The Common Lawyer

by Mark Gimenez

  "Curtis," Tres said, "you'd do better looking for a date on Mensa-dot-com."

  "Dave's wearing cowboy boots," Andy said, "to look taller. Still doesn't look six-two."

  "He'd have to stand on a chair to look six-two."

  Curtis turned to the next ad. "This girl says 'I strive to find justice and equality in life.' "

  "And she's seeking casual sex?"

  "How'd you know?"

  Tres turned to Andy. "You've been gone a lot. Reeves?"

  "Yeah."

  "Where?"

  "All over the country."

  "What for?"

  "Confidential. He swore me to secrecy."

  "You're not in over your head, are you, Andy?"

  "Nothing like that. Actually, I'm playing Robin Hood."

  "She's here," Curtis said.

  They all turned to the front door. A very attractive blonde-she wasn't Suzie or Bobbi, but then Dave wasn't Russell Reeves' lawyer-had just walked up to Dave. They exchanged a few words, then she kissed him on the cheek.

  "Wow," Curtis said.

  Curtis Baxter had never been kissed by a female unrelated by blood.

  Dave and the blonde went inside and were seated at one of the tables in the first room where the bar was located. From their position on the front porch, they had a clear view of Dave and his date through the window. Ronda took their orders then returned with margaritas. They talked and laughed and ate Mexican food. Dave paid the mariachis to sing at their table.

  "She's eating fajitas," Curtis said. "Beef."

  "So?"

  "So he's got a chance. She's a carnivore, too."

  "She looks like she's having fun," Tres said.

  "Wow," Curtis said again.

  Dave and the girl had another round of margaritas, then Dave stood and walked through the double doors into the main dining room. She smiled and gave him a little finger wave.

  "Restroom," Curtis said. "Margaritas go right through him."

  The restrooms were at the rear of the restaurant. As soon as Dave disappeared from sight, the smile disappeared from the blonde's face. She pulled out her cell phone. She said something into the phone, stood, and downed her margarita then grabbed her purse and walked outside. Fast. She almost ran past them on the porch and down the sidewalk past the Oak Garden where Los Flames were playing. A car pulled up on Congress; she dove in and drove off.

  "Aw, man."

  They turned and looked back inside through the window. Dave had returned to their table; he was glancing around with a confused expression. He looked over at them; Andy waved him out. Dave came over.

  "Did she go to the restroom?"

  Tres and Curtis averted their eyes from this train wreck. That left Andy to deliver the bad news.

  "She bailed."

  "She left?"

  Andy nodded. Dave's body deflated like a popped balloon. He fell into a chair.

  "I thought we were having fun."

  Andy waved an empty beer bottle at Ronda. Another round for the table. Curtis gave Dave a buddy pat.

  "Sucks, dude."

  Dave shook his head.

  "Man, she smelled great."

  FIFTEEN

  "Why can't you find Frankie Doyle?"

  "Because she doesn't want to be found."

  "You found the first six women."

  "They weren't hiding."

  At nine sharp the next morning, Andy was sitting across the desk from Hollis McCloskey. Hollis leaned back in his chair.

  "See, Andy, America's a transient society. A hundred million people move every year, across the street or across the country, usually for a bigger home or a better job. But that means two hundred million people don't move. Sue Todd, Tameka Evans, Sylvia Gutierrez-they hadn't moved from their last-known addresses. Amanda Pearce had, but to another house in Chicago. So those four were easy."

  "How'd you find Beverly Greer and Pam Ward?"

  "Beverly moved from Denver to Seattle, so I called her old neighbors in Denver. I got their names from the tax records-properties are indexed by address-then I called information and got their phone numbers. The first neighbor didn't live there when Beverly did, the second one did. She gave me Beverly's new address in Seattle."

  "What about Pam Ward?"

  "She moved from L.A. to Dallas. I couldn't get hold of her neighbors, so I called the new owner of her L.A. condo."

  "How'd you get the phone number?"

  "Criss-cross directory. You can search the physical address and get the phone number, if it's a land line. It was. Anyway, Pam had seller-financed the condo, so the new owner sent payments to her in Dallas. She gave me the address."

