Spider Bones(41)

"Beasley."
"Yes. He tried to learn what he could. But Harriet and Plato totally shut down. And almost fifty years had passed. Records showed the twins were home-birthed. A midwife assisted, but the sheriff was never able to track her down.
"Though both boys were grown, and Spider was long dead, Sheriff Beasley had to consider the possibilities. After the boys' birth, the Lowerys spent a long time on government support. Had they perpetrated some sort of welfare fraud? Had they kidnapped one son? Both? Had they been involved in some sort of illegal surrogacy or adoption scheme?
"In the end, Sheriff Beasley decided Spider and Tom had been loved and well cared for. They'd had decent childhoods. What was past was past. He let the matter drop."
Macken went silent for so long I thought maybe we'd been cut off.
"Hello?"
"I'm here. Five years later Tom was dead. Two years after that it was Harriet. Plato never recovered. I find the whole thing very, very sad, don't you, Dr. Brennan?"
I nodded, realized she couldn't see me do it.
"Yes," I said. And meant it.
While I'd been phoning and pacing and phoning, Ryan had also been busy. When I met him in the kitchen he'd already talked to Lô.
"Lô wants the text from Katy's blog posting."
"I'll get it."
I ran upstairs, slipped into Katy's room, and retrieved the printout.
"Given the hostile nature of this"-Ryan flicked the paper I'd handed him-"the guy in the yard, and your little incident down by Waimanalo Bay, Lô thinks we should keep the girls close for a while."
"He thinks Katy and Lily are in danger?"
"Probably not, but he prefers to play it safe. He'll send a patrol car past here once every hour."
"Danger from whom?"
"Obviously, he doesn't know. Calm down. It's a courtesy. I'd do the same for visiting law enforcement in Montreal. But you should have showed this to me." Again, Ryan flicked the printout.
"Agreed."
Ryan inhaled. Exhaled. Rubbed his hands up and down his face.
"I hope my lamebrain kid wasn't planning to sneak out last night."
"With the guy in the yard?"
Ryan nodded. It was clear his parental patience was stretched to the snapping point.
"Do you think Lily might be backsliding?"
"I don't know."
"Have you searched her room? Questioned her?"
"If I do that and I'm wrong, I could be destroying what little trust I've built."
"If you do that and you're right you could be saving her life."
"Yeah," he said. "I know."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
Ryan shook his head.
A beat passed.
"Heroin's a mean bastard," he said.
I reached out and stroked Ryan's cheek, saddened by his obvious distress.
Danny called at ten.
"Lapasa's plane lands at two fifteen. Nickie's driver will meet the flight and take Al from the airport to his attorney's office."
"Why not headquarters?"
"Nickie won't go for that. Lô's good with the arrangement. He thinks being dragged to a cop shop might cause Lapasa to shut down. Or bolt. Besides, Lô has insufficient grounds for arrest."
"OK."
"You're to be present to scope the guy out."
"Why me?"
"You've seen Xander Lapasa's file and photos."
"So have you."
"You're an anthropologist. And you live more than fifty miles away."
I smiled at our old definition of an expert. Someone coming from afar and carrying a briefcase.
"You'll be in the reception area so you can observe Al up close and personal when he arrives," Danny continued. "Can you look litigious?"
"I'll get coaching."
"Al will be taken to a conference room and told that Nickie wants the meeting recorded. You and Lô will actually be observing."
"Will Nickie be watching the interview?"
"No. He wants nothing to do with it. Think you can handle the part?"
"They'll give me an Emmy."
Lô called shortly thereafter, repeated the instructions, and invited Ryan to tag along.
The attorney, Simon Schoon, was a partner in a firm whose offices occupied the third floor of a modern brick building on Bishop Street, halfway between the Aloha Tower and Hawaii Pacific University.
Ryan and I got there at two. A receptionist greeted us in a marble-floored foyer, indicated chairs, nodded conspiratorially. She had gray eyes, overplucked brows, and the tightest French twist I've ever seen. A nameplate on her desk said Tina Frieboldt.
I picked up and pretended to read a copy of National Geographic. Ryan chose Sports Illustrated.
Lô arrived twenty minutes after we did. He waited on the far side of the room, fingers laced, staring at nothing.
At five past three, the elevator dinged. Seconds later, the door opened. A man entered and walked straight to Tina. He was short and stocky with thinning red hair. I guessed from the black jacket and tie that this was the driver.
"Mr. Lapasa is here."
"Please show him in."
I flipped a page in my magazine, totally disinterested.
"The gentleman prefers to remain in the hall. It's a flu thing. He doesn't want to be around people."
Damn!
Feigning impatience, I checked my watch. Flipped another page. Shifted in my seat.
Through the open door I could see a man in the corridor.
My heart dropped.
The man had thick black hair and stood at least six feet tall.
     
