They took the elevator to the lower level and entered a library-like space with wide desks topped with the old machines.
Jon said, “I haven’t seen these since I was a kid.”
“Know how to use them?”
“Nope.”
Luanne led Jon to a row of cabinets, took a few moments to find the dates they needed and pulled open a drawer. She found what she was looking for and brought it over to one of the machines, placing the film inside. She manipulated the dials till she arrived at the date written on the police report.
Jon said, “Take it slow here. It’s probably a small article.”
Five minutes later, Luanne pointed to the screen. “Here it is.”
Jon read aloud, “Theodore Davis, a Beverly Hills resident, faces DUI charges after he crossed a median into oncoming traffic causing a deadly pile-up. The accident occurred at eight thirty-two this morning on the Golden State Freeway. Nineteen-year-old college student, Marcus Burnett, was unable to avoid what bystanders described as a high-speed head-on collision. The Jaws of Life were needed to extract five passengers, including a minor, who were taken to local area hospitals with life-threatening injuries. At least one fatality of a child was reported at the scene.”
Luanne and Jon let that sink in. Then she said, “Awful.”
“Looks like the P.I.’s instincts to check out his client were on point.”
“Do you think—”
Jon nodded, solemnly. “Yeah, Lu. Makes sense why Davis never mentioned he had a kid. The fatality was his own child.”
Luanne put her head in her hands. When she looked up, her eyes were wet. “It’s so sad.”
“This accident has to be connected somehow.”
Luanne said, “You think this is a lead to the hacker and Ed’s attacker?”
“My gut is telling me it is. Someone’s been harboring a great deal of hate toward Davis, prepared to destroy him. I need to follow this lead.”
“How? Will you confront him?”
Jon shook his head. “The man is holding out. I need to find another angle.”
Luanne looked at the screen. “You’re going to track down the other guy mentioned in the article.” It wasn’t a question.
“Bingo. Let’s find out whatever happened to Marcus Burnett.”
Chapter 38
Barcelona, Spain
Jon walked along La Rambla, the famed boulevard in the heart of Barcelona. Colorful kiosks sold t-shirts and tchotchkes. Sweater-clad shoppers were out enjoying the mild weather typical of Barcelona’s early winter, oblivious to the colorful Joan Miró mosaic they were traipsing upon. Bernie had located Marcus Burnett’s workplace—a café on the Carrer Marlet, a narrow stone road in the city’s old Jewish quarter known as “El Call.” Jon strolled leisurely, taking in the quaint city’s vibe, following signs to the Synagoga Major de Barcelona. A plaque affixed to the synagogue’s outer wall explained it was one of the oldest in Europe. No longer in use, the women’s section was now part of the next-door restaurant. He walked a few steps further to an ancient arched doorway and stepped into the eatery. The place was tiny with ancient stone walls. A low-hanging archway led to an intimate space with five two-person tables. An elderly lady with weathered skin was feasting on what looked to Jon like a version of Italian cannelloni. Her moans suggested he may need to come back and get his own.
A young woman with thick black curly hair stood behind a small counter, sizing him up from head to toe. “American?”
Jon laughed. “Yup.”
The woman grabbed two English menus from the counter, looked over his shoulder. “Are you with someone?” Her accent was strong, but her English good.
“No, I’m alone. I’m not here to eat. I’m looking for Marcus.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Nosy, Jon thought. “He’s a friend.”
The woman furrowed her brow, gave him another once over, then shook her head. “Not possible.”
Perturbed, Jon asked, “Why not?”
“Marcus has no American friends.”
“Okaay . . . can I speak to him, anyway?”
She put down the menus. "He’s not here. It is his days off.”
“Days?”
“We work five-day shifts. He will be back in two days.”
“I won’t be here in two days. Can I have his address?”
A couple entered the café, squeezing in the tight space behind Jon. The woman greeted them in Catalan and led them to a table in the back. When she came back, she asked, “What is this about?”
“A personal matter.”
Jon’s evasiveness seemed to stoke the woman. “Hmm. He lives an hour away. You have a car?”
“I’ll get one, if necessary.”
“You must want to see him badly. Who are you really?”
“Not very trusting, are you?”
“I can smell BS a mile away.”
Jon couldn’t help but laugh. He was the same. What the hell? “I work for the American government.”
She raised a brow. “Is Marcus in trouble?”
“No, not at all. I’m hoping he can help me find someone.”
The woman stared at him, stayed quiet for a few seconds, nodding as if coming to a decision. “I believe you. I will call him.”
“Please don’t. To be honest, he won’t be happy I’m here. I don’t want to give him a reason to avoid me.”
“You swear on your mother’s life you are not here to bring him trouble?”
Jon’s mother had been gone for many years, but he still took the request to heart. “I swear.”
“All right.” She found a napkin and jotted something down. “Here’s the address. Don’t tell him I gave it to you or he’ll be angry with me.”
Jon pocketed the napkin. “Thanks.” As he left the café, Jon realized he was really liking the Spanish way of thinking.
***
Calafell, Spain
The seaside village made Jon think of his time in Israel months before. Like Tel Aviv, Calafell was on the Mediterranean, boasting mild winters, and a vibrant pedestrian promenade lined with swaying palm trees. The salty air of the sea reached him before he ever laid eyes on it.
