No Second Chance

  I couldn't believe what she was suggesting. "What do you mean, think this through? We need to approach her."

  "Not yet. I'm working on something."

  "What?"

  "Just give me a few minutes."

  I slowed my speed and turned down Van Dien, right near Valley Hospital. I looked back at Katarina. She gave me a small smile. Rachel kept working at whatever. I checked the dashboard clock. Time to meet Verne. I took North Maple to Ridgewood Avenue. A parking spot opened in front of a store named Duxiana. I grabbed it. Verne's pickup truck was parked across the street. It had mag wheels and two bumper stickers, one reading, CHARLTON HESTON for president and the other: DO I LOOK LIKE A HEMORRHOID? THEN GET OFF MY ASS.

  Ridgewood's town center was a blend of turn-of-the-century picture postcard splendor and modern-day extravagant food-court mall. Most of the old mom-n-pop shops were gone now. Sure, the independent bookstore still thrived. There was an upscale mattress store, a cute place that sold sixties paraphernalia, a smattering of boutiques, beauty parlors, and jewelry stores. And, yes, a few of the chains--Gap, WilliamsSonoma, the prerequisite Starbucks--had gobbled up space. But more than anything, the town center had become a veritable smorgasbord, a potpourri of eateries for too many tastes and budgets. Name a country, they had a bistro here. Throw a stone, even pathetically, in any direction, you would hit three such eateries.

  Rachel took the atlas and Palm Pilot with her. She worked as we walked. Verne was already inside the coffee shop, chatting up the burly guy behind the counter. Verne wore a Deere baseball cap with a T-shir t that read: MOOSEHEAU: A GREAT BEER AND A NEW EXPERIENCE KJR A MOOSE.

  We grabbed a table.

  "So what's the deal?" Verne said.

  I let Katarina fill him in. I was watching Rachel. Every time I started to speak, she held up a finger to silence me. I told Verne that he should take Katarina home. We didn't need their help anymore. They should be with their children. Verne was reluctant.

  The time was sneaking up on 10:00 a.m. I wasn't really tired. Lack of sleep--even for reasons far less adrenaline generating than this-- does not bother me. I credit my medical residency and the many nights on call for that.

  "Bang," Rachel said again.

  "What?"

  With her eyes still on the Palm Pilot, Rachel put out her hand. "Let me use your phone."

  "What is it?"

  "Just give it to me, okay?"

  I handed her the cell phone. She dialed and moved to the corner of the cafe. Katarina excused herself to use the bathroom. Verne poked me with his elbow and pointed at Rachel.

  "You two in love?"

  "It's complicated," I said.

  "Only if you're a dumb-ass."

  I may have shrugged.

  "You either love her or you don't," Verne said. "The rest? That's for dumb-asses."

  "Is that how you dealt with what you heard this morning?"

  He thought about that. "What Kat said. What she did in the past. It don't matter much. There's a core. I've slept with that woman for eight years. I know the core."

  "I don't know Rachel that well."

  "Yeah, you do. Look at her." I did. And I felt something airy and light travel all the through me. "She got beaten up. She got shot, for Chrissake." He paused. I wasn't looking, but I bet he shook his mane in disgust. "You let that go, you know what you are?"

  "A dumb-ass."

  IM

  "A professional dumb-ass. You give up your amateur status."

  Rachel hung up the phone and hurried back over. Maybe it was something Verne said, but 1 could swear that I saw a bit of fire back in her eyes. In that dress, with her hair mussed, with the confident lick-the world smile, I was transported back. It didn't last long. No more than a moment or two. But maybe it was enough.

  "Bang?" I asked.

  "Cannon-fire, Fourth-of-July bang." She starting tapping with the stylus again. "I just need to do one more thing. In the meantime, look at this atlas."

  I pulled it over. Verne looked over my shoulder. He smelled like motor oil. There were all kinds of markings on the atlas--little stars, crosses, but the thickest line was a circuitous route. I recognized enough of it.

  "That's the route the kidnappers took last night," I said. "When we were following them."

  "Right."

  "What's with all the stars and stuff?"

  "Okay, first thing. Look at the actual route they took. Up north over the Tappan Zee. Then west. Then south. Then west again. Then back east and north." "They were stalling," I said.

  "Right. It's like we said. They were setting up that trap for us at your house. But think about it a second. Our theory is that someone from law enforcement warned them about the Q-Logger, right?"