 

      THE MAN'S BACK WAS TO ME. HE WORE A NAVY SUIT. THE EDGE of a frayed white collar circled his neck.
Very tall. Dark hair.
Like Xander Lapasa.
Nickie's driver recrossed the marble, exited to the corridor, and spoke to his passenger.
"I'll take you straight to the conference room, Mr. Lapasa."
Navy Suit turned and stepped sideways. Another man came into view.
The second man was of average height, with wispy gray hair and pasty skin. Covering his nose and mouth was a surgical mask, the kind sold in drugstores to ward off germs.
Navy Suit gripped his companion's arm, then the trio turned left down the hall.
"What the hell?" Lô was on his feet. "Which one's Lapasa?"
Tina remained serene, her updo flawless.
"I wouldn't know, sir. Shall I take you to your observation post?"
"Yeah," Lô growled. "Do that." Then, to me, "You know which one of these turds is Lapasa?"
I shook my head.
"Let's go," Lô said.
We left the reception area and turned right.
"Observation post?" Ryan whispered from one side of his mouth.
"Sshh," I warned.
"The chick thinks she's Moneypenny."
Tina led us to a glass-sided room with a long, gleaming table and twelve swivel chairs. As we settled in she picked up a remote and hit several buttons.
An image sparked on a large flat-screen monitor wall-mounted at one end of the room. Voices piped from its speakers, clear and static free.
Handing Lô the remote, Tina withdrew.
"This puppy definitely beats your setup," Ryan said.
"We don't get to charge three fifty an hour," Lô replied.
"Good point."
Ignoring the banter, I watched Navy Suit ease Face Mask into a chair. The man moved gingerly, as though ill or fearful of injury. Once seated he kept his eyes on his hands.
The table on the screen was round and smaller than ours. Seated at it was a man with a bow tie and tortoiseshell glasses. In front of him lay a yellow legal pad and a silver Cross pen.
I assumed this was Nickie's attorney, Simon Schoon. Behind the lenses Schoon's eyes looked dark and sharp.
Navy Suit took the chair beside his companion.
I studied the two men from California. Which was Al Lapasa?
Schoon spoke first.
"My client appreciates your willingness to appear in person."
"My client has his reasons for agreeing to do so." Navy Suit.
Yes! The tall guy was a lawyer.
I focused on Lapasa, the man in the mask.
"And you would be?" Schoon asked.
"Jordan Epstein." Epstein slid a card across the table. "I represent Mr. Lapasa."
Schoon glanced at but did not touch Epstein's card.
"Before proceeding, we'd like the courtesy of knowing who you represent," Epstein said.
"My client prefers to remain anonymous," Schoon said.
"I'm afraid we must insist."
"I'm afraid I must decline."
Epstein pushed back his chair. "Then this interview is over."
Throughout the exchange, Lapasa had not raised his head. He did so now.
"It's Nickie Lapasa, isn't it?" Muffled by the pharmacy mask.
Schoon's face betrayed nothing.
Lapasa raised his voice and spoke to the room. "You out there, Nickie? You getting this?"
Epstein laid a hand on his client's arm. Lapasa shook it off.
"I got people know the Internet as well as yours do, Nickie. You find me, I find you." The words were overly precise and paced, like those of a drunk trying hard to sound sober.
"Mr. Lapasa, I advise you to remain silent."
Lapasa ignored his lawyer.
"You looking for your brother, Nickie? Might be I could help you out with that. First you tell this douche bag to quit dicking us around."
"Very well." Schoon licked his lips. "Let's work with the assumption Nickie Lapasa is seeking information on the death of his brother."
"What makes you think he's dead?"
"Let me rephrase. Do you know anything about the whereabouts of Xander Lapasa?"
Epstein swiveled to face his client. "Don't answer that."
"Why not?"
"Remember our discussion."