A Powerful Secret

by Dr. Kevin Leman

  Darcy frowned. “So she was pregnant maybe even when her parents died? Check the dates.”

  Jon flipped through more papers. “Yep, had to be. The baby was born seven months after her parents died.”

  Sarah started to pace. “So where did a teenager stay in between her parents’ death and when she became a home owner? In a foster home? A resident facility for pregnant, unwed teenagers? With friends of her parents’?”

  “Nowhere we can find. Records show that her parents didn’t own a home. They rented a two-bedroom apartment. Both were blue-collar workers,” Jon reported. “The apartment was leased a month after their death, and it wasn’t to Rebecca.”

  By now Sarah’s attorney instincts were in high gear. “So where does a teenage girl get enough money to pay for a place to stay, insurance, and her hospital bills, and then to buy a home in her name by the time she turns 21? Did her parents have some hefty life insurance?”

  Jon shook his head. “Nothing that I can find.”

  “That means someone helped her,” Darcy mused. “Housed her. Kept her off the grid. But why?”

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  His private phone rang shortly after 8:00 a.m. instead of the usual 11:30 p.m.

  “No go on the body ID,” his source reported. “It was too badly damaged. They’re moving to a dental record search.”

  “Make sure a certain dental record rises to the surface,” the man prompted.

  “Already done. We should have an answer within 24 hours.”

  40

  NEW YORK CITY

  “Maybe it was the unnamed birth father who wanted to keep Rebecca Eliot off the grid,” Darcy suggested. “He or his parents wanted it to remain a secretive affair. The girl refused to have abortion be an option, so they bribed her with paying her doctor and the hospital expenses for the birth, gave her cash to buy a house, and provided enough cash to pay the taxes and essentials for a certain amount of years until her child was old enough to be in school, so she could get a job. Was there any record of Rebecca having a job?”

  “Nope,” Jon said. “She disappeared from the grid for almost four years, until she bought the house. No record of a job between that and her death either.”

  “How else would a 17-year-old single mother with no resources save enough for a house by the time she turns 21? And have enough so she wouldn’t have to work for the rest of her life?” Sarah asked the questions as she moved toward the door. The intercom had just announced the bagel and coffee delivery. “Hold that thought.”

  After paying the delivery boy, Sarah began removing the breakfast items from their bags and cup holders. Jon and Darcy reached to help.

  “Justin’s mother was the one who supported him,” Sarah said. “Nobody else in the picture. She dies, and he can’t handle it. Between the recreational drugs and his meds, he goes haywire. Doesn’t pay the taxes, the bills, etc. The behind-the-scenes cash flow disappears with her death. Maybe he wasn’t even aware of it, or if he was, he didn’t know who was specifically behind it.”

  “Like a magical Wizard of Oz behind the curtain,” Darcy threw in.

  “He comes home one day, and his mother’s house is foreclosed. He must have hit the streets then or found somewhere else to live.”

  “The IRS says he didn’t pay taxes himself either before or after his mother died,” Jon reported. “No 1099s either. House was solely in the mother’s name. She paid the taxes.”

  “So either he wasn’t paid over $600 by anyone reputable, or he was paid in cash for any gigs.” Sarah lifted a brow. “No reputable agent would do a cash deal. There would always be a record for the agency.”

  “No record of a bank account either,” Darcy pointed out. “Which means he relied on his mother for funding, except for the odd jobs he did. Everything he counted on went out the door with her death.”

  “Which could swing a mentally unstable man off-kilter,” Jon reasoned.

  Sarah gestured to the last entry on the whiteboard.

  *Age 26. Made sure he was noticed outside AF. Dropped off backpack with just enough C4 to blow a chunk off storehouse. Stuffed polar bear suit in garbage bin behind ecological office complex. Wrote suicide note. Jumped off 30-story building.

  There the trail ended, except for the fact that startled bystanders had seen the body plummeting from the top of the 30-story building and landing amid the traffic below. It didn’t take long for NYPD to identify the body as that of Justin Eliot. There was no driver’s license, only a state-issued ID. There was only one other item in his wallet—a hand-laminated card that was a miniature of an outdated agency comp card. On it, scribbled in black permanent marker, was a note: I believe in you, Justin. Love, Mama.

