minutes.”
She dashed off a text to Mandy. On my way to Portland with Charlene Mackie. If you don’t hear from me in a couple of hours, call in the Marines! LOL!
Mandy texted back immediately. Will do!
Jess checked her bag. The Glock rested exactly where it should be. Just in case.
She was dressed and standing outside the hotel when a ten-year-old Ford Crown Victoria backed into the parking lot and honked. The car looked rusty but trusty. Cops had told her that the Crown Vic was the best cruiser ever built and lamented that it was no longer in production. Maybe Randolph PD had thought so at one time, too.
This one had served its purpose. The black paint was faded, and a few dents marred the lines here and there. The Crown Vic had seen better days. The old tank probably got no more than ten miles to the gallon, at best. Charlene beckoned to her through the rear window. Jess trotted out to the driveway and entered the massive sedan on the passenger side.
Charlene wore her uniform shirt and pants, but none of her badges. She still looked like a cop, albeit less official. She eased the big boat out of the parking lot and onto the road. She glanced at Jess. “Kid’s Own Medical Center is on the south side of Portland.”
“Why didn’t you just send them an email? Or make a phone call?”
Charlene shrugged. “I wanted to see the originals, and it avoids email ping-pong.”
Jess pulled out her phone. “Should I call Nelson and thank him?”
Charlene glanced briefly away from the road. “Thank him for what?”
“A couple of hours ago, he told me to stay out of his investigation.”
“He’s a good man. At least I think he is. You can never tell until they’re under pressure. I mean captains, well, and men in general, I suppose.” She took a deep breath. “But I wouldn’t tell him you’re with me.”
Jess twisted around in her seat. “He doesn’t know that you called me?”
“He’s trying to do what’s right. He should, he’s an officer of the law. But I’m a mother, too. And… You lost your kid, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Everyone’s different, and I don’t know what you went through with the emotions and everything.” She shook her head. “But a mother has a right to know. So let’s see what we find and take it from there.”
The old cruiser ate up the miles. A straight shot south on I-5. Through woods and forests. The sides of the highway blurred into an almost continuous line of trees, a few reds and golds of early fall mixed with determined evergreens.
Everyone’s different. The words echoed in Jess’s subconscious. Charlene wasn’t empathizing, she was sympathizing. Jess broke the silence. “When I first met you, you said you had written to me.”
Charlene nodded. “Years ago. I heard you were making a name for yourself at Taboo.”
“You know I get far more mail than I can ever read.”
“I know.” Charlene took a deep breath. “I wrote because I had…I have a daughter. Crystal. She…well, we didn’t always see eye to eye. I was a young mother,” Charlene glanced at Jess. “Like you.”
Jess waited.
“She disappeared. When she was twenty-three. Fourteen years ago. June 22. Seven days after the date on Peter Whiting’s birth certificate. Just like that. One minute she was living in Randolph, the next she was gone.”
“She ran away?”
“Some folks think so. Happens often enough, I guess.” Charlene shook her head. “I really don’t know. We didn’t always have the best life, but…I don’t think she would have. Not without telling me. I mean, we were family, no matter how we got along.”
“Who saw her last?”
“An old lady saw her walking through the area where she lived. It was late. Dark.”
“There was an investigation into her disappearance, right? You tried to find her?”
“To start with, everyone just thought she’d run away. She’d left debts behind. She was living with a guy who,” Charlene shook her head. “They call him Spud, but his name is Johnny Yukon. Scum of the earth.”
Jess had heard the same tale many times. Sometimes she had been able to help, but oftentimes, no one could. “You’ve been looking ever since then? Fourteen years?”
“What mother would stop?” Charlene glanced away from her driving to look at Jess. “You know?”
Jess nodded. She knew all too well.
“So what made you write to me?” It seemed like an obvious question, and she expected the obvious answer—that Charlene had run out of viable options. People who wrote to Jess at Taboo were usually desperate. They’d exhausted all other avenues and hit nothing but brick walls.
“The last time I saw her,” Charlene took a deep breath and held it a moment before she continued. “Crystal was pregnant.”
Jess nodded. Not uncommon. Charlene had said she was living with a man her mother didn’t like. Maybe Charlene had flipped out when her daughter came home pregnant. Maybe she’d wanted the girl to have an abortion. Girls had run away from home for a lot less.
“Very pregnant.” Charlene nodded and glanced at Jess again. This time, her look seemed heavy with meaning. “Her due date was June fifteen.”
Jess leaned forward. The tingle ran over her skin again. “Why didn’t you say that when you looked at Peter Whiting’s birth certificate on my phone yesterday?”