  "So?"

  "So no one knew about the Q-Logger until you were at the hospital. That means, for at least part of the journey, they wouldn't have known I was tailing them."

  I wasn't sure I followed, but I said, "Okay."

  "Do you pay your phone bill online?" she asked.

  The subject change threw me for a moment. "Yes," I said.

  "So you get a statement, right? You click on the link, you sign in, you can see all your calls. It probably has a reverse directory link too-- so you can click on the number and see who you called."

  I nodded. It did.

  "Well, I got Denise Vanech's last phone bill." She held up a hand.

  "Don't worry about how. Again it's fairly easy. Harold could probably do it by hacking, if he had more time, but having a connection or a giving a bribe is easier. Now with the Internet billing, it's easier than ever."

  "Harold sent you her bill online?"

  "Yep. Anyway, Ms. Vanech makes a fair amount of calls. That's what took me so long. We've been sorting through them, finding the names, then the addresses."

  "And a name popped out?"

  "No, an address did. I wanted to see if she called anybody on the kidnapper's route."

  Now I saw where she was going. "And I assume the answer is yes?"

  "Better than yes. Remember when they stopped at the Metro Vista office complex?" "Sure."

  "Over the past month, Denise Vanech placed six calls to the law office of a Steven Bacard." Rachel pointed to the star she'd drawn on the map. "At Metro Vista."

  "A lawyer?"

  "Harold is going to see what he can dig up, but again I just used Google. The name Steven Bacard pops up frequently."

  "In what context?"

  Rachel smiled again. "His expertise is adoption."

  Verne said, "Sweet mother of God."

  I sat back and tried to digest it all. Warning lights flashed, but I wasn't sure what they meant. Katarina came back to the table. Verne told her what we'd found. We were getting close. I knew that. But I felt adrift. My cell phone--or should I say, Zia's--rang. I looked down at the Caller ID. It was Lenny. I debated not answering, remembering what Zia had said. But of course, Lenny would know about the possibility of a tap. He had been the one who warned Zia.

  I hit the answer button.

  "Let me talk first," Lenny said before I could even utter a hello. "For the record, if this is being taped, this conversation is between an attorney and his client. It is thus protected. Marc, don't tell me where you are. Don't tell me anything that would force me to lie. You understand?"

  "Yes."

  I "Did your trip bear fruit?" he asked.. j "Not the fruit we wanted. Not yet anyway. But we're getting very w close."i| "Any way I can help?"*

  "I don't think so." Then, "Wait." I remembered that Lenny had * handled my sister's arrests. He had been her main legal advisor. "Did J Stacy ever say anything to you about adoption?"j "I'm not following."

  "Did she ever think about giving up a baby for adoption, or in any way mention adoption to you?"

  "No. Is this somehow connected with the kidnapping?"

  "Could be."

  "I don't remember anything like that. Look, they might be taping us, so let me tell you why I called. They found a dead bod
y at your house-- a man. shot twice in the head." Lenny knew that I was already aware of this. I assumed that he was saying this for the benefit of whoever might be eavesdropping. "They haven't made an ID, but they did locate the murder weapon in the Christies' backyard."

  I was not surprised. Rachel had figured that they'd plant the gun somewhere.

  "The thing is, Marc, the murder weapon is your old gun, the one that's been missing since the shooting at your house. They already ran a ballistics test. You and Monica were shot with two different thirty eights, remember?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, that gun--your gun--was one of the two used that morning."

  I closed my eyes. Rachel mouthed a "what?" at me.

  "I better go," Lenny said. "I'll look into Stacy and an adoption angle, if you want. See what I can dig up."

  "Thanks."

  "Stay safe."

  He hung up. I turned to Rachel and told her about the gun discovery and the ballistics test. She leaned back and bit down on her lower lip, another familiar habit from our dating days. "So that means," she said, "that Pavel and the rest of these people are definitely linked to the first attack."

  "You still had doubts?"

  "A few hours ago, we thought it was a total hoax, remember? We thought that maybe these guys knew enough to fake like they had Tara, just to con some ransom money out of your father-in-law. But now we know different. These people were there that morning. They were part of the original abduction."

  It made sense, but something about it still felt wrong. "Where do we go from here?" I asked.