  “It doesn’t add up,” Sarah declared. “What happened to those lost years between 23 and 26?”

  Jon shrugged. “A few odd jobs here or there cropped up on the grid. Nothing enough to support carrying a lease on an apartment, though.”

  “Or his drug habits,” Darcy added. “So what else was he doing?”

  “The only thing that’s reasonable,” Jon said. “The kind of work you do for cash, when you’re down and out and desperate. Basically anything, whether it’s legal or illegal. You hit up friends to stay at their places, even a few days at a time.”

  “All we know is that the suicide note was discovered at a little Brooklyn flat that wasn’t his.”

  Jon checked his notes. “Belongs to a Michael Vara.”

  “So how did Michael and Justin know each other?” Darcy asked. “Is Michael’s name on the Green Justice activist list? Could Justin have been doing a favor for an extremist ecological friend in exchange for staying at his apartment?”

  “Or did Justin, since he was homeless, just crash at someone’s apartment who was out of town?” Jon took a bite of his bagel.

  “I could ask Kirk Baldwin if Michael Vara is on the Green Justice activist list,” Sarah said. “He’s always been a straight shooter. He’d check and keep things hush-hush.”

  “Where would a guy like Justin get the money to buy C4? Did he and his mom have cash stashed in a mattress somewhere? And how would he have the knowledge to put a bomb together—C4, a plastic binder, detonator?” Darcy shook her head. “Doesn’t seem the type. Nothing in the records shows that he was a techie. The bit of bomb-making residue and leftover parts in that Brooklyn flat means nada. Could have been planted. No, I think somebody gave him that bomb.”

  “Nothing in his background explains a growing hatred toward big oil companies either. No record of him even being eco-friendly. So the guy suddenly became an ecological extremist overnight? Not likely,” Sarah reasoned.

  “Don’t forget where that polar bear suit was stashed. You’d have to be an ecological activist to even know where those buildings are. They aren’t on the normal grid for people to find,” Darcy added.

  “Unless the same person or persons who gave him the backpack with the bomb also gave him instructions where to plant the evidence to frame ecological extremists for the crime,” Jon said. “And then arranged to kill him—forced him to jump off that building—to destroy the only person who could identify who had hired him and thus lead to the mastermind behind the whole thing.”

  “Whoa!” Darcy exclaimed. “That’s a pretty big string of connections.”

  He nodded. “Yes, but also very logical.”

  Sometimes Sarah thought Jon was Spock from Star Trek, he was so maddeningly calm and reasonable. But, she had to admit, he was usually right. His thinking had proven clear and on target in everything they’d discovered thus far. “It’s a theory. A very solid one. Someone had to have seen him entering that building or climbing the stairs.”

  “NYPD checked the traffic cams, including the helicopter ones of the Times Square area. None showed a man of his description entering the building or exiting onto the roof,” Darcy reported.

  New York was a big place, but someone had to know what happened. Had he been “helped” to his death to hide what he’d
done for Sandstrom?

  Sarah flipped through notes from the coroner. “No marks on the body to show he was subdued or resisting anyone.”

  That fact, coupled with his note, had led investigators to declare his death as a suicide. It didn’t hurt that the president himself was screaming for closure of the case.

  “But why would the man commit suicide?” she asked. “A sudden bout of conscience over his actions?”

  “Doubtful,” Darcy replied. “For dinging the corner of the building of an oil company he supposedly hated? He didn’t harm any person, only property.”

  “If you were an eco-crazy and you’d just succeeded in getting your actions in the worldwide press, what’s the next thing you’d do?” Sarah asked.

  “Capitalize on that press by planning something else to make a follow-up point,” Jon said. “I wouldn’t celebrate my success by writing a detailed suicide note and killing myself.”

  “Exactly. Eco-activists are about making statements to turn others to their point of view. Instead, this guy goes to the top floor of a 30-story building and does a dive off the roof midafternoon. For what purpose?”

