“His description is the bad news: clean-shaven, blond ponytail, black-rimmed glasses.”
“Not a match to either guy,” Rolando said, shaking his head.
“One step forward, at least one step back.” I picked up the email Yours Truly had sent after Olivia's corpse had been found. I thought about the gory scene in the field, her bloated, discolored body resting at such an awkward angle, yet so still.
Andi put her finger to her screen and moved her lips.
“You got anything?”
“I automatically guessed Sam Baldwin again, but this quote—”
“The one where he talks about his love throbbing at a fevered cadence?” Brandon rolled his eyes.
“That's the one. It isn't from God love Ireland. Apparently, this is from that other Sam movie, God love Ireland.”
Brandon made the appropriate updates to Olivia's evidence board.
“We're on a roll now,” Rolando said.
I got up and walked the room, studying each section, looking for a common thread, or, frankly, anything we hadn't considered.
“I'm not sure we can get much headway on this email from today, about men and women and sex. We have no name,” Brandon said.
“Forget the name. Let's split up the Meg Ryan movies and start searching through quotes,” Andi said.
It was cool to see her take the lead. They divided the flicks and each began searching on their respective laptops. I continued walking the whiteboards. I stopped in front of Whitney, the Ole Miss grad student murdered in Oxford. Brandon had printed off a copy of the Facebook photo of Sam/Joe. I held the copy of the photo, then stepped to my right and reviewed the physical description Stu had just given us. “Strange to look at a photo, knowing that person is likely a murderer, huh?” Brandon had come up beside me. He pulled up the same photo on his iPad.
I was too deep in thought to answer. Between the various witnesses' descriptions and the actual Facebook photo, the appearances of these men were different, certainly, but there was something about the Facebook photo that looked strangely familiar. My mind battled with the descriptions written in words versus an actual photo, even one out of focus. Taking the photo off the wall, I tried to ignore the words, carrying the image to each murdered girl's mug shot, reviewing pertinent details.
“It's got to be here in front of us. We're holding countless emails, a lot of them quoting fictional characters from movies.”
“But who said this movie crap, all of these emails, are actually telling us anything? Could be a complete farce, either to confuse us, take us in another direction—” Stu said.
“Or to just fuck with our minds.” The room went silent, all heads turned to the youngest. “You know, playing games with us.”
“At times it feels like we're being played.” I tuned back to the boards, pacing. My mind was processing information over and over again, hoping a nugget would stick.
Now everyone was standing, Rolando carrying his laptop, others holding hard copies. The team looked like a theatre group deep in thought, trying to learn their lines for opening night.
“We might just be wasting our time. The FBI has analysts, computer programs, databases, so many resources. They've been working this case since...when?” Stu threw up his hands, disgust painting his face.
“The Federal Bureau of Incompetence?” Brandon said. “Screw them. They haven't found diddly shit.”
“Can someone review the timeline with me? Being late to the party and all, it might help me visualize some things.” Andi ran fingers through her hair.
Brandon took the honor as the rest of us listened. I actually zoned out for a minute then caught the end.
“Wait. Did you say Olivia's body was discovered on a Monday morning?”
“Uh, yeah. The previous Friday night we had that so-called going-away party for brother Jeremiah, then two days later you guys get a close-up of a corpse.”
I turned to Andi, then I walked back to the whiteboards and pushed through the timeline in my head, studied the photo again.
“What're you thinking, boss?” Brandon asked.
“You have a brother?” Stu asked
I exhaled then popped a knuckle. “Brandon, look at this photo and try not to look at the face. I know this is strange, but try to imagine this Sam/Joe guy without a shirt.”
The group broke out in laughter and razzed Brandon for a minute straight. Rolando's scrunched face was so red, I thought he might have a seizure.
Brandon knew I was serious. His brow furrowed, then he looked up at me and turned his head.
“You never answered my question. Who is this Jeremiah, your brother?” Stu asked.
