"Are you trying to make a point?"
Five minutes later they were watching the tape in the van.
Chapter 10.
Mr. Davis Taylor
221 North End Ave
Waterbury, Connecticut
The social security and phone numbers were there too. Myron took out his cell phone and dialed. After two rings, a machine picked up and a robotic voice, the default greeting, asked him to leave a message at the tone. He left his name and mobile number and asked Mr. Taylor to return his call.
"So what are you going to do?" Terese asked.
"I guess I'll drive up and try to talk to Mr. Davis Taylor."
"Hasn't the clinic already tried that?"
"Probably."
"But you're more persuasive?"
"Questionable."
"I have to cover the Waldorf tonight," she said.
"I know. I'll go alone. Or maybe I'll bring Win."
She still would not face him. "This boy who needs the transplant," she said. "He's not a stranger, is he?"
Myron was not sure how to answer that. "I guess not."
Terese nodded in a way that told him not to say any more. He didn't. He picked up the phone and called Emily. She answered halfway through the first ring.
"Hello?"
"When is Greg doing the news conference?" he asked.
"In two hours," Emily said.
"I need to reach him."
He heard a hopeful gasp. "Did you find the donor for Jeremy?"
"Not yet."
"But you have something."
"We'll see."
"Don't patronize me, Myron."
"I'm not patronizing you."
"This is my son's life we're talking about here."
And mine? "I have a lead, Emily. That's all."
She gave him the number. "Myron, please call me if--"
"The moment I know something."
He hung up and called Greg.
"I need you to put off the press conference," Myron said.
"Why?" Greg asked.
"Just give me till tomorrow."
"You have something?"
"Maybe," Myron said.
"Maybe nothing," Greg said. "Do you have something or not?"
"I have a name and address. It might be our man. I want to check it out before you make a public plea."
"Where does he live?" Greg asked.
"Connecticut."
"You driving up?"
"Yes."
"Right now?"
"Pretty much."
"I want to go with you," Greg said.
"That's not a good idea."
"He's my kid, dammit."
Myron closed his eyes. "I understand that."
"So then you'll understand this: I'm not asking your permission. I'm going. So stop dicking around and tell me where you want me to pick you up."
Greg drove. He had one of those fancy SUV four-by-fours that are all the rage with New Jersey suburbanites whose idea of "off-road" is a speed bump at the mall. Tres truck chic. For a long while neither man spoke. The tension in the air was more than the cut-with-a-knife variety; it pressed against the car windows, weighed Myron down, made him tired and gloomy.
"How did you get this name?" Greg asked.
"It's not important."
Greg left it alone. They drove some more. On the radio, Jewel earnestly insisted that her hands were small, she knew, but they were hers and not someone else's. Myron frowned. Not exactly "Blowing in the Wind," was it?
"You broke my nose, you know," Greg said.
Myron kept quiet.
"And my vision hasn't been the same. I'm having trouble focusing on the basket."
Myron could not believe what he was hearing. "You blaming me for your crappy season, Greg?"
"I'm just saying--"
"You're getting old, Greg. You've played fourteen seasons, and sitting out the strike didn't help you."
Greg waved a hand. "You wouldn't understand."
"You're right." Myron's knob turned from Simmer to Boil. "I never got to play pro ball."
"Right, and I never fucked my friend's wife."
"She wasn't your wife," Myron said. "And we weren't friends."
They both stopped then. Greg kept his eyes on the road. Myron turned away and stared out the passenger window.
Waterbury is one of those cities you bypass to reach another city. Myron had probably taken this stretch of 84 a hundred times, always remarking that at a distance Waterbury was a butt-ugly city. But now that he had the opportunity to see the city up close, he realized that he had underestimated the city's offensiveness to the eyes, that indeed the city had a butt-ugly quality to it that you just couldn't appreciate from afar. He shook his head. And people make fun of New Jersey?
Myron had gotten directions from the MapQuest Web site. He read them off to Greg in a voice he barely recognized as his own. Greg followed them in silence. Five minutes later, they pulled up to a dilapidated clapboard house in the middle of a street of dilapidated clapboards. The houses were uneven and crammed so close together, they looked like a set of teeth needing extensive orthodontic work.
They got out of the car. Myron wanted to tell Greg to stay back, but that would be pointless. He knocked on the door and almost immediately a gruff voice said, "Daniel? That you, Daniel?"
Myron said, "I'm looking for Davis Taylor."
"Daniel?"
"No," Myron said, yelling through the door. "Davis Taylor. But maybe he calls himself Daniel."
"What are you talking about?" An old man opened the door, already in full-suspicious squint. He wore glasses too small for his face, so that the metal earpieces were embedded into the folds of skin beneath both temples, and a bad yellow wig, like something Carol Channing wore once too often, adorned his crown. He had on one slipper and one shoe, and his bathrobe looked as if it'd been trampled over during the Boer War.
"I thought you was Daniel," the old man said. He tried to readjust the glasses, but they wouldn't move. He squinted again. "You look like Daniel."