  “Unless that was his ultimate purpose—do a dive in the middle of the day to attract as much attention as possible,” Darcy argued.

  “But then why not make a big statement and get the press watching?” Sarah asked. “If it’s going to be your final hurrah, wouldn’t you make it a big one? Not just leave behind a suicide note for the NYPD to find? You’d want to see news helicopters circling, be able to proclaim your final message against the horrible big oil companies who are out to ruin the entire planet, then use the jump to the cement far below as shock value for your viewers.”

  “So maybe Jon’s right. He was helped off the roof.” Darcy chewed on a fingernail. “Don’t you think it’s rather convenient that the building’s roof cameras malfunctioned during those hours? Has to make you wonder . . .”

  “. . . how big this mess is?” Sarah finished.

  All three exchanged a dubious glance.

  “Okay,” Darcy said, “so what’s next?”

  “I’ll call Kirk and ask if Michael Vara is connected with Green Justice,” Sarah replied. “And see if I can track down his phone.”

  “St. Mark’s is on the way to work. I’ll leave now and stop by to see if I can track down the director of the program,” Darcy offered. “See if the school still exists and, if so, whether somebody there remembers anything helpful from the years Justin was there, including any friends he might have made.” She grabbed a bagel to go in a napkin and headed out the door.

  “Let me see Justin’s agency card,” Jon said to Sarah. “I’ll track the agent down and ask about the last time he talked to Justin.” He smiled. “Between the three of us, we won’t give up until we figure it out.”

  “You got that right!” Sarah laughed.

  As he moved toward the door, she sobered. “Jon, have you heard from Sean?”

  He swiveled toward her. “No, I haven’t.”

  “I just hoped—”

  “I know.” His blue eyes steadily met hers. He took a few steps back toward her. “I know,” he repeated.

  A second later, he enfolded her in his arms as she started to cry.

  It was the nicest thing anyone had done for her in a long time.

  41

  EN ROUTE FROM CHAUTAUQUA INSTITUTION TO NEW YORK CITY

  Will was driving and nearly halfway back to New York City when Drew phoned.

  “I’m afraid I have some news. A body matching Sean’s description was found.”

  “Where?”

  “Lake Ontario.”

  Will felt like the breath had been knocked out of him. He pulled the Land Rover over onto the shoulder.

  “Are they sure?”

  “There’s no positive ID. But the clothing and hair color match. Even found a Nike shoe. Do you want me to call Sarah and give her the news? Or your dad?”

  “No. That’s something I need to do.”

  NEW YORK CITY

  It wasn’t even Sarah’s lunchtime yet, and already Jon had been able to track down Justin’s former agent.

  No wonder Jon and Sean had hit it off, Sarah thought wryly. They both had the most extensive networks she had ever seen—well, except for Drew.

  “Caustic,” Jon told her on the phone. “Too busy and angry to give me the time of day, especially about someone like Justin Eliot, he said. Told me the kid could have been somebody but blew it on drugs. Got flaky. Didn’t show up for gigs or showed up late. Too many complaints from key clients, so the agent dropped him. He hasn’t contacted Justin in over two years, doesn’t care, and good riddance. I didn’t tell him Justin was dead, or that he’d become the Polar Bear Bomber. I’m glad the FBI and NYPD didn’t release his name since they haven’t been able to find a next of kin yet.”

  Sarah agreed. “Guys like that agent would sensationalize the news of being the former agent of the Polar Bear Bomber—and make a boatload off it somehow.”

  “Yes, they would. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He could’ve helped a kid in need not go down the wrong trail. Instead, that agent took advantage of him.”

  There it was again—the sweet, caring side of a veteran reporter who had seen a lot of awfulness in his career. Yet Jon stood immovable in the middle of any maelstrom. She’d seen it multiple times now, had admired it. Such a contrast to the men Sarah usually met, including the self-focused TV producer she’d been stupid enough to date for a year. Why it had taken a full year for her to see the light, she had no idea.

  “Sarah?” Jon asked. “You okay?”