I glanced at Brandon, who was still focusing on the photo. I turned to Stu. “He's my half-brother. It's complicated, maybe a little embarrassing. My mom had another baby while living with my aunt in Corpus and put him up for adoption. I never knew any of it. Then he just showed up on our doorstep thirteen days ago.”
Stu nodded then looked down without saying a word.
I glanced back at Brandon, whose face contorted.
“Michael, are you sure you want to go there? I know he's kind of a prick, maybe a lying prick, but you think he's—”
“I have no idea, but he hit town, and two girls died. You and I know that he thinks he's a real player with women.” Blood raced through my veins and cool sweat tickled the back of my heated neck.
The entire team stared at me, likely wondering what I was getting at. I swallowed and looked back at the photo.
“Jesus, Brandon. Look at these hands!” I smacked the picture. “I can't explain it. But I think this is Jeremiah.”
“Holy mother of God,” Rolando said.
Stu tossed his pen and put his hand to his face.
Andi stood up and eyed each of us. “Michael, if Jeremiah was adopted, we can learn more about him. We need to take a road trip to Denton. Now.”
Chapter Fifty
“David, I want to see three options by Monday on how to retire this debt we've...uh, Clancy Construction has built up.”
The seasoned CFO jotted notes in his leather portfolio.
“Ten percent cuts across all support departments, and don't let that weenie in HR talk you down. You're the CFO, and I expect you to protect the financial stability—growth—of this company like your life depended on it.”
David lifted his head, his face stoic. He licked his lips and put pen back to paper.
Gerald gently squeezed the burgundy leather armrests on the biggest chair at Clancy Construction.
“Innovation, that's what it's all about. But to reinvent this company, it's going to take cash. I'm not going to rebuild Clancy Construction on debt. That's like a noose around our neck.”
He chuckled at the irony of his recent road trip, then adjusted the lapel on his Armani Collezioni pindot suit jacket.
“Anything else on your mind on your first day?” David attempted a slight sarcastic grin, but it was lost in a sea of loose wrinkles.
Gerald withheld the impulse to touch his flawed complexion. That would be a sign of weakness. He glanced out the thick glass window from his fifth-floor office, white swells rippling across the blue Atlantic Ocean. He recalled the last eight hours—his first full day as CEO of Gerald Construction. Feeling like a Supreme Court justice who'd just been sworn in to lead an impoverished third-world nation into the twenty-first century, Gerald strode into the boardroom. Each of the nine members of the board, as well as their ass-kissing support staff, stood and applauded the anointed one who would rescue the wounded business—a hero's welcome. Gerald actually felt a tinge of emotion, not from their appreciation, but more of an internal admiration, a true sense of achievement for pulling off the greatest coup in modern business history.
After meeting with the head of the board's compensation committee to sign paperwork on his compensation package—seven hundred fifty thousand for base salary, performance-based bonus up to three hundred percent of his base salary, fifty thousand
for clothing allowance, use of the corporate jet, a special assistant dedicated to managing his personal financial assets, and a hundred thousand for any personal parties thrown at his own residence—Gerald joined Ron Riffmeier in the executive dining room, and the two unlikely allies toasted the removal of Vincent as much as the arrival of the Clancy's youngest son.
“May the tide of fortune float us in the harbor of content.” The rotund Weeble curled a crooked smile and raised his glass.
“Good one. May the most you wish for be the least you get.” Gerald lifted his glass.
“Here, here.”
The pair drank Camus Cuvee 3.128 Cognac. Gerald eyed the abrupt beveled edges on the unique crystal decanter, now almost two-thirds empty. His father, the late Stephen Clancy, only pulled out this liquor for the most special occasions. Fire burned within Gerald's belly, as he thought about his late father, who undoubtedly cried like a little baby just before being shoved out the door of the airborne jet. He tried to imagine the gelatinous splat his father's body made after his half-mile fall to Earth. God love Ireland Gerald thought, as air hissed through cracks in his teeth. Stephen had purposely left his adopted son out of his will, although they all knew Vincent had as much business knowledge and desire as a five-year-old blowing bubbles in the backyard.
