“His name is Marc Videon. But you’ll need a subpoena.”
“I’ll have it sent right over.”
“We’ll need it before you speak with him.”
“Consider it done.” Davis felt urgent. Where was this leading? “Who’s Videon?”
“He’s one of our more specialized lawyers at Tribe. Sui generis. A department unto himself.”
“What’s this Videon do?”
“Divorce,” Whittier answered, and for a minute, Davis couldn’t reply.
26
“Follow that cab!” Mary told the cabbie and couldn’t help but feel a little thrill.
The driver, a diminutive, dark-haired man with a curly mustache, turned around in the front seat. “No Eeenglish,” he said, and Mary pointed at Trevor’s cab, a trifle disappointed.
“Go! There!” she commanded. She kept her eyes on the cab ahead as it idled in the congested traffic on Market Street. The outline of Trevor’s head was visible and he moved as if he were talking to the driver. In the next minute his hand emerged from the back window, halting a car that was trying to cut in front of them. He must have been in a hurry. Trevor’s cab burst forward, going west, away from the city.
“Hurry, please!” Mary said. Trevor’s school was behind them, so he wasn’t going back to class. What was he up to? Something was going on; her lead hadn’t been so dumb after all. Trevor’s cab reached Seventeenth Street and took a left, a familiar jog that Mary took all the time, negotiating the one-way streets of her hometown. William Penn had laid out the grid two hundred years ago, and he hadn’t taken cabbies and lawyers into account. She took a guess where Trevor was headed, and ten minutes later found out she was right.
Both cabs pulled up in the drop-off island at the Thirtieth Street train station, one after the other, as if unrelated. Both cab doors opened at the same time, and Mary left her cab only a split second after Trevor left his, and followed him into the station, keeping her excitement in check. Trevor hurried into the tan marble concourse past the left wing of the station, bypassing the suburban trains. Mary tracked him as he threaded his way through the crowd of travelers getting off the train from Washington. Trevor made a beeline for the ticket counter, and she picked up her pace.
The lines were long at the ticket windows, and Mary got behind Trevor in line, a zigzaggy affair cordoned with black tape. She looked at him up close, to see what she could see. Was he the kid who had bumped into her in the hall at Paige’s condo? She couldn’t tell. His hair was a light brown color, expensively feathered around the ears, and he wore a thin gold hoop in his ear. His eyes were large and clear blue, and in profile, he had a straight nose with a suspiciously perky tip. His shoulders were broad in a brown bomber jacket with a white T-shirt underneath, and he was easily six feet tall. Trevor struck her as a young prince, a type Mary disliked. Maybe because she couldn’t pass for a princess. If Paige was the delicate cycle, Mary was distinctly regular.
NEXT AGENT AVAILABLE read the white blinking letters, and the line advanced. It moved unusually swiftly, with four agents working away and nobody asking for a complete oral timetable for a change. Trevor seemed impatient, even jumpy. His hand wiggled at his side and he kept shifting his feet from one brown suede Doc Martens to the other. What was his problem? Why was he in a hurry?
The line moved forward again, and though Trevor was three travelers from the front, he pulled a wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open as Mary peeked. It was a thin calfskin billfold and on the left were four credit cards, including a gold American Express card, VISA, and MasterCard. Mary didn’t get it. Even she couldn’t qualify for a gold Amex. Did this kid pay these bills himself? Where would a student get bucks like that?
Mary made a mental note, and the line shifted forward. She thought it was Trevor whom she’d passed in the hall but wanted to make sure. She cleared her throat and decided to shake his tree. “Excuse me, I hate to be rude, but do you live at Colonial Hill Towers? I have a friend who lives there and I think I’ve seen you there.”
“No.” Trevor shook his head, jittery. “I live in the subs. Paoli.”
“But have you been there? At Colonial Hill?”
The line shifted forward, putting Trevor at the front. NEXT AGENT AVAILABLE, blinked the sign. He turned to the ticket counter, and one of the agents waved him forward. “No,” he answered, over his shoulder. “Never.”