  "I never realized how easy it is to find someone."

  "It is, if you know what you're doing-and if they're not hiding. People who aren't hiding leave a paper trail-mortgages, leases, phone records, utility bills… but Frankie Doyle moved and didn't leave a paper trail. She's hiding."

  "From whom?"

  "Her ex-husband."

  Hollis sat forward and opened a file on his desk.

  "Frankie Doyle's last-known address was in Boston three years ago. She was twenty-five, married to one Michael aka Mickey Doyle, with a five-year-old daughter named Abigail. Worked as a waitress in a bar at a high-dollar downtown hotel, the Boston Grand. Then she and Mickey got divorced, and she and the minor disappeared."

  "What makes you think she's hiding from him?"

  "He hit her. Mickey-he's an ex-boxer, still lives at the same address in Boston-was convicted twice of assault, not on her, but everyone I talked to said he hit her. I figure she got fed up, divorced the bastard, and split with the kid." He shrugged. "Frankie Doyle doesn't exist anymore."

  "What do you mean, she doesn't exist?"

  "I mean her paper trail ended with the divorce. I figure she changed her name so Mickey couldn't find her. Problem is, we can't find her either."

  "But she'd have to file a name change in the county court where she's living. Search those records."

  "I did, the ones that are online. Problem is, Andy, there are over three thousand counties in the U.S., each with their own records, and the smaller ones, probably half those counties, their records aren't online. If Frankie Doyle's smart, and I think she is, she moved to a small county in the middle of nowhere, probably out west where there aren't many people, and changed her name there, where the records aren't online. Only way to find her is to do a manual records search in all those counties-fifteen hundred counties."

  "Needle in a haystack."

  "Exactly. And even if your client was willing to foot the bill for me to hire PIs in every state to do a manual search in every county, that'd take months. By then, she'd probably have moved and changed her name again. Then we'd have to search in every county again, under her new name."

  "So she just fell off the grid?"

  "Living off the grid, that's harder than most people think. You can't have a cell phone in your name, or a credit card, you can't buy a car or a home, you can't live in a reputable apartment complex, you can't have a bank account or a driver's license. People talk about living off the grid, but it's just that. Talk."

  "So how are you going to find Frankie Doyle?"

  "I'm probably not. Andy, I've run down every rabbit trail I could find. I searched all the online records-property taxes, voter and vehicle registrations, marriage and business licenses… she's not a lawyer, accountant, doctor, nurse, barber, PI, pest control technician, nothing that requires a license. She hasn't voted in any state, county, or local election, as least not as Frankie Doyle."

  "What about her driver's license? She's got to be driving a car."

  "I can't get driver's license records anymore. Federal law restricts access now, because of identity theft."

  "What else?"

  "I searched all my proprietary databases, fee services for PIs. Nothing. Usually I have a good phone number, and I'm looking for a physical address. But I couldn't find any phones, land lines or cell."

&nb
sp; "But if she changed her name, it wouldn't be under Frankie Doyle anyway."

  "Exactly. I searched the federal PACER system-a national federal court search for civil, criminal, and bankruptcy cases. Nothing. I searched the state criminal records available online, but I need her DOB-date of birth-to do a thorough search. I ran a prison inmate search-"

  "Prison?"

  Hollis shrugged. "You never know."

  "And?"

  "She's not an inmate in the federal system or in most of the state systems-I can't search them all. Hell, I even called Mickey." Hollis shook his head. "Now he's a piece of work. Lives in his deceased parents' house, drives their car, works at his dad's garage. Probably wears his old man's underwear."

  "What'd he say?"

  "Nothing. When I asked about Frankie, he hung up. So I called the bar she worked at, talked to the bartender, name's Benny. Said she worked there for seven years, didn't show up for her shift one night. Never saw or heard from her again. Didn't even collect her last paycheck."

  "Maybe she's dead?"

  "I ran her name in the Social Security Death Master File-she didn't come up dead. But that doesn't mean she isn't. Anyway, Benny told me her mother lived a few doors down from her, so I called her. Number's listed. Colleen O'Hara. Nice lady, but she didn't know her own whereabouts, much less Frankie's. Alzheimer's."