“Hey, Gerald.” David paused to make sure his boss's hazel eyes were focused. “Glad, actually, ecstatic you're on board. We haven't had leadership like this in a while. Since...you know.”
Gerald nodded a solemn reply. “Life is too short to not remember the ones you love, which is why I had to get away and reflect on what is truly important.”
“Indeed. We're on our way back. I'll start on these important changes, and I'll get with what's-her-name and put a meeting on your calendar for Monday morning.”
David exited and Susan, his young, blond-haired assistant, walked in, adjusting her eyeglass frames. Her silky hair was pulled back in a refined ponytail, the neckline of her yellow button-down tastefully opened three buttons, a hint of cleavage poking through. She stood five-eight, not an ounce of fat on her lean body. And the neck was flawless.
Gerald could see that Susan, a former swimmer at the University of Miami, was eager to learn the business and move up the chain.
“Just providing a quick update. I noted six items from our quick walk around the HQ building earlier. We'll change the décor to a sleek, modern vibe, and I've asked the director of marketing to work on the new logo. Keywords: progressive, bleeding-edge, market-shifting.”
God love Ireland He smirked.
A prurient, twisted yearning flickered to life.
Chapter Fifty-One
Two vehicles rocked to a stop just in front of the white, wooden garage that served as the anchor to the apartment for Andi's computer friend, Satish. Rolando sat in the passenger seat of my Accord, while Stu and Brandon had hitched a ride in Andi's Mystery Machine.
Sounding like a herd of horses, we clamored up the stairs, and I glanced over at the main house, wondering if the homeowners might think their tenant was throwing a college rave. A door to the second-story apartment flew open, smashing into wooden posts. The Indian young man, who wore a black, short-sleeve T-shirt with a green and gold dragon on the front, seemed oblivious.
“I've got three types of beer, a bottle of gin, and a bottle of a Bacardi 151.” His long, bony fingers spread apart. “Who's up for a quick game of quarters?”
“Seriously, Satish?” Andi shook her head.
“Hey, I know we've got some business to complete, but it's Thursday night. It's the unofficial start to the weekend.” His voice had a pleading tone, and he followed Andi into his apartment, ignoring the rest of us.
The large main room was dimly lit until a round disco ball came to life, rotating, flashing symmetrical shapes of light off the ceiling, walls, and carpeted floor.
“Let's break out the Bee Gees,” Stu said, hands in pockets.
“Nice one.” Satish turned and acknowledged the rest of the group. “Satish is in the houssssse.” The pencil-thin collegiate bounced down the procession, fist-bumping each of us. He finally landed in Control Central—a high-back mesh chair facing a bank of monitors, an ergonomic keyboard, a wireless mouse, two laptops, and a plethora of white and gray cables attached to six tablet-like devices. A constellation of lights twinkled under the U-shaped desk.
Brandon's eyes lit up, as he scanned the mother lode of computer geekdom.
“Down, boy,” I said.
Satish turned his chair my way. “You must be the boss, the big man.”
“Michael.” I extended my hand.
Satish smacked it and made a swooshing sound. I never saw it coming.
“Listen, Satish, let's cut all the boyish rituals,” Andi said. “When we talked on the phone you said you had gold. Dish it up.” She motioned with one hand to hurry up, the other hand planted firmly on her hip.
The playful grin vanished, and Satish swiveled around and rubbed his hands.
“We've lost all access through the SpyAgent software. You see?” Satish pointed at the middle and right monitors. “But that's expected.”
“You have everything saved down to your hard drive?” Andi asked.
“No worries. Everything.”
“Spy what?” I looked at Andi.
“Nothing. Satish...the gold?”
He clapped twice, almost like he was smacking his intellect into gear.