“Oh, sorry.” Mary watched Trevor hustle to the agent. So he had lied; he had obviously been at Colonial Hill. Why would he lie about it? Or did people who lied lie all the time? And where was he going? She tried to overhear him at the ticket counter but it was too far away. Then the lighted sign started blinking again and an agent at the other end was waving her forward. Damn. She wanted to know where Trevor was headed. She stalled, trying to hear what he said to the agent.
“Lady, you goin’ today?” a man behind her asked irritably, and Mary walked to the ticket counter.
“I don’t really need a ticket, I have a problem,” she said, when she reached the window. The Amtrak agent was an older woman in a red-and-blue uniform. Her eyes were overly made-up behind glasses with swirly gold-metal frames, and her smile was lipsticked a rosy red.
“Problem?” The ticket agent cocked an eyebrow penciled like a half-moon, and Mary inched closer to the glass.
“I’m in love.”
“That’s a problem.”
“That guy over there. I just got in the ticket line because I thought he was so cute. Do you think he’s cute?”
The agent’s gaze slid sideways to Trevor and back again. “For a guy with a nose job.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
“I hate that. Why is it okay when women are vain but not men?”
The agent smiled, her lipstick glossy. “They don’t teach us that at Amtrak.”
Mary laughed. She kept an eye on Trevor, who was leaving the ticket window with two blue tickets in his hand. “Can you tell me where he’s going? Look him up in the computer?”
“No. Forget about him anyway. It ain’t happening.” The agent pointed, and Mary turned around.
Trevor was rushing into the outstretched arms of a pretty blond girl with long, straight hair. She looked slightly older than he, but had a matching nose job, and Trevor embraced her, giving her a long, wet kiss. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Mary said, under her breath.
“Looks like he’s taken.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Mary shook her head and watched Trevor go down for another deep, lingering kiss.
“You gotta go,” the agent said. “Remember, there’s a lotta fish in the sea.”
“Sure.” She nodded and moved from the window as Trevor hugged the girl close. Then he checked his watch, put his arm around her, and they hurried laughing into the concourse.
Mary followed him to find out which train they took. She couldn’t believe this guy. Scum, total scum. She lurked under the black information board in the middle of the busy concourse. “Metroliner to New York, all aboard Track Six,” boomed a voice over the loudspeaker. The information board changed, its numbers flipping noisily around, and she watched Trevor and the blonde sprint into the line at Track Six, where the passengers were already showing their tickets to a blue-jacketed conductor.
So that was it. Trevor had another girlfriend and they were going to New York. Mary saw him and the blonde show their tickets to the conductor, then waited until they disappeared down the stairs to the train.
27
Lou, in an old black gypsy cab, trailed Paige’s Yellow cab down Race Street. Behind them was the Parkway, ahead lay the red-lettered signs of China-town’s restaurants. Paige’s cab was heading east, away from downtown. Lou slid forward on his seat, his eyes on the Yellow. What kind of girl was this Paige? Eating at the Four Seasons? Takin’ cabs everywhere?
Lou shook his head. When he was a kid on Leidy Street, he walked. Rode his bike. Took the trolley, with sparks flying from the wires that h
ung over the city like black lace. Or the subway-surface cars, with that burnt rubber smell. Forget cabs. He wasn’t in a cab until he was twenty-five. It was a very special thing to take a cab. Lou still couldn’t hail one without feeling rich.
“She’s turnin’ onto Race,” the driver said. A young black kid, excited to be following someone. Lou didn’t mind it. He liked enthusiasm in people.
“Stay with her,” Lou said, his thoughts on this Paige. What kind of a name was Paige anyway? When did girls start getting named Paige? He understood names like Sally, Mary, Selma. But Paige? Lou’s mouth set grimly. How you expect a girl to turn out when you name her Paige?
“She turned right on Twelfth, goin’ up,” the cabbie said, gesturing with his hand. A colorful braided string was tied to his wrist. “You want me to step on it?”
“Nah. Just don’t lose ’em.” The cabbie’s shoulders drooped, and Lou felt bad raining on his parade. “You like music?” he asked, just to make conversation as they sat stalled. Construction around the Convention Center clogged the street, the jackhammers like machine-gun fire.
