But she shut up.
Giller cleared his throat. ‘Mr Mullis, the fact that I’m here means we’re already aware of the nature of the fraud committed. I also have to warn you that just as I’m in a position to offer a reward for any cooperation received, so too am I obliged to regard the withholding of information as a crime. This is a very serious matter. Falsification of a birth certificate is a felony, and brings with it legal penalties. Not just a fine, either: depending on the nature and severity of the offense, we could be talking about five years in prison – more, if the welfare of a child is deemed to be at risk.’
Mullis put the card on the table and gently pushed it toward Giller.
‘I don’t know about any fraud,’ he said.
Giller saw it all now. Any rage or bitterness Mullis might have felt toward his ex-wife had dissipated with the conception of his own boy. He’d loved her once, and he wasn’t about to collude in the possible removal of Daniel from her home, or help put her behind bars.
‘Your ex-wife registered the birth of a son five years ago.’
‘So what?’
‘Your ex-wife is infertile.’
‘The hell she is.’
‘Please don’t do this, Mr Mullis,’ said Giller, and he meant it.
‘Gregg,’ said Tanya, ‘let’s talk in private.’
‘I don’t need to talk.’
Her voice softened.
‘Gregg.’ She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘A minute.’
And just as Giller had perceived a vestige of old love in Mullis, and a basic decency not entirely excised by the years, so also did he recognize genuine affection and concern in the face of his girlfriend. It made Giller feel bad for them, and sorry that his search had brought him to their home.
The couple left the room, closing the door behind them, but the walls were thin, and Giller could pick up some of what was passing between them.
‘They already know … It’s not your business … think about our baby … jail.’
He made the call while they argued. They had already told him everything he needed to know. What would follow was out of his hands.
85
Quayle sat in a rental car across from the Weavers’ property. Thanks to Giller’s hard work, Quayle already had in his possession a great deal of information about Holly Weaver’s life, including the school attended by the boy she was calling her son, but he had no idea what the boy in question looked like. He did know the time Saber Hill Elementary got out, though, and thirty minutes earlier had found himself a spot in a disused lot from which he could watch the road leading to the two Weaver houses.
At one p.m., a blue Chrysler that wouldn’t have been worth the price of the gas needed to get it to the dump, driven by a white-haired man in a black coat who was still trying and failing to secure his safety belt as he drove, pulled out and made the turn south. This would be Holly Weaver’s father, Owen. Quayle knew all about him as well: widowed once, divorced once; owned a big rig; not much money to speak of, and none likely to materialize at this late stage in his life.
Quayle stayed behind the Chrysler until it reached the school. He took a space farther along, from which he saw the white-haired man cross the street and join the conclave of parents milling by the gate. Quayle heard the school bell ring, and moments later the first of the children began to emerge, among them a boy with dark hair who moved slower than the rest, as though the bag on his back weighed more than it should, but who still managed the faintest of smiles for his grandfather.
Quayle released his breath, his whole body sagging with relief, like a man long burdened with illness welcoming at last the possibility of an end to his pain. Hand in hand, Owen Weaver and the boy walked to the car, Quayle’s eyes fixed on them throughout.
Funny, Quayle thought, how some boys take after their mothers.
He needed no further confirmation from Giller. He had found Karis Lamb’s child.
86
The cell phone number went straight to voicemail the first time Giller tried to call, but he had time for a second, more successful attempt before the shouting from outside the kitchen reached a crescendo, followed by silence. He heard footsteps approaching from the hall and put the phone away. Mullis opened the kitchen door. Tanya stood behind him, crying.
‘Go on, get out,’ said Mullis. ‘We’ve got nothing more to say to you.’
‘I’m really sorry you’ve chosen this path.’
‘I told you,’ said Mullis. ‘Get out of my house.’
The doorbell rang – not once but continuously, the caller keeping a finger on the button. Behind the frosted glass, the figure of a woman was visible.
‘Who the fuck is that?’ Mullis asked.
Tanya moved toward the door.
‘Don’t answer it,’ said Mullis.
‘It won’t do any good,’ said Giller, loudly enough to be heard over the clamor.
Mullis turned back to Giller. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said that it won’t do any good. You can’t keep her out.’
‘You mean this bitch is with you?’
Tanya’s hands had clasped instinctively over the swell of her belly, as though that might be enough to protect her baby.
‘You’d best just let her in,’ said Giller.
His eyes were warm. He felt a tear drop to his cheek. He was crying for Mullis, for Tanya, for their unborn child.
For himself.
‘Let her in, and we can be done with it.’
87
Louis sat in Moxie Castin’s reception area, absorbed in his reading, his long legs extended before him. He was alternating between Montaigne, The Sun Also Rises, and The New York Times: an essay, a chapter of the novel, followed by a couple of articles. When he wasn’t reading, he was contemplating what he’d just read.
Moxie watched him from the doorway of his office.
‘You know what one of my clients asked earlier?’
‘No,’ said Louis. He was back to Montaigne, and did not divert from the book as he spoke.
‘She wanted to know what crime you’d committed.’
‘I hope you thought carefully before you answered.’
‘I left it to her imagination.’
‘Probably for the best.’
Louis turned another page, but still did not look up.
‘That tie,’ he said.
Moxie fingered the item of clothing in question.
‘What about it?’
‘Just “that tie.”’
‘It’s an expensive tie.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘You want me to show you the receipt?’
‘Doesn’t go with the suit.’
‘I like contrasts.’
‘Good, because it’s hard to imagine any suit it would go with.’
‘It’s got character.’
‘Except a clown suit.’
‘It’s Italian.’
‘Then maybe an Italian clown suit.’
Moxie walked to the mirror by the secretary’s desk and examined his reflection. His secretary, he noticed, was keeping her head down and saying nothing. He made a mental note to remind her of the necessity of supporting the man who paid her salary.
‘You got me doubting myself now,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Louis.
Moxie buttoned his jacket, frowned, and unbuttoned it again.
‘I guess it might be a little loud for this suit,’ he conceded.
‘Loud for Times Square.’
‘Okay, okay, you convinced me. I’ll change it. I’ll change it, and I’ll never wear it again. I’ll send it to Goodwill.’
‘Send it to clown school.’
‘Enough with the clowns.’
Moxie skulked into his office, rummaged in his closet, and returned moments later with a more subdued tie, which he knotted in front of the mirror before turning to face Louis.
‘Better?’
Louis flicked a glance over the top of his book.
‘Better,’ he said. ‘Now about the suit …’
From behind his back, Moxie heard what sounded like his secretary choking.
‘If you’re laughing when I turn around,’ he said, ‘you’re fired.’
88