Jon glanced at his watch. He was in no particular rush. There was time for a quick look around the picturesque village. Charming shops tucked into the cobblestone streets, several displaying colorful pottery. He purchased a hand-painted candy dish for Granny, then turned left on the Avenida Sant Joan de Déu, taking in the magnificent sea view. A couple passed by walking a small dog, their two young children skipping ahead. African street vendors peddled t-shirts, having set up shop on the promenade fronting the beach.
Ashleigh would have loved it here, Jon thought.
He felt the tug of bittersweet memories and imagined his fiancée walking with him hand-in-hand. He was in college when Ashleigh died. And yet there were days it seemed like just yesterday. He recognized the tension building in his chest, as if a hand was clutching his insides daring him to explode from the pain. Sweat sprouted on his brow, his pulse quickening. He patted his jacket pocket, feeling for his pill bottle, its presence yielding a mix of reassurance and unease. He flashed back to a time not long ago when he woke up on a Florida beach, hung over after one of his more severe anxiety attacks.
He’d been diagnosed with PTSD, but the label meant nothing to him. All he cared about was preventing the paralyzing episodes. And he was determined to do it without pills. Unless he had no choice. Leaving the bottle in his pocket, Jon took a seat on a wooden bench overlooking the water, focusing on the steadily rolling waves until they turned hypnotic. He remained there for ten minutes, willing his symptoms to subside. Only then did he rise and keep on going. It was time to meet Marcus Burnett.
***
New York City
Doug was back home, the West Side apartment quiet as a morgue. The redeye flight hadn’t really affected him. He was exhausted all the time anyway. What were another five hours of having
sleep elude him? He tossed his travel bag on the bed but had no energy to start unpacking. He left the room, went to the kitchen and grabbed a Heineken from the fridge.
Who cares if it’s eight in the morning? No one’s here to scold me.
He searched through all the drawers looking for the bottle opener. After five minutes, he let out a primal scream. He threw the bottle against the wall, knocking a framed photo to the floor, the golden liquid cascading down the floral wallpaper. He watched as shards of glass scattered, as if running away from their abuser, one sliding under the sofa. He let out a string of curses. He knew he needed to get a broom but didn’t care anymore.
Until he realized the fallen photo was the one of him and Erica on their wedding day.
He rushed to pick it up, nearly slipping on the wet floor, and using his sleeve, wiped the beer splatter from the frame. Careful not to cut himself on the broken glass, he took the photo to the sofa, staring at it. What an incredible day. They were married in Asheville, North Carolina. It was a washout. The skies had opened just as Erica began reciting her vows. Not a sprinkle, but a deluge. Everyone went running indoors. Except for Erica, Doug, and the priest. They had huddled close under the gazebo, laughing, crying—the wind-blown rain soaking them—and finished their vows. To his credit, the priest never broke stride. By the end of the ceremony, he was their only witness. Doug and Erica had laughed every time they reminisced, wholeheartedly agreeing they wouldn’t have changed a thing.
Doug took the damp picture with him to the bedroom, lay down and clutching it to his chest, finally fell into a peaceful slumber.
***
Calafell, Spain
“Qui ets?” Marcus Burnett asked, studying Jon standing in his driveway. He spoke with an American accent but was otherwise an unremarkable guy. Dark wavy hair flecked with a few white strands, jeans, Caltech sweatshirt, Adidas. A failed attempt at trendy was made with black-rimmed retro glasses. When Jon didn’t immediately reply, he translated, “Who are you?”
Jon held out his ID. “Agent Steadman from the New York FBI.”
Marcus looked at him quizzically. “Aren’t you a little far from home? I thought you guys only did domestic stuff.”
“Usually. But the case I’m working on led me to you. So here I am.”
“Did I miss a tax payment back in the nineties?” he chuckled. “Not that there was much income. I was still in college when I left the States.”
Jon smiled. “We’re not after you.” He made a show of zipping his jacket. “Can I come in?”
Marcus appeared wary but stepped aside. The hallway led to a living room with a view of a dining table. No fancy computers or science books around. A girl no more than six years old was sitting on a sofa watching what sounded like cartoons. Marcus said something to her in Catalan and she left, a pout on her face.
“Cute kid.” The little girl reminded Jon of Randy. He made a mental note to spend another afternoon with him when he was back in town.
“Thanks.” Then, “Tea?”
“Sure.”
When they were seated on the sofa, Marcus asked, “So what’s this about?”
Jon pulled out a printout of the article he and Luanne had found and passed it to Marcus.
Marcus looked dismayed. He barely glanced at it, then folded it neatly and handed it back. “How’d you find me?”
“We have good resources.”
“Why are you here after all this time?”
Jon said, “The man who caused the accident is being blackmailed by a hacker stealing personal info.”
“And you think I’m somehow involved?”
“I don’t know. He made a list of people who may have it out for him.”
Eyebrows raised, Marcus said, “Are you saying my name was on it?”
Jon shook his head.
Marcus firmly set his teacup on the coffee table, its contents nearly spilling over. “Would you stop with the bullshit? Why are you here?”