  Jon was proof there were still some quality men left.

  “Yes, I’m okay. Just had a weak moment there.”

  “Hey,” he said softly, “it’s not weak to love your brother.”

  Tightness clogged her throat, and she couldn’t respond. She knew Jon would understand.

  Ten minutes later, her cell rang again. She was expecting Kirk Baldwin’s call, so she answered without checking caller ID. “Hey, Kirk.”

  “Sarah,” a male voice said.

  “Will! Are you on your way home or . . . ?” She wobbled and lowered herself into her chair.

  “I just got a call from Drew.”

  She gripped the edge of her desk. “And?”

  “They found a body in Lake Ontario. The clothing and hair color is a match to Sean. The man was still wearing one athletic shoe.”

  She gasped. It can’t be. It just can’t be. “But was it Sean?”

  There was a long pause, then a pained, “Don’t know. The body’s in rough shape.”

  How could they confirm or deny it? Waiting for a positive ID through DNA testing and dental records would be agony.

  Then an idea hit. “What color was the shoe?” she demanded. “And what specific kind?”

  “All I know is that it was an athletic shoe. I don’t know the color. Didn’t think to ask.”

  “Find out what kind and color it was,” she insisted. “Then call me back. I have an errand to run.”

  Minutes later she was hurrying out the door of the DOJ building. She caught a cab to Sean’s flat.

  EN ROUTE FROM CHAUTAUQUA INSTITUTION TO NEW YORK CITY

  Will, still roadside on the way back to the Big Apple, was stupefied. Of all the reactions he’d expected from his sister, “I have an errand to run” wasn’t one of them.

  He phoned his father next. Bill took the news stoically. “So we get closer to the answer, perhaps,” he said. “I think I’ll wait for a bit more information before I share that with your mother.”

  Will would have done the same thing—check out every potential angle first.

  Next he phoned Drew about the athletic shoe. Will heard the rustling of papers, as if notes were being flipped.

  “Nike Air Force 1 Low Lux Masterpiece Crocodile Edition,” Drew stated. “Brown with a metallic gold, 18-carat.”

  Will felt sick. He’d teased Sean about purchasing
a pair of those shoes, calling them “downright ugly.” He got out of the Land Rover and stood, sucking air.

  “Will . . . Will, you okay?” Drew’s voice sounded hazy, distant.

  Will’s ears buzzed. And then the contents of his lunch spilled onto the road.

  42

  NEW YORK CITY

  Sarah entered Sean’s apartment and hurried toward his bedroom. “What kind?” she asked Will as soon as he called her back.

  “Nike Air Force 1 Low Lux Masterpiece Crocodile Edition. Brown with a metallic gold. But what—”

  “Thanks. Call you back.” And she hung up.

  Throwing open the closet doors, she scanned the jumble of shoes. It was the one place he’d told his housekeeper was off-limits. He’d jokingly told Sarah, “If I have to keep the rest of my house organized, I need at least one closet that reminds me I’m a human being.”

  It was the kind of mess that would have driven Will nuts. Maybe that was why, growing up, Sean had been the least organized of all of them. He’d worked hard to keep his closet a mess and the exact opposite of Will’s soldier lineup. Now the rest of his place was organized and pristine—thanks to his housekeeper and decorator—but his bedroom closet was still a mess.

  Sarah dug through the heap. She only needed to find one pair—his Nike Air Force 1s. If she did, she would know that body wasn’t Sean’s. But as she continued to search, her anxiety grew.

  Where are those shoes? Please, God, let me find them here.

  Sarah attacked the last heap to the right of the door . . . and found them.

  Grabbing the shoes, she hugged them to her chest. Sean could complain later about the salt stains on his crocodile leather. She didn’t care. She’d buy him a hundred more pairs . . . after she wrung his neck.

  EN ROUTE FROM CHAUTAUQUA INSTITUTION TO NEW YORK CITY

  Will’s dread grew when he didn’t hear back right away from his sister and she didn’t answer his texts. He jumped back into his Land Rover and drove as swiftly as he could to New York City.