  "The logical step is to visit this lawyer, Steven Bacard," Rachel said. "The problem is, we don't know if he's the boss or just another employee. For all we know, Denise Vanech is the mastermind and he works for her. Or they both work for a third party. And if we go busting in there, Bacard is just going to clam up. He's a lawyer. He's too smart to talk to us."

  "So what do you suggest?"

  "I'm not sure," she said. "It might be time to call in the feds. Maybe they can raid his office."

  I shook my head. "That'll take too long."

  "We might be able to get them to move fast."

  "Assuming they believe us--which is a big assumption--how fast?"

  "I don't know, Marc."

  I didn't like it. "Suppose Denise Vanech was suspicious back there. Suppose Tatiana gets scared and calls her again. Suppose there is indeed a leak. There are too many variables here, Rachel."

  "So what do you think we should do?"

  "A two-prong attack," I said, the words coming out without much thought. There was a problem. I suddenly had a solution. "You take Denise Vanech. I take Steven Bacard. We coordinate it so that we hit them at the same time."

  "Marc, he's a lawyer. He's not going to open up to you."

  I looked at her. She saw it. Verne sat up a little and made a small woo-ee noise.

  "You're going to threaten him?" Rachel asked.

  "We're talking about my child's life."

  "And you're talking about taking the law into your own hands." Then she added, "Again."

  "So?"

  "You threatened a teenage girl with a gun."

  "I was trying to intimidate, that's all. I would have never really hurt her."

  "The law--"

  "The law hasn't done squat to help my daughter," I said, trying not to shout. In the corner of my eye, I saw Verne nodding along with my outrage. "They're too busy wasting time on you."

  That made her straighten up. "Me?"

  "Lenny told me at the house. They think you did it. Without me. That you were obsessed with having me back or something." "What?"

  I rose from the table. "Look, I'm going to see this Bacard guy. I don't plan on hurting anyone, but if he knows something about my daughter, I'm going to find out what it is."

  Verne raised his fist. "Right on."

  I asked Verne if I could keep borrowing the Camaro. He reminded me that he was behind me all the way. I expected Rachel to argue some more. She didn't. Maybe she knew that I would not change my mind. Maybe she knew I was right. Or maybe--perhaps most likely--she had been stunned to learn that her old colleagues had zeroed in on her as the sole serious suspect.

  "I'll come with you," Rachel said.

  "No." My voice left no wiggle room. I had no idea what I would do when I got there, but I knew that I was capable of plenty. "What I said before makes sense." I could hear my familiar surgeon-tone taking over. "I'll call you when I get to Bacard's office. We hit him and Denise Va nech at the same time."

  I didn't wait for a response. I got back in the Camaro and started toward the Metro Vista office complex.

  Chapter 40

  Lydia Checked her surroundings. She was a little more in the open than she liked to be, but that couldn't be helped. She had on the spiky blond wig--the one not unlike Steven Bacard's description of Denise Vanech. She knocked on the door of the efficiency.

  The curtain next to the door moved. Lydia smiled. "Tatiana?"

  No reply.

  She had been warned that Tatiana spoke very little English. Lydia had debated how to play this. Time was critical. Everything and everyone needed to be shut down. When someone who dislikes blood as much as Bacard says that, you immediately understand the ramifications. Lydia and Heshy had split up. She had come down here. They would meet up afterward.

  "It's okay, Tatiana," she said through the door. "I'm here to help."

  There was no movement.

  "I'm a friend of Pavel's," she tried. "You know Pavel?"

  The curtain moved. A young woman's face appeared for a brief moment, gaunt and childlike. Lydia nodded at her. The woman still did not open the door. Lydia scanned her surroundings. Nobody looking, but she still felt too exposed. This had to end fast.

  "Wait," Lydia said. Then, looking at the curtain, she reached into her purse. She pulled out a piece of paper and pen. She wrote something down, making sure that if someone was still at the window, they would see exactly what she was doing. She capped the pen and stepped close to the window. Lydia held the piece of paper up to the pane of glass so Tatiana could read it.

  It was like drawing a scared cat out from under the sofa. Tatiana moved slowly. She came toward the window. Lydia stayed still, so as not to startle her. Tatiana leaned closer. Here, kitty, kitty. Lydia could see the girl's face now. She was squinting, trying to see what was on the piece of paper.