“I love music,” the cabbie answered.
“What do you like?”
“Rap.”
“Everybody likes rap, nowadays.”
“It’s good.”
“It is? Who’s a good rapper?”
“DMX. Dr. Dre. You know them?”
“I know Dr. Dre. Takes care of my prostate,” Lou said, and the cabbie laughed.
Paige’s Yellow cab took a right toward The Gallery, and Lou was surprised. She was going shopping? He had her figured more for Neiman Marcus than JCPenney, but the cab stopped on the right, short of The Gallery. He looked around. What else was there? The bus station. What, was she leaving town?
“She’s gettin’ out,” said the cabbie, edging up in his seat, and Lou’s cab slowed to a stop a half a block behind the girl’s. The back door of the Yellow cab opened, and Lou quickly fished out a twenty and handed it to the cabbie, who looked at the money in astonishment. “But the fare’s only three bucks.”
“I know that. You gotta buy a record with the difference.”
“A record? You mean a CD?”
“A CD, yes. Buy yourself Stan Getz At the Shrine.” Lou could see Paige moving in the backseat of her cab. She must be paying, too. “Getz. You got that name?”
“Never heard of him. He new?”
“No, he’s old. Very old. Old as me. Promise you’ll get that CD.”
“I promise,” the cabbie said, and Lou climbed out of the cab after the girl.
But when Paige got out of the cab she didn’t look the same as when she went in. She was wearing a black baseball cap that she must have put on in the cab and her red ponytail swung from an opening in the back of the cap. She slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses as she walked. It was a disguise, strictly amateur, but why would she do it? To go shopping? To take a bus? What gives? True, the Newlin murder was all over the Daily News and the Inquirer, but nobody had published the girl’s photo yet. The father was the story.
The girl kept walking down the cross street and even in the glasses and baseball cap caught plenty of stares from passersby and construction workers. Lou could see why. She wore a black miniskirt and legs. It was cold out, but you’d never know it from how she was dressed, in a navy pea coat that almost covered the skirt. She took strides so long he had to huff and puff to keep up with her, and the motion of her walk was something else. Even in clunky black shoes, she moved like the sidewalk was a catwalk. Lou didn’t mind watching her, then felt guilty about it. She was way too young, and he liked young girls to be ladies, not to do the stuff this kid was doing. At the Four Seasons yet.
She crossed Market Street past The Gallery, and Lou followed her at a safe distance. Where was she going? Nowhere close. And why have the cab drop you so far from where you’re going? Lou thought about it. Because you don’t want anybody to know where you’re going. And considering her disguise, he figured the girl was either paranoid or had something to hide.
They entered the old business district, abandoned now that most of the large companies had fled uptown to the new, glistening skyscrapers. Lou remembered when this part of town hopped, because of the Ben Franklin Hotel, the Old Federal Courthouse, and the busiest, the Post Office. Nowadays everything was e-mail and Chestnut Street was lined with car stereo outlets, credit unions, and Dollar stores. But Lou didn’t have time to reminisce. He followed Paige to a sooty sliver of a low-rise and watched her disappear through its stainless steel door. Lou didn’t know the building. Its sign was small and he squinted to read it.
PLANNED PARENTHOOD.
Lou halted in his tracks. He felt suddenly like he wasn’t allowed to enter, like it was a ladies’ bathroom or a bra store. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his corduroys. Wind ruffled his hair as he stood in the cold sun. People hurried past, looking back curiously. Even if he was a man, he could still go inside, couldn’t he? It was a free country. He smoothed his hair in place, straightened his tie, and went in.
Paige took an elevator to the fourth floor; Lou knew because he watched the old-fashioned numbers light up to track the single car, and he went up after her. Planned Parenthood’s offices turned out to be brightly lit and painted a watercolor lavender, with matching cushioned chairs arranged in two rows in front of a TV mounted in the left corner of the room. The large reception desk was shielded by clear glass, which Lou figured was for security. Pastel pictures of women covered the walls, and women’s magazines were fanned out on display on the side wall. On the rug under the display sat a large wicker basket in which Lou would have expected some artificial fruit. Instead were sample packets of Stayfree minipads.