"Must be the clouds in your eyes," Myron said.
"What?"
"Never mind. Are you Davis Taylor?"
"What do you want?"
"We're looking for Davis Taylor."
"Don't know no Davis Taylor."
"This is 221 North End Drive?"
"That's right."
"And there's no Davis Taylor living here?"
"Just me and my boy Daniel. But he's been away. Overseas."
"Spain?" Myron asked. He pronounced it Spahhheeeeen. Elton would have been proud.
"What?"
"Never mind." The old man turned to Greg, tried again to readjust the glasses, gave another squint. "I know you. You play basketball, right?"
Greg gave the old man a gentle if not superior smile--Moses gazing down at a skeptic after the Red Sea parted. "That's right."
"You're Dolph Schayes."
"No."
"You look like Dolph. Helluva shooter. Saw him play in St. Louis last year. What a touch."
Myron and Greg exchanged a glance. Dolph Schayes had retired in 1964.
"I'm sorry," Myron said. "We didn't catch your name."
"You're not wearing uniforms," the old man said.
"No, sir, he only wears it on the court."
"Not that kind of uniform."
"Oh," Myron said, though he had no idea why.
"So you can't be here about Daniel. That's what I mean. I was afraid you were with the army and..." His voice drifted off then.
Myron saw where this was going. "Your son is stationed overseas?"
The old man nodded. "Nam."
Myron nodded, feeling bad now about the Elton John teasing. "We still didn't catch your name."
"Nathan. Nathan Mostoni."
"Mr. Mostoni, we're looking for someone named Davis Taylor. It's very important we find him."
"Don't know no Davis Taylor. He a friend of Daniel's?"
"Might be."
The ol
d man thought about it. "Nope, don't know him."
"Who else lives here?"
"Just me and my boy."
"And it's just the two of you?"
"Yep. But my boy is overseas."
"So right now you live here alone?"
"How many different ways you gonna ask that question, boy?"
"It's just that it's a pretty big house," Myron said.
"So?"
"Ever take in any boarders?"
"Sure. Had a college girl just moved out of here."
"What was her name?"
"Stacy something. I don't remember."
"How long did she live here?"
"About six months."
"And before that?"
That one took some thought. Nathan Mostoni scratched his face like a dog going after his own belly. "A guy named Ken."
"Did you ever have a tenant named Davis Taylor?" Myron asked. "Or something like that?"
"Nope. Never."
"Did this Stacy have a boyfriend?"
"I don't think so."
"Do you know her last name?"
"My memory ain't so good. But she's at the college."
"Which college?"
"Waterbury State."
Myron turned to Greg and another thought hit him. "Mr. Mostoni, have you heard the name Davis Taylor before today?"
Another squint. "What do you mean?"
"Has anybody else visited you or called you and asked about Davis Taylor?"
"No, sir. Never heard the name before."
Myron looked at Greg again, then turned back to the old man. "So no one from the bone marrow center has been in touch with you?"
The old man cocked his head and put a hand to his ear. "The bone what?"
Myron asked a few more questions, but Nathan Mostoni started time-traveling again. There was nothing more to get here. Myron and Greg thanked him and headed back down the cracked pathway.
When they were back in the car, Greg asked, "Why didn't the bone marrow center contact this guy?"
"Maybe they did," Myron said. "Maybe he just forgot."
Greg didn't like it. Neither did Myron. "So what's next?" Greg asked.
"We run a background check on Davis Taylor. Find out everything we can about him."
"How?
"It's easy nowadays. Just a few keystrokes and my partner will know it all."
"Your partner? You mean that violent wacko you used to room with in college?"
"A, it is unhealthy to refer to Win as a violent wacko, even when he appears not to be in the vicinity. B, no, I mean my partner at MB SportsReps, Esperanza Diaz."
Greg looked back at the house. "What do I do?"
"Go home," Myron said.
"And?"
"And be with your son."
Greg shook his head. "I don't get to see him until the weekend."
"I'm sure Emily wouldn't mind."
"Yeah, right." Greg smirked, shook his head. "You don't know her too well anymore, do you, Myron?"
"I guess not, no."
"If she had her way, I'd never get to see Jeremy again."
"That's a bit harsh, Greg."
"No, Myron. If anything, it's being generous."
"Emily told me that you're a good father."
"Did she also tell you what she charged in our custody battle?"
Myron nodded. "That you abused the kids."
"Not just abused them, Myron. Sexually abused them."
"She wanted to win."
"And that's an excuse?"
"No," Myron said. "It's deplorable."
"More than that," Greg said. "It's sick. You have no idea what Emily's capable of doing to get her way."
"For example?"
But Greg just shook his head and started up the car. "I'll ask you again: What can I do to help?"
"Nothing, Greg."
"No good. I'm not sitting around while my kid is dying, you understand?"
"I do."
"You have anything besides this name and address?"
"Nope."
"Fine," Greg said. "I'll drop you off at the train station. I'm staying up here and watching the house."
"You think the old man is lying?"
