by Jance, J. A.
“Unpublished? Why?”
“On the advice of counsel, it’s stowed away in a file drawer, because if I put all that stuff out in print, Gilchrist is likely to sue my socks off.”
“He’s still around?”
“Not only is he still alive, he’s still in business.”
“You’re kidding. I thought he’d be done for by now,” Ali said.
“So did we,” Alex replied. “The problem is, by the time all this came to light, it was too late to file malpractice suits. We tried reporting him to the medical board but didn’t get to first base there either. One of the Gilchrist donor siblings, Crystal Lucas Manning, is a detective with LAPD. She’s hooked us up with a trial lawyer who’s hoping to file a class-action suit against him. We have thirteen separate families who’ve given depositions on what they were told about their respective sperm donors, all of which turned out to be lies.”
“Thirteen?” Ali echoed. “You’ve found eleven more people who are half siblings with Rory, Evan, and Cindy?”
“We’ve found more than that,” Alex replied. “Eighteen in all. Thirteen of those have given depositions.”
“I can’t believe Gilchrist is still in business,” Ali added.
“I can’t either,” Alex agreed. “Believe me, it’s not for lack of trying. So far we’ve been unable to obtain a sample of Gilchrist’s DNA, but Crystal Manning, the detective I mentioned earlier, might have found a way around that.”
“How so?”
“It’s called discarded DNA. Last week, during her off hours, Crystal staked out Gilchrist’s house and came away with a whole box of tossed-out tissues, paper cups, and beer bottles. There’s a young woman living with him these days, but any male DNA found in trash at his address will most likely be from him. We’re in the process of having those items analyzed now. If the resulting profile comes up as a match to the people in Progeny’s database, then our lawyer says the gloves come off and we take the bastard to court.”
“Be sure to let me know how it turns out.”
“I will,” Alex replied.
“And when you finally get around to publishing that book, will you send me a signed copy?”
“Absolutely,” Alex answered with a grin, “but that’s enough about me. What’s been going on with you?”
Ali gave her a general overview in all its boring detail—a grown son and a relatively new daughter-in-law, housing, dealing with aging parents—in other words, the usual. “If you had come along a couple of months ago, I would have added that I had a totally nonexistent love life,” Ali told her. “All that seems to have changed.”
“You’ve got a boyfriend now?”
“I’m not sure I’d go so far as to call him a boyfriend,” Ali allowed. “His name is B. Simpson—as in initial B. only. His given name was Bartholomew, but once The Simpsons came on the air, he endured a world of teasing on that score. As a result he ditched his first name altogether and kept the initial.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s into computers. He made a fortune in the computer gaming world, but now he’s in the process of starting a cybersecurity company.”
“So an entrepreneur, then?” Alex asked.
Ali nodded.
“Are you serious about him?”
“I’m not serious,” Ali replied. “Turns out he’s just a kid—fifteen years younger than I am. I believe that makes me what’s commonly referred to as ‘a cougar.’ ”
“Fifteen years is nothing,” Alex told her. “As far as I’m concerned, you should grab on to happiness wherever you find it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
When their luncheon ended and they were on their way out the door, they hugged and promised to stay in touch. Two weeks after their get-together, Alex sent an e-mail update saying that Kenneth Brennan’s DNA was indeed a match to the people in the Phoenix cluster.
The next time Ali heard from Alex Munsey was again via e-mail:
OMG! Our attorney had been trying to reach out to Gilchrist’s former wife, Dawn, asking her to come testify against him at our trial. Last night someone attacked the poor woman in her garage and stabbed her to death. Edward Gilchrist killed her, I’m sure of it. He claims he was in Las Vegas at the time she died and that he had nothing to do with it, but he’s a liar, and liars lie. I hope the cops can nail the bastard in a hell of a hurry. He deserves to rot in jail.