“People are sick of hearing from me. I talked about it so much. I questioned everything. I’ve chased after every single thread, and hoped so many times.” She ducked her head and smiled weakly. “Nobody wants to hear about Crystal Mackie’s disappearance anymore and…I mean, I can’t…I have to keep my hopes in check.”
Jess rubbed the tips of her fingers against her thumb. “The woman who last saw Crystal. Did she say if—”
“The old lady’s gone, but thought Crystal didn’t look pregnant when she saw her that last time.”
“You think she delivered around her due date?”
Charlene breathed in and out several times. Her voice was a little stronger when she replied. “There’s no good way to say this, but Crystal’s baby was a boy. She told me that much.”
Jess eased back into her seat. “But if, and it is a big if…”
“I know. And I know what you’re hoping. And I understand what you want. But Peter Whiting might be my grandson.”
Jess stared through the windscreen. “Or…”
“Or he could be your son. Or he could be another boy entirely.” Charlene nodded. “But there’s no question he is not Barbara Whiting’s natural child.”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“Yes,” Charlene said as she pushed the Crown Vic’s accelerator a little closer to the floor.
Both women f
ell silent, staring through the windshield.
Jess wondered whether either of them would be returning to Randolph with confirmed suspicions or both would still carry the sting of haunting loss.
Light rain sprinkled the windshield. The wipers created grimy arcs on the glass, and the world became a blur as the Crown Vic ate up the silent miles to Portland.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Blackstake followed the aging Crown Vic out of Randolph. His frame-up hadn’t worked, and now his GPS locator on the reporter’s rental was useless while her car was parked in the lot at her hotel. He’d keep eyes on her the old-fashioned way.
Following wasn’t difficult. The Crown Vic was a distinctive shape, and its tired black paint made it stand out among the nameless foreign imports that filled the roads.
The only mystery was why the Mackie woman had collected the reporter and where they were headed. Kimball was unpredictable, and she had a big national megaphone, which made her dangerous. But Mackie had been passive enough. He didn’t expect her to change. People rarely did.
He traveled four cars behind the Crown Vic. Occasionally he would pass and cut the separation down to three cars, but then he would slow, falling back a couple of car lengths. It broke the pattern. Not one car, always the same distance behind. If they saw him, they’d probably think he was some grouchy old guy, complaining at everything on the road. He grinned, not so far from the truth.
The Crown Vic wheezed along. Blue-gray smoke trailed from the exhaust on the inclines. Its loose body wallowed on the suspension as it rolled over expansion joints and potholes. His rental had a firm ride, not harsh, but none of the gyrations the Ford exhibited.
He laughed to himself. A decade ago, he’d have been happy to be in the Crown Vic. Plenty of power, miles of leg room, and a spacious trunk for those times when trunk space was essential. These days he preferred soundproofing and heated seats.
The freeway skirted alongside the Columbia River and narrowed into Vancouver, Oregon. The Crown Vic crossed the river, and traffic grew thicker as they entered Portland city limits. After almost three hours, he was tired of following, but now wasn’t the time to relax or make a mistake. He closed the gap on the duo and wondered again where in the hell they were going.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Jess watched the Welcome to Portland sign pass by. They crossed the Columbia River and continued south on I-5 through Portland past the high-rises that populated downtown.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Stephenson. Been out of the office. Just sent rock for full DNA testing. Results in 3 days. Will forward soonest.
She sighed. An unfortunate delay, but she knew whatever results he obtained she could depend on one hundred percent.
The city was thinning out when Jess saw a small green sign for Kid’s Own Medical Center. Charlene took the exit. The side road swept around to a Y-split. Local traffic to the left, hospital traffic on the right. Charlene veered right and slowed as they pulled into the lot. She worked her way around until she found an empty parking space.
The building’s main doors led into an atrium. The gray sky filled the interior space with the same dull glow they’d left outside. Six-foot-tall teddy bears stood guard at the elevators. Yuccas and small trees were planted at regular intervals, and clusters of soft chairs were filled with patients and visitors.
A large Reception sign hung over a broad, elbow-high counter. Two women were dealing with a line of visitors.
Charlene approached one of the women and asked, “Which way to the records office?”
The woman pointed to the oversized bears. “Elevator’s over there. Fourth floor.”
Jess weaved through the foliage and stuffed animals and Charlene followed. The elevator announced each floor in a calm female alto as they ascended.
“Do you have a contact here?’ Jess asked, finally breaking the silence between them.
“Dr. Nepovim,” Charlene responded.
Jess frowned. “They have a doctor working in the records department?”
“Records are a lot more complicated these days, what with all the legal issues and coordination of care and such, I’m told.” Charlene shrugged. “We hear Nepovim is not very well liked, either. Maybe records was the only department that would have him.”