  "How do you know?"

  "I called the neighbors on either side of Mickey. They know Mrs. O'Hara, watch out for her. Frankie's father, he's deceased. No siblings. But the neighbors didn't know Frankie's whereabouts. And they said Mickey hit her." Hollis paused. "He's not your secret client, is he?"

  "Mickey? No."

  "Good. She was smart, to get away from him before she ends up on the news, another woman killed by a crazy ex-husband."

  "What about her credit report?"

  "Two problems with credit reports. One, if I pull her report for an unlawful purpose, it's a federal crime-and finding an old girlfriend is not a lawful purpose, Andy. Besides, it's a moot point-she won't be using a credit card."

  "Why not?"

  "Because she knows she can be tracked that way. Her credit report shows whenever a creditor-a lender, landlord, employer-makes an inquiry, so she won't have gotten a loan or a job or rented an apartment, at least not a nice one. Standard apps allow them to run a credit check."

  "What's the second problem?"

  "Credit bureaus won't release their reports to PIs anymore. People sued them."

  "Dang. What about her social security number?"

  "With a name only, my search pulled up thousands of Frank or Frankie or F. Doyles. With name and DOB, I'd get hundreds. With name, DOB, and social security account number, I'd get one. I checked the divorce records, but her SSAN was deleted. Problem is, it's almost impossible these days to get someone's SSAN legitimately. No one wants to release it-invasion of privacy laws."

  "You were with the FBI, maybe your buddies could get it… or pull her tax return."

  Hollis shook his head. "That's jail time, Andy. We've got privacy laws in the U.S., even if the government forgets sometimes. I told you, Andy, I go by the book."

  "The book needs another chapter."

  "Andy, some PIs have arrangements with data brokers who cross the line. I don't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't want to go to prison like that PI-to-the-stars out in Hollywood. He got fifteen years in federal prison, for crossing the line."

  "I'll pay you a thousand an hour."

  "Andy, I spent twenty-five years putting people in jail. I'm not about to join them now, not for any amount of money. You want me to continue with the other women?"

  Andy nodded. "Give me what you've got on Frankie Doyle."

  That afternoon Andy flew first class to Boston.

  He had called Russell Reeves to report back about his conversation with McCloskey.

  "Go to Boston, Andy," Russell had said. "Find her."

  Andy read her file on the flight. Hollis had compiled Frankie Doyle's life history from birth until three years ago. Then her life went blank. Andy was betting she was dead.

  He arrived late, rented a BMW, and booked a $500-a-night suite at the Boston Grand Hotel in downtown, the same hotel where Frankie had worked. After checking in, he went into the bar and ordered a beer. Benny was on duty. He was maybe forty, a bald guy, big but not menacing like Darrell. Andy introduced himself and told him he was trying to find Frankie Doyle.

  "Got a call a few days ago, Irish PI in Austin named McCloskey, asking about Frankie."

  "He works for me. I'm a lawyer."

  "So why do you want to find Frankie?"

  "To help her."

  "What's wrong with her?"

  "To help her child, actually."

  "Abby? What's wrong with her?"

  "I don't know yet."

  Benny gave him an odd look. "Well, like I told your man McCloskey, I haven't seen or heard from Frankie in three years. She didn't show for her shift one night, after seven years." He paused. "You don't think she's dead?"

  "I don't know. Maybe."

  That seemed to take the air out of Benny.

  "She was a good Irish girl married to a lousy Irish mug."

  "Mickey?"

  Benny nodded. "He hit her."

  "So I've heard."

  "When she divorced him, I asked her to marry me."

  "Did y'all see each other?"

  "Frankie Doyle cheat? No way. Catholic girl, lifetime of guilt, all that." He shrugged. "I still loved her. But she just wanted to get the hell away from Mickey."

  "Any idea where?"

  He shook his head. "She'd never been more than fifty miles from home, but she used to talk about moving to Montana or Texas, having horses. I told her she was a city girl, wouldn't know what to do in the country."