  When Tatiana came close enough, Lydia pressed the barrel of the gun against the glass and aimed between the young girl's eyes. At the last second, Tatiana tried to veer away. Too little, too late. The bullet went clean through the glass and into Tatiana's right eye. Blood appeared. Lydia fired again, automatically tilting the gun downward. It caught the falling Tatiana in the top of the forehead. But the second bullet had been superfluous. The first shot, the one in the eye, had ripped into the brain and killed the young girl instantly.

  Lydia hurried away. She risked a glance behind her. No one. When she reached the neighboring mall, she dumped the wig and the white coat. She found her car in a lot another half mile away.

  I called Rachel when I arrived at Metro Vista. She was parked down the street from Denise Vanech's house. We were both ready to go.

  I'm not sure what I expected to happen here. I guess I figured that I would explode into Bacard's office, stick my gun in his face, and demand answers. What I hadn't foreseen was a regular, state-of the-state office setup--that is, Steven Bacard had a well-appointed reception area. There were two people waiting--a married couple, by all appearances. The husband had his face stuck in a waiting-room-laminated Sports Illustrated. The wife looked to be in pain. She tried to smile at me, but it was as if the effort would wound her. I realized how shoddy I must look. I was still in my hospital scrubs. I was unshaven. My eyes were undoubtedly red from lack of sleep. My hair, I imagined, was probably sticking up in a textbook case of bedhead.

  The receptionist was behind one of those sliding glass windows I usually associate
with a dental practice. The woman--a small nameplate read agnes weiss--smiled at me sweetly. "May I help you?"

  "I'm here to see Mr. Bacard."

  "Do you have an appointment?" She kept the tone sweet, but there was a rhetorical twang there too. She already knew the answer.

  "This is an emergency," 1 said.

  "I see. Are you a client of ours, Mr. . . . ?"

  "Doctor," I snapped back automatically. "Tell him Dr. Marc Seid man needs to see him immediately. Tell him it's an emergency."

  The young couple was watching us now. The receptionist's sweet smile began to falter. "Mr. Bacard's schedule is very full today." She opened her appointment ledger. "Let me see when we have something available, okay?"

  "Agnes, look at me."

  She did.

  I gave her my gravest, you-mightdieifIdon'toperateright-away expression. "Tell him Dr. Seidman is here. Tell him it's an emergency. Tell him if he doesn't see me now, I will go to the police."

  The young couple exchanged a glance.

  Agnes adjusted herself in the chair. "If you'll just have a seat--"

  "Tell him."

  "Sir, if you don't step back, I'll call security."

  So I stepped back. I could always step forward again. Agnes did not pick up the phone. I moved to a nonthreatening distance. She slid the little window closed. The couple looked at me. The husband said, "She's covering for him."

  The wife said, "Jack!"

  Jack ignored her. "Bacard ran out of here half an hour ago. That receptionist keeps telling us he'll be right back."

  I noticed a wall of photographs. Now I took a closer look. The same man was in all of them with a potpourri of politicos, quasi celebrities, gone-to-flab athletes. Steven Bacard, I assumed. I stared at the man's face--pudgy, weak chinned, country-club shiny.

  I thanked the man named Jack and started for the door. Bacard's office was on the first floor, so I decided to wait by the entrance. This way, I could catch him unawares on neutral ground and before Agnes had a chance to warn him. Five minutes passed. Several suits came and went, all harried from their days of printer toner and paperweights, dragged down by briefcases the size of car trunks. I paced the corridor.

  Another couple entered. I could tell right away by their tentative steps and shattered eyes that they, too, were heading for Bacard's office. I watched them and wondered what path they had taken here. I saw them getting married, holding hands, kissing freely, making love in the morning. I saw their careers begin to thrive. I saw them feel the pang and segue toward the initial attempts at conceiving, the wait till-next-month shrug when the home tests were negative, the slowly blossoming worry. A year passes. Still nothing. Their friends are starting to have children now and talk about them incessantly. Their parents are wondering when they'll have grandkids. I see them visiting the doctor--"a specialist"--the endless probing for the woman, the humiliation of masturbating into a beaker for the man, the personal questions, the blood and urine samples. More years pass. Their friends drift away. Making love is now strictly about procreation. It is calculated. It is always tinged with sadness. He stops holding her hand. She rolls over at night unless it's the right time in her cycle. I see the drugs, the Pergonal, the ridiculously expensive in-vitro fertilization, the time off from work, the checking of calendars, the same home tests, the crushing disappointments.