The records office was identified by a small sign held in an aluminum frame attached to the door. They walked through the doorway straight into two rows of desks and a half dozen busy people. No receptionist.
A clean-cut young man at the first desk removed his headset. Oscar Platte, according to his name tag. “Help you?”
“Dr. Nepovim?” Charlene didn’t display her badge, but her question carried the official, off-putting tone used by cops everywhere.
Platte’s nose wrinkled and he nodded toward a glassed-in office at the far end of the room. He replaced his headset.
“Thank you.” Jess smiled and handed him her business card. She figured she might need a source before this case was over and young people were sometimes more enamored of Taboo, according to the magazine’s market research.
Platte looked at the card. Smiled like he recognized the Taboo logo.
A man stepped out of the far office and called across the distance. “Officer Mackie? Dr. Nepovim.” He gestured into his office. “Come this way.”
Platte grimaced and shrugged. Jess smiled at him. He put her card in his shirt pocket and returned to his work.
Jess and Charlene walked back to the office.
“Take a seat.” Nepovim gestured and closed the door behind them.
They settled into uncomfortable tubular steel chairs facing Nepovim across his cluttered desk. He held his hands wide. “How can I help you?”
“As I mentioned on the phone, we’re interested in a boy who was born here fourteen years ago. Peter David Whiting,” Charlene said, sounding even more official than she’d been with Platte.
Nepovim put his hands together, interlacing his fingers. “You’re asking for personal medical information on the boy and his family without a court order?”
“We’re not looking for confidential medical treatment details,” Jess shook her head and tried to avoid the problem she knew was coming.
Nepovim looked at Jess. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”
Jess held her hand out. “Jessica Kimball.”
Nepovim shook her hand briefly. “Are you related to the child?”
“We are trying to identify an accident victim,” Charlene said. “Basic information that doesn’t contravene medical privacy laws.”
Nepovim’s smile faded. He leaned back in his chair.
“We need Peter David Whiting’s exact date of birth, along with the names and addresses of both parents, as noted on the official delivery record at the time of the actual delivery.” Charlene continued as if she couldn’t see the disapproval on Nepovim’s face. “We’ll take things from there.”
“And this is in conjunction with some sort of,” Nepovim waved his hand, “police investigation?”
“It is,” Charlene said. “I can get a court order, but we’re trying to speed things up here. The boy is in the hospital now with a serious injury.”
He scribbled a note on an official Kid’s Own Medical Center prescription pad, signed it, wrote his medical identification number under his name, tore it off, and handed it to Charlene. “One copy is enough?”
Charlene looked at the paper then handed it to Jess. Nepovim had neat, readable handwriting. Unusual for a doctor, in Jess’s experience.
He’d written Peter David Whiting, Caucasian male. Father, John Whiting. Mother, Barbara Whiting. Followed by June 15, the same date of birth reflected on the official birth certificate Mandy had obtained. The exact information Jess and Charlene knew to be biologically impossible.
“You have these details memorized for every birth at this hospital?” Charlene asked.
“You called ahead. I looked it up for you.” He shrugged. “We transferred this data to the offic
ial birth certificate at the time, which is where I found it. You can obtain a certified copy from the state quickly enough.”
“We already did,” Jess said.
Nepovim frowned. “So why are you here?”
“As I said on the phone, the boy’s unconscious. We can’t get information from him.” Charlene said. “We need to see the original hospital delivery record created at the time of the birth.”
“We’d also like to speak with the attending physician and the labor and delivery nurse who was primarily responsible at the birth,” Jess added.
Nepovim looked at a computer printout in front of him. He bit his lip and then folded the paper several times, presumably to hide confidential information before showing it to Jess. The attending physician was listed as Dr. Melise Youree and the attending labor and delivery nurse’s initials were N.F.
Jess leaned back. “Is that all you have?”
“A birth of a healthy boy, full term, with no complications, from fourteen years ago?” Nepovim arched both eyebrows. “What more do you think you need?”
“Were your records all digital back then?” Charlene asked.
“Mostly paper.” Nepovim shook his head and plastered an expression on his face that was probably meant to be regret but looked more like a satisfied smirk. “Old records are stored off premises. We have a procedure in place for requesting the originals. You need consent from the patient or a subpoena from the appropriate court. Usually takes about six weeks.”
Jess’s lip curled. A doctor with zero concern for an unconscious boy barely ranked on her personal scale of people who deserved respect.
“We’d like to see the original now,” Charlene said, in her most official tone.
“I can’t justify using our limited resources for a time-consuming search at this time.” Nepovim shook his head again. “You go through proper channels. Make a formal request. I’ve provided what you asked me for based on our electronic records. Get a court order or consent from the family and we’ll pull the original records for you.” He stood up, walked around and opened the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend.”