“If you recall, Andi, Florence Wilcox kept all user names and passwords in a spreadsheet, which I used to access the national adoption database.”
All of us leaned closer. Satish could feel us around him, and he flicked his head left and right, although it didn't appear to rattle him.
“I accessed the database and found a Jeremiah Weldon from Greensboro, North Carolina.” Satish looked back at me, and I nodded, my heart palpitating at a quicker pace.
“I then did some searching on this Jeremiah Weldon from Greensboro, North Carolina.”
“And?”
“He's no longer alive. He died in a train crash eight years ago.”
I looked down at shag carpeting, trying to process what he'd just said, and recalled Jeremiah telling us his parents had died in a train crash eight years ago.
“So, Michael's brother—” Stu started.
“Half-brother,” I reminded everyone.
Stu continued, “Is dead? Then who's the guy who showed up at his house?”
“Still working it here.” Satish motioned his arms like a movie director wanting to keep the scene rolling. “That's when my skills were put to the test.” He stretched his fingers, creating a flutter of knuckle pops. “I could walk you through all the technical steps I took, but essentially I was able to view previously purged—deleted—records. I have this program I created...”
He paused as if he might receive an applause. He got none. “Three months ago, this record right here was deleted.”
Satish enlarged the view.
“Gerald Clancy. Parents are Stephen and Barbara Clancy, formerly of Naples, Florida.” Rolando read aloud.
“If you click through all the links, it shows that Jeremiah was 'transferred' to this agency in Naples, Florida.”
I eyed the screen trying to decipher all the data, verbal and graphical.
“I'm not getting it. Why's that important?”
“He was transferred—”
“Probably sold,” Andi interjected. “We found in our research that at times Big Heart acted more like a distributor to other agencies across the country.”
“Right. Anyway, Big Heart in Houston was the original adoption agency.”
My hands gripped the back of Satish's chair, my legs a little wobbly, knowing Houston was just a stone's throw away from Corpus Christi.
“This is something, but still a lot of questions,” I said. “I'm not sure I can, or maybe I've put up a filter to block the logic, but can someone make sense of all this shit?”
“I think Jeremiah, or som
eone who knows him, hacked into the system and tried to make it seem like Gerald Clancy never existed. Then, he assumed the name of Jeremiah Weldon, and got away with it because he shared the original first name. With the real Jeremiah Weldon dead, unable to refute your brother Jeremiah's story, it was the perfect shell game.” Satish nodded, his eyes squinting.
I felt a burning sensation inside my gut, rising into the back of my throat. “Any way we can validate all of this?”
“Typically, they put the birth mother data behind another firewall,” Satish added.
“A what?” Stu asked.
“Using my superior skills, I was able to, uh, access the next level of the database.”
My eyes squeezed shut, unsure if I wanted to hear the outcome of Satish's data mining. The mouse clicked three more times.
“Take a look for yourself.”
I glared at the center monitor and read: Teresa Gilbert.
“No, Doyle,” Andi attempted to correct Satish.
Shaking my head, I crossed my arms and rubbed my face.
“Gilbert was Mom's maiden name.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Standing on the planked landing just outside of Satish's apartment door, I inhaled the misty midnight air. Two coughs escaped, jarring my torso while I attempted to tap the button to dial Guidry's phone number. After four attempts, my forefinger finally hit its target.
Burning phlegm clung to the side of my throat, and my eyes watered like an onion was crammed up my nose. All of this because I thought I could turn back the clock and down a double shot of Bacardi 151. It was my own way of dealing with the shock of learning my own blood relative might have been involved in murder. Satish had offered and I didn't blink—I just drank like a college freshman.
On the fourth ring, I began to think Guidry had turned off his phone, at least the audible part, for the night and gone to bed.
A raspy voice finally answered. “Guidry here. What's up, Michael?” "Did I wake you up?"
“I wish. Sitting on my bed, pouring over all the data, or lack thereof. Tucker's been all over my ass. But enough of that...what's going on?”
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