A month or so later, Ali received another e-mail from Alex:
Yesterday was supposed to be our big day in court. Gilchrist showed up with a hotshot attorney in tow who managed to have our case thrown out. Completely. Even if we’d lost in court eventually, at least we would have been able to say out loud and in public exactly the kind of lowlife the man is, but now it’s over. He’ll never be held accountable for his actions, and he’ll probably end up getting away with murder, too.
Ali wrote back, sympathizing with the disappointing outcome, but Alex did not respond. For the next three years, Ali went on with her life while Alex Munsey maintained radio silence. Ali tried sending e-mails from time to time, but when there was no reply to those either, she finally gave up. Evidently Alex had retreated to being a full-time hermit and was determined to stay that way.
Besides, Ali had other interests to occupy her time and attention. For one thing, she had grandkids now—the twins, Colin and Colleen. She had finally overcome the age-difference issue, and she and B. got married. She went to work with him on his cybersecurity business, High Noon Enterprises, which had suddenly morphed from a humble start-up into a booming international entity. In her spare time, Ali volunteered at a homeless shelter in Flagstaff, where she was helping shepherd a group of traumatized girls rescued from a polygamous cult called the Encampment. The young women had been brought up in what was essentially a nineteenth-century existence, and the challenge now was to help guide them into the twenty-first.
From time to time, Ali searched the Internet and L.A.-area news sites to see if the cops were making any progress on the Dawn Gilchrist homicide investigation, but couldn’t find any updates. The investigation had gone cold, and it seemed likely the case would never be solved. Yet then one day it happened. Early in 2011 there was an arrest in the case, followed shortly thereafter by a second one.
First a gangbanger named Leo Manuel Aurelio was taken into custody and charged with first-degree murder in the Dawn Gilchrist homicide. Three weeks later Edward Anthony Gilchrist, Dawn’s former husband, was arrested as well. He was charged with first-degree murder and conspiracy to commit. At his preliminary hearing and despite his lawyer’s pleas to the contrary, the judge looked at the seriousness of the crimes and refused to grant bail.
Ali read about it online and was surprised that she hadn’t heard about it from Alex Munsey herself, but it was still very welcome news.
Amen, Ali thought. It’s about damned time.
14
Santa Clarita, California, January 2011
On the day Edward Gilchrist was arrested, he was allowed a single phone call. Despite the fact that he hadn’t spoken to his mother in months, Hannah was the person he called.
“Mummy,” he said when she answered. “I’m under arrest. I need an attorney.”
“All right, son,” she said at once. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this covered. And remember, don’t say a word until your attorney, whoever he happens to be, is right there with you.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Eddie demanded.
Hannah chose not to answer that question at the moment, because she suspected Eddie wouldn’t be at all pleased with what she had to say. Not only did she think him stupid, she also regarded him as arrogant, self-centered, and any number of other things that were best left unsaid. Besides, she was far too busy circling the wagons to stand around making idle conversation.
It was three years now since Hannah’s wretched former daughter-in-law, Dawn, had turned up stabbed to death on the floor of her two-car garage in Santa Clarita. Soon after the murd
er, the town’s then police chief had announced at a press conference that they had a “person of interest” in the case. He didn’t say it was Eddie, but he didn’t have to. Everyone assumed that the culprit had to be Dawn’s husband, because it’s always the husband, right? From that moment on, Hannah had expected that sooner or later this day would come, and her son would be placed under arrest. Between then and now, she’d done her best to prepare for that ugly eventuality.
Hannah had spent weeks researching the best criminal defense attorneys available in the Greater Los Angeles Area and had kept a notebook listing the ones she considered to be the top five contenders. Now that push had come to shove, she wasted no time. She consulted the results in her notebook and picked up her phone. Money had never been a problem for Hannah Anderson Gilchrist, and it still wasn’t, so she went all in and started with her number one choice.
The firm of Wilkins, Wilkins and Clancy had its offices in a high-rise on Wilshire Boulevard. As part of her due diligence, she’d had her longtime chauffeur, Marco Gregory, drive her into the city for a little recon trip. After lunch at the Brentwood Country Club, she had Marco drive her past the high-rise building, dropping her off long enough for her to step inside to check things out. The offices of Wilkins, Wilkins and Clancy occupied the top two floors of the building. She had ridden up to the penthouse and stepped inside long enough to be greeted by a receptionist.