“Because your name wasn’t on it. And that’s fishy. The man who changed the course of his life? He never even mentioned you.”
Marcus’s face reddened. “If anything, he should be on my hit list! He turned to see his daughter standing in the hallway, holding back tears. “It’s okay, honey.” This time, Marcus spoke in English. “Daddy got upset. You can go back to your room. I’ll come in to read Good Night Moon in a few minutes.” When she closed her door, Marcus said, his voice calmer, “Maybe Davis accomplished what I can’t.”
“What’s that?”
“Putting the trauma behind him. That day was the worst of my life. It took years just to get past the nightmares. I dropped out of college. Finally had to move. My girlfriend was working as an exchange nanny in LA. When she left, I followed her here. Been in Calafell ever since.”
Jon understood the man’s psyche better than most. He hoped to get past his own nightmares one day, find peace. “If it’s any consolation, I know what it’s like to accidentally kill someone. It lingers.”
Marcus looked at him, his face a mask of confusion. “That must have been awful. Thank God that wasn’t me.”
Jon furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? The boy died after you broadsided his father’s car.”
Marcus shook his head. “No, he didn’t. He was severely hurt. They had to amputate both his legs. But he survived.”
The shock on Jon’s face was apparent. He unfolded the article. “But it says here . . .”
“Does it say he died in the accident?”
Jon read quickly. “Says the driver was arrested for drunk driving. A child was found dead at the scene . . .” Jon cursed under his breath. “How did I miss that?” Davis had never mentioned a son. He and Luanne had interpreted it to mean it was Theo’s child who had been killed. “It was someone else’s child.”
Marcus nodded solemnly.
Jon jumped to his feet. “I need to go. Thanks for the help.”
Marcus escorted Jon to the door. “Take it easy on the kid. He’s been through a hell of a lot. The sins of the father and all that.”
Jon thanked him again and walked out. Standing on the street, he read the article again. He needed to find the son, no longer a kid. He would be now in his late twenties, around his own age. Jon understood what Davis was not prepared to see. The number one suspect was Theodore Davis’s own son.
Franklin Oakley.
Chapter 39
Franklin Delano Oakley was a double amputee. While he had no memory of the accident, he could vividly recall the day in family court. His father’s drawn features, beseeching eyes attempting to hold his young son’s gaze. Even then, Franklin’s anger was a growing cancer inside him, having turned malignant with the man’s refusal to demand shared custody of his son. Franklin was old enough to understand the hearing was just for show, his father never intending to care for the child he’d crippled.
By the time Franklin graduated college, he was friendless, his resentment a living, breathing thing. Later, when he’d been fired by ItsRelative, they claimed it had nothing to do with his disability but with his attitude. What a crock! If they were stuck in a wheelchair their whole lives, wouldn’t they have an attitude? Who were they to judge him?
At first, he’d planned to sue the company if for no other reason than to make them sweat, but he didn’t have the money for a retainer. His mother had plowed through his earnings, said she needed it for his care, but he knew it was for her alcohol supply.
At his lowest, he’d contemplated suicide, but he couldn’t do it. He just didn’t have what it took. When Wang explained the app he’d created, Franklin finally saw a glimmer of opportunity and learned to redirect. He’d maintained access to ItsRelative’s confidential database, keeping abreast of new firewalls and breaking through them. When Wang got on board with salvaging DNA samples before they were discarded, Franklin’s access allowed him to match the samples to their hosts, learning the identity of each submitter. It was his chance to right the wrongs. Make society pay for its faili
ngs. If he had to suffer for a visible disability, why not those who had unseen genetic ones? In time, Franklin realized he could exact his revenge and build a thriving business. Off people’s tainted DNA.
He knew he’d hit the motherlode when he found two high-profile submissions—a soon-to-be royal carrying a genetic mutation and a politician highly predisposed to Alzheimer’s. They had used ItsRelative for genetic testing, unaware of his prying eyes. Yet, the lucrative part of his venture came from selling the data to benefit struggling businesses. As he’d expected, the bottom line had the power to quiet one’s conscience. Peter Cromwell of OBooks was the rare exception, defaulting on their agreement. Franklin would have found a way to quietly end their contract, but when Cromwell brought in the Feds, he was left with no other option than cutting their ties in the most permanent fashion.
***
Squaw Valley
Theodore saw Bernie’s number pop up on his cell. The PI was pissed.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had another child? For God’s sake, Davis.”
“I didn’t see how it was relevant.”
“Seriously? You make a list of people who may have it in for you and leave off the adult child you abandoned?” He had done his homework before calling.
“I didn’t abandon him! He was just seven at the time. His mother prevented me from seeing him, then moved away. He knows nothing about Abigail.”
“But now he’s what? Twenty-seven? He could be harboring a lot of animosity.”
“Listen to me Bernie, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“If you want me to do my job effectively you need to tell me everything. Leaving out a disabled adult child is not everything.”
“Mea culpa. But I don’t want my son dragged into this mess. He’s been through enough.”
Vengeance: An Action-Adventure Novel (A Jon Steadman Thriller Book 3) Page 20