Greg shrugged. "Maybe he's just confused and forgot. Or maybe I'm wasting my time. But I got to do something."
Myron said nothing. Greg continued to drive.
"You'll call me if you hear something?" Greg asked.
"Sure."
During the train ride back to Manhattan, Myron thought about what Greg had said. About Emily. And about what she'd done--and what she'd do--to save her son.
Chapter 11.
Myron and Terese started out the next morning showering together. Myron controlled the temperature and kept the water hot. Prevents, er, shrinkage.
When they stepped out of the steamy stall, he helped Terese towel off.
"Thorough," she said.
"We're a full-service operation, ma'am." He toweled her off some more.
"One thing I notice when I shower with a man," Terese said.
"What's that?"
"My breasts always end up squeaky clean."
Win had left several hours ago. Lately he liked to get to the office by six. Overseas markets or something. Terese toasted a bagel while Myron fixed himself a bowl of cereal. Quisp cereal. They didn't have it in New York anymore, but Win had it shipped in from a place called Woodsman's in Wisconsin. Myron downed an industrial-size spoonful; the sugar rush came at him so fast he nearly ducked.
Terese said, "I have to go back tomorrow morning."
"I know."
He took another spoonful, feeling her eyes on him.
"Run away with me again," Terese said.
He glanced up at her. She looked smaller, farther away.
"I can get us the same house on the island. We can just hop on a plane and--"
"I can't," he interrupted.
"Oh," she said. Then: "You need to find this Davis Taylor?"
"Yes."
"I see. And after that...?"
Myron shook his head. They ate some more in silence.
"I'm sorry," Myron said.
She nodded.
"Running away isn't always the answer, Terese."
"Myron?"
"What?"
"Do I look in the mood for platitudes?"
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, you said that already."
"I'm just trying to help."
"Sometimes you can't help," she said. "Sometimes all that's left is running away."
"Not for me," he said.
"No," she agreed. "Not for you."
She wasn't angry or upset, just flat and resigned, and that scared him all the more.
An hour later Esperanza came into Myron's office without knocking.
"Okay," she began, grabbing a seat, "here's what we've got on Davis Taylor."
Myron leaned back and put his hands behind his head.
"One, he's never filed a tax return with the IRS."
"Never?"
"Glad you're paying attention," Esperanza said.
"Are you saying he's never shown any income?"
"Will you let me finish?"
"Sorry."
"Two, he has virtually no paperwork. No driver's license. One credit card, a Visa recently issued by his bank. It has very little activity. Only one bank account, with a current balance of under two hundred dollars."
"Suspicious," Myron said.
"Yes."
"When did he open the account?"
"Three months ago."
"And before that?"
"Nada. At least nada that I've been able to come up with so far."
Myron stroked his chin. "No one flies that far below the radar screen," he said. "It has to be an alias."
"I thought the same thing," Esperanza said.
"And?"
"The answer is yes and no." Myron waited for the explanation. Esperanza tucked some loose tresses behind both ears. "It appears to be a name c
hange."
Myron frowned. "But we got his social security number, right?"
"Right."
"And most records are kept by social security number, not name, right?"
"Another right."
"So I don't get it," Myron said. "You can't change your social security number. A name change might make you harder to find, but it wouldn't wipe out your past. You'd still have tax returns and stuff like that."
Esperanza turned both palms upward. "That's what I mean by yes and no."
"There's no paperwork under the social security number either?"
"That's correct," Esperanza said.
Myron tried to digest this. "So what's Davis Taylor's real name?"
"I don't have it yet."
"I would have thought it'd be easy to locate."
"It would," she said, "if he had any records at all. But he doesn't. The social security number has no hits. It's as though this person hasn't done a thing in his whole life."
Myron thought about it. "Only one explanation," he said.
"That being?"
"A fake ID."
Esperanza shook her head. "The social security number exists."
"I don't doubt that. But I think someone pulled the classic tombstone-fake-ID trick."
"That being?"
"You go to a graveyard and find the tombstone of a dead child," Myron said. "Someone who would be about your age if he'd lived. Then you write and request his birth certificate and paperwork and voila , you've set up the perfect fake ID. Oldest trick in the book."
Esperanza gave him the look she saved for his most idiotic moments. "No," she said.
"No?"
"You think the police don't watch TV, Myron? That doesn't work anymore. Hasn't worked in years, except maybe on cop shows. But just to make sure, I double-checked."
"How?"
"Death records," she said. "There's a Web site that has the social security numbers of all the deceased."
"And the number isn't there."
"Ding, ding, ding," Esperanza said.
Myron leaned forward. "This makes absolutely no sense," he said. "Our phony Davis Taylor has gone to a great deal of trouble to create this phony ID--or at least to fly below the radar, right?"
"Right."
"He wants no records, no paperwork, nothing."
"Right again."
"Even changes his name."
"You go, boy."
Myron put his arms out. "Then why would he sign up to be a bone marrow donor?"
"Myron?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Esperanza said.
True enough. He'd called last night and asked her to check out Davis Taylor. He had not yet told her why.
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