“May I help you?”
“Oh, no,” Hannah said quickly. “I believe I’m on the wrong floor.”
She wasn’t, of course. Everything about the snazzy office space and its interior décor told her that this was a high-powered outfit, one that would deliver plenty of bang for the buck. As far as she could tell from the swanky address and the building, things had appeared to be up to snuff. It would no doubt be expensive, but money wasn’t the issue here. What Hannah was looking for was someone who would be effective.
To that end, after Eddie’s pleading phone call, when it was time to feed a number into her landline phone, that was the one she dialed.
“Wilkins, Wilkins and Clancy,” a voice answered. “How may I help you?”
It sounded like the same receptionist who’d greeted Hannah before. “I’d like to speak to Calvin Wilkins,” she announced. “By that I mean Calvin Wilkins Sr. as opposed to Calvin Wilkins Jr.”
“I’m not sure Mr. Wilkins is available. If I could have your name, I’ll be glad to put you through to his secretary.”
“My name is Hannah Anderson Gilchrist,” she said. “I have absolutely no interest in speaking to a secretary or an underling. My son has been arrested on capital murder charges, and I’m in need of a top-notch criminal defense attorney. Edward’s bail hearing is the day after tomorrow at the courthouse in Santa Clarita. Before that happens, I’d like to have Wilkins, Wilkins and Clancy on retainer.”
That was evidently enough to get Hannah past the gatekeeper. “One moment, please,” she was told before being put on hold.
It was several minutes rather than a single moment before a male voice finally came on the line. “Calvin Wilkins here,” a man said cheerfully. “How may I be of service?”
“My son, Edward, has been arrested on homicide charges in the death of his former wife three years ago,” Hannah told him. “I would like your firm in general and you personally to undertake his defense.”
“I trust you’re aware that this might turn out to be a very expensive endeavor,” Wilkins cautioned.
“That’s readily apparent,” Hannah snapped back at him. “Penthouse office suites on Wilshire Boulevard don’t come cheap. What I need to know at the moment is the amount you would require up front and whether you prefer payment to be made by way of a personal check, a cashier’s check, or an electronic transfer.”
“Twenty-five should cover the initial bail hearing,” Wilkins replied. “And a personal check would be fine, but are you sure your son will consent to having you obtain counsel for him? You do realize that he’d need to sign off on that.”
“Mr. Wilkins, Edward has very little leeway in this regard. Either he accepts the representation I obtain for him or he asks for a public defender. Which of those options do you think he’ll choose? So when you say ‘twenty-five,’ I assume you’re really saying twenty-five thousand, correct?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then. I’ll make arrangements to transfer that amount into my checking account. I want you on board as soon as possible, so I’d like to deliver the check today, if you don’t mind. It’s eleven right now. Traffic between Santa Clarita and L.A. probably isn’t too bad at the moment. What about if we meet for a late lunch at Brentwood Country Club? I’m assuming you know where that’s located.”
“Of course, but wouldn’t you rather come by the office?”
“No, thank you,” Hannah sniffed. “I’m one of those old-fashioned, three-meals-a-day kind of girls, and by meal I don’t mean one of those ungodly boxed lunches delivered from some nearby deli to a corporate conference room. Let’s say one thirty. I’ll call ahead. The reservation will be in my name. My grandfather, Augustus Anderson, was one of the club’s founding members, you see. The waitstaff always makes sure I have a good table.”
“I have no doubt they do,” Calvin Wilkins said. “One thirty it is.”
It was no accident that Hannah had dropped Augustus’s name into the mix. Almost a century after his death, her pioneering grandfather’s name still resonated in the city. Wilkins might have started to say something more, but Hannah hung up before he could do so. She had called him on her landline, the number of which was listed as private and would not have shown up on his caller ID. She hadn’t given a phone number to the receptionist, so there was no way for him to call her back. Calvin Wilkins might be a big shot, but a check for twenty-five thousand dollars along with the expectation of a lot more where that came from would be too much of a temptation to resist. He would be there, with bells on.