  Benny stepped away to serve a customer at the other end of the bar. Andy drank his beer and tried to imagine Frankie Doyle working there. It was a sports bar, but a classy place with an elegant wood bar and tables and leather chairs, a mirror behind the bar, and a flat-screen TV on the wall along with framed sports memorabilia-signed jerseys from the Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics, and Bruins-and sports-themed art. The only real art hung behind the bar, a black-and-white pencil drawing of Benny. Andy leaned over to read the artist's name: "F. Doyle."

  "Frankie sketched that. One day, we weren't busy."

  Benny had returned.

  "She wanted to be an artist."

  "She was."

  Benny stared at his image.

  "I hope she still is."

  Andy said goodnight and went up to his room. He ordered room service, drank three more beers, and watched a movie on pay-per-view.

  The next morning, Andy found Frankie Doyle's last-known address in a working-class neighborhood in South Boston. It was a brick row house situated among blocks of identical structures. He parked, went to the door, and knocked. No one answered.

  "You looking for Mickey?"

  The next-door neighbor, an old guy, was standing on the other side of a waist-high hedge.

  "You know where I can find him?"

  He pointed down the street.

  "Doyle's Garage, two blocks down."

  "Thanks." Andy stepped to the hedge. "Did you know Frankie?"

  "Sure. She's been gone three years now, since she divorced Mickey. He hit her. When he drank, which was every day. Guess she got tired of it. Took the girl and left the bastard."

  "Was the girl sick?"

  "Abby? Not that I knew. She was a real tomboy, that one."

  Finally, a woman without a sick kid. Maybe it was just odds, like Russell said. But that was three years ago.

  "Any idea where they went?"

  The old man shook his head.

  "Where does Frankie's mother live?"

  The man nodded down the street.

  "Three houses down."

  Andy said thanks and drove to Doyle's Garage. It was a small place, not much bigger than a two-car ga
rage, with a dozen cars parked outside. Inside, Andy found the smell of oil and grease and a man ducked under the hood of a car.

  "Mickey Doyle?"

  From under the hood: "Who's asking?"

  "Andy Prescott. I'm a lawyer from Texas."

  The man came out now. He had closely-cropped red hair; he looked to be a few years older than Andy. He was built like a boxer with a nose that had been broken more than once. His hands were black with grease. He didn't seem happy to see Andy.

  "Go away."

  Andy pulled out his wallet and removed ten $100 bills. He placed the cash on the car.

  "I need some information."

  The man eyed the cash then Andy.

  "What do you want to know?"

  "You're Mickey Doyle?"

  "Yeah."

  "I'm trying to find Frankie."

  "Did she come into money?"

  "Not yet."

  "Well, I ain't seen or heard from Frankie since the day she divorced me. Three years ago."

  "Any idea where she's living?"

  "Nope." Mickey pointed at a tool stand. "Hand me that wrench."

  Andy handed the wrench to Mickey. He now had grease on his hands. He searched for a rag.

  "That's her real name, Frankie?"

  "Yep. Sean O'Hara, her old man, he ran an Irish pub, good place, long gone now. Wanted a football player, got a girl instead. So he named her Frankie O'Hara. After Frank Gifford."

  Mickey went back to work. Andy didn't have a clue who Frank Gifford was.

  "You and Frankie grew up together?"

  "She's seven years younger than me. We married soon as she graduated high school."

  "And had a daughter. You don't see Abby?"

  "Had to give up my rights, to stay out of prison. Three strikes."

  "Was she sick?"

  "Frankie?"

  "Abby."

  "No, Abby wasn't sick."

  "You got any photos of her?"

  "You want photos of Abby?"

  "No. Frankie."

  "Oh. Burned 'em all. So I'd forget her." He paused and stared at the engine. "Didn't work."

  "She have any relatives still living here, other than her mother?"

  "Frankie was an only child. Sean, he kept getting Colleen pregnant, but she kept miscarrying. Finally had to yank out her plumbing."

  "Is she at home?"

  "Always."

  "She know where Frankie's living?"