So what to do?
Ken used obfuscation. He kept random people’s DNA samples—hair, spare tissue, saliva, whatever—in Tupperware containers. Sometimes he found the samples in public restrooms, disgusting at that might sound. One very good spot was at summer camp. Many of the counselors used the disposable razors, which he could easily swipe. Urinals provided pubic hair. Showers gave you more.
With his gloves still on, Ken opened a container and, using tweezers, plucked out some hair and tissue and placed the sample near—and even on—Harry Sutton. It would be enough. He closed the Tupperware and put it back into his bag. He was doing the same with his scrubs when Harry Sutton’s cell phone rang.
Barbie looked at the caller ID. “It’s Cassie.”
Cassie. Harry Sutton had proved to be much stronger than one could imagine or endure—or maybe he didn’t know the truth about her. After much persuasion involving the soldering iron and his urethra, he had told them that the witness Deputy Chief Goldberg had told Ken about was an ex–exotic dancer named Cassie. Harry Sutton gave up nothing else on her, but they found her phone number on his cell phone.
Barbie answered the call and put on her sweetest voice. “Harry Sutton’s office.”
“Hi, is Harry there?”
“May I say who’s calling?”
“Cassie.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Mr. Sutton is not available right now.” Barbie looked at Ken. He gave her a thumbs-up. “May I have your full name and address so I can give him a thorough message?”
“Wait, isn’t this Harry’s cell?”
“Mr. Sutton’s phone automatically rings to me when he’s indisposed. I’m sorry, Cassie. I didn’t catch your last name.”
The phone call disconnected.
“She hung up,” Barbie said with a pout.
Ken walked over and put his arm around her. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I really thought I sounded like a secretary.”
“You did.”
“But she didn’t open up to me.”
“Which tells us something,” Ken said.
“What?”
“She is being very careful.”
Barbie, feeling better, started nodding. “Which means she’s very important to our assignment.”
“Most definitely.”
“So what next?”
“We have her cell phone number,” Ken said. “It will be no trouble finding out where she lives.”
16
UNDER THE STROBE OF RAY’S FLASH, the woman looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights.
“Who’s the lucky girl, George?” Ray called out.
George Queller, perhaps Fester’s most frequent client, put a protective arm around his date. “This is Alexandra Saperstein.”
Flash, snap, flash, snap. “How did you two meet?”
“On JDate.com. It’s a Web site for Jewish singles.”
“Sounds like destiny.”
Ray didn’t point out the obvious—George was not Jewish. This was a job. His mind couldn’t be further away, but really who wanted to be present when you did work like this?
Alexandra Saperstein seemed to shrink under the attention. She was pretty enough in a mousy sort of way, but she had that cower ’n’ blink that Ray often associated with past abuse. The flashbulbs weren’t helping. Ray turned it off, kept snapping, took a step back to give the terrified young lady space. George noticed and gave him a funny look.
As they neared the restaurant, Maurice, the maître d’ with the heavy French accent—real name: Manny Schwartz, who probably should be on JDate—came to the bistro door, opened his arms wide, and cried, “Monsieur George, welcome. I have your favorite table all ready for you!”
George glanced over at Ray, waiting for Ray to deliver the line. Keeping his face behind the camera worked here because Ray could hide his shame as he shouted it, “Will you two be releasing what you ate to the press?”
A little piece of Ray died.
“We’ll see,” George said in a haughty tone.
The new couple entered. Ray pretended to want to follow them, and Maurice pretended to push him out. A waiter came up to Alexandra and handed her red roses. Ray snapped pictures through the window. George pulled out the chair for Alexandra. She sat, settled in, finally looking comfortable for the first time.
It wouldn’t last.
Ray had the camera on her face. He couldn’t help it. Part of him knew that he should look away—like slowing down to view a car accident—but the artist part of him wanted to record the moment of dawning horror. As Alexandra looked down at the menu, Ray felt his cell phone buzz. He ignored it, adjusting the focus. He waited. First, a look of confusion crossed Alexandra Saperstein’s face. She squinted to make sure she read it right. Ray knew that George had upped his crazy ante—that the headline on top of the menu now read:
George and Alexandra’s First Date
Tasting Menu
Let’s Save This to Show Our Grandkids!
The realization dawned on Alexandra now. Her eyes opened wider, but the rest of her face fell. She put her hands to her cheeks. Ray snapped away. This could very well be his own version of Munch’s The Scream.
Champagne was poured. The new script called for Ray to barge in and take a table photograph of the toast. He started toward the door. The phone buzzed again. Ray took a quick glance and saw it was a photograph from Fester. Bizarre. Why the hell would Fester be sending him a photograph?
Still moving inside the bistro, Ray scrolled down and hit the open attachment feature. He lifted his camera as George lifted his glass. Alexandra looked to Ray for rescue. Ray took a quick peek at the incoming photograph and felt his heart stop.
The camera dropped to his side.
George said, “Ray?”
Ray stared down at his cell phone. Tears started brimming in his eyes. He started shaking his head. It couldn’t be. So many emotions ricocheted through him, threatened to overwhelm him.
Cassie.
It was a mind game, someone who looked like her, but, no, there was no doubt in his mind. She had changed in seventeen years, but there was no way he’d forget anything about that face.
Why? How? After all the years, how…
He reached out and tentatively caressed the image with his finger.
“Ray?”
Ray kept his eyes on the photograph. “Alexandra?”
He heard her shift in her chair.
“It’s okay. You can go.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice. She was up and out the door. George stood and followed her. Ray got in his way. “Don’t.”