As for Hannah? This was exactly how she liked to initiate business relationships—with herself firmly in charge.
As a young woman, Hannah had been considered “handsome” rather than “pretty” or “beautiful,” and as a child she’d never been regarded as cute either. To overcome her shortcomings in the looks department, Hannah made certain that whenever she went out in public, she was carefully put together. Painfully thin for most of her life, she favored trim but stylish pantsuits and sensible heels, always with her grandmother’s antique cameo pinned firmly to the throat of a spotless white blouse.
Growing up, Hannah had often wondered if she and another baby had somehow been switched at birth. She and her mother, Isobel, had nothing in common. Her mother, a gorgeous creature and former debutante, was a socialite from beginning to end. Isobel had expected to give her daughter the benefit of the same kind of upbringing Isobel herself had enjoyed—an education provided first by at-home tutors and later tony private schools, topped off with a stint at finishing school and finally by a lavish coming-out party. All that activity was designed to achieve but a single end—to reel in a suitable husband for Hannah, who was in turn expected to give birth to a pair of children—preferably a boy and a girl. That was Isobel’s game plan, and since going to college hadn’t been part of her own life, she saw no need for a college degree in Hannah’s future either.
Isobel was a natural beauty with a figure that could still turn heads when she was well into her fifties. Unfortunately, in the looks department her somewhat horse-faced daughter took after her father’s side of the family rather than her mother’s. To Isobel’s immense disappointment, Hannah grew from being a clumsy, awkward child into a gawky plain-Jane adolescent, and finally into an even plainer adult. Hannah’s enforced stay at that incredibly expensive Swiss-based finishing school ended up being a complete flop. Too homesick to finish out the course, she had returned to California much the same as when she left. When Hannah adamantly refused to have anything to do with a coming-out party, Isobel had despaired of ever findin
g her daughter a suitable match. Hannah was barely twenty at the time, but as far as Isobel was concerned, she was most likely headed for a life of spinsterhood.
Isobel made it her whole purpose in life to guarantee that that didn’t happen. During the forties, fifties, and sixties, Isobel Anderson had been a mover and shaker and a high-end fund-raiser in local and statewide Republican politics. One of her most treasured mementos was a color photograph featuring a smiling Isobel seated next to future first lady Mamie Eisenhower, both of them sipping tea. The photo was the first weapon Isobel had deployed in her newly launched effort to marry off her difficult daughter.
“See there,” Isobel said, holding up the photo for Hannah’s benefit. “Mamie was a lot like you. She was never a great beauty, and you won’t be either. Obviously Mamie did the best she could with what she had, and I advise you to do the same.”
Much to Isobel’s surprise, Hannah had taken both her mother’s words and her interest in politics to heart. Decades later on that drive into L.A., Hannah Gilchrist was still a card-carrying Republican, and to this day her hairdo of choice remained a carefully trimmed, gunmetal gray bob with a fringe of very short bangs. Hannah sometimes felt sorry for all the beautiful women out there, and L.A. was full of them. If the poor dears hadn’t yet lost their looks, inevitably they would soon enough, and when that happened, they’d be screwed. If you’d never been beautiful to begin with, you had the distinct advantage of having nothing to lose. Yes, good looks counted for a time, but they definitely came in a distant second if you just happened to have a seemingly bottomless checkbook, because it was clearly money rather than looks that landed Gordon Gilchrist.
From day one, Hannah’s marriage to Gordon was never a love match so much as it was an “arrangement,” a marriage of convenience. For Gordon, marrying an heiress gave him standing in the community, a solid financial basis, and the necessary connections to advance what he hoped would be a long and successful political career. Marrying Hannah to Gordon checked off one of the mandatory boxes on Isobel’s list of what her daughter needed to do with her life. For Hannah, marriage got her away from home and gave her an escape from being trapped under her mother’s thumb.