Lou looked away, embarrassed, then spotted the Newlin girl. She had taken off her sunglasses but was still in her cap talking to a young, black receptionist behind the glass shield. By the time he found them, both women were looking at him funny. He guessed it was because of security, and not just because he was an old Jewish guy.
“Can I help you, sir?” the receptionist said, calling across the room, and Paige looked expectant under the brim of a cap that said GUESS. Lou didn’t know what the hat meant, unless it was how he felt.
“Uh, no, but thanks,” he answered. “I’m … meeting someone here.”
“Who?” The receptionist was pretty, with big brown eyes and a sweet smile. Her hair had been marceled into finger waves, which Lou liked. He remembered when women wore finger waves the first time around. And pleated skirts. He liked them, too, but they were long gone.
“I’m, uh, waiting for my daughter. She asked me to meet her here, and I’m early.”
“Does she have an appointment?”
“No, she was coming in without one.” Lou took a few steps forward, and if he had a hat it would be in his hand. He noticed Paige watching the exchange, her mild impatience betrayed by a pursing of her lips. “Is that okay?”
“Well, some of our clients are walk-ins, but she’ll need an appointment to use our services.”
“Oh, sure. Right. I am in the right place, aren’t I? I mean this is the place where you give out birth control, right?”
“We do perform that function, among other services.” The receptionist permitted herself a smile as she gestured to a bank of pamphlets sitting on the counter in plastic holders. YOUR REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEM, BREAST SELF-EXAMINATION, THE FIRST VISIT TO THE GYNECOLOGIST, read some of the titles. “If you want to learn more about us, read the pink one.”
“Thanks.” Lou picked up the pink pamphlet, which read SERVICES WE PROVIDE. It would be useful and it was less embarrassing than YOUR BREASTS. “I’ll study up.”
“Feel free to take a seat. You can wait for your daughter, and when she gets here I can make an appointment for her.”
“Sure, okay, I knew that. I’ll just wait.” Lou nodded and looked around the lavender sea for a seat. The last time he felt this funny was when he went to Rosato’s law firm for the first time and all he saw e
verywhere was women. Now he was used to it; it had only taken him a year. He saw a chair near the reception desk and sat down, straining to overhear what Paige was saying to the receptionist. It sounded to Lou like, “lsisinwn sjduudun?” He’d had the same problem in the Four Seasons and was thinking it might be time to break down and get a hearing aid.
Paige finished her conversation with the receptionist and sat down in a chair a few away from his, against the same wall. If she recognized Lou from the Four Seasons, it didn’t show. She opened her pea coat, crossed her legs in her black skirt, and picked up a Seventeen magazine. She began to read it, baseball cap bent over the glossy pages, as if she were memorizing it.
Lou’s experience on the job told him to take it slow. The girl was here for a very personal reason and part of him felt bad prying into her life. Far as he knew, the girl was the daughter of a murder victim and had been through hell in the past few days. So what if she messed around with her boyfriend in the coatroom? It wasn’t his business, and if her emotions were all confused, he could understand that. But why was she here?
He considered it. If she needed birth control pills or had some plumbing problem, she probably had a real gynecologist. One of those classy ones around Pennsylvania Hospital, closer to where Mary said she lived. No reason for a rich girl to come to Planned Parenthood in a half-assed disguise, unless it offered something she couldn’t get anywhere else.
Lou had a guess, but he wasn’t certain. He opened the pamphlet and read: “We offer reproductive health care for women and teens. Every FDA-approved birth control method, gynecological exams, walk-in pregnancy testing, testing for sexually transmitted disease, and first trimester abortion.” The girl could get all of the services at a regular doc, without a baseball cap, except one.
Poor kid. She must be in trouble, big-time. Lou glanced over at her to see if she looked pregnant, but he couldn’t tell. She looked skinny and gorgeous; maybe she wasn’t showing yet. He had two sons, both grown and moved away, and didn’t remember much about pregnancy except that anchovy pizza was a definite no. It was a different time then. He wasn’t there when his kids were born; the nurse brought them out like UPS.