“Don’t you have a husband? A boyfriend? Wouldn’t he like to know about this?”
“This is only for me, Mr. Picker. No one else. The way I see it, it’s simply no one’s business. Hypothetically speaking, how much are we talking here? How much would a baby cost me? Fifty thousand dollars? A hundred thousand? I have plenty of funds, Mr. Picker. Mac. Can I call you Mac?”
She could have sworn his face lit up when she mentioned funds, but he was a careful old codger; he wasn’t biting. Not out loud, at least.
“Sam. I understand your predicament, I surely do. Who could blame you, after losing your own babies? Of course you’d want one of your own. There are many firms who do this sort of thing. I can put you in touch with a couple, very reputable, very professional about all this. I’m afraid this simply isn’t our bailiwick at Picker, Green and Thompson.”
The missing “Benedict” hung between them like a shiny ringing gong. The firm certainly hadn’t wasted any time getting Rolph’s name off the masthead.
“Never? You can’t do a favor for a friend?”
“I’m sorry. No.”
She cocked her head to one side. “Are we negotiating?”
He shook his head, the avuncular and sympathetic smile gone. “There’s nothing to negotiate. I don’t do this sort of thing. It’s not proper. I’m very sorry, Dr. Owens. Sam. I’m not the right lawyer for you, and we’re not the right firm for you.”
“If we could just talk a bit more about this, Mr. Picker.”
His voice was cold and distant. “I’m afraid I have another meeting. I think it’s time for you to leave now.”
Damn it. She’d lost him. Something she’d said must have tipped him off.
He stood, and bent over his desk, pulling a yellow Post-it note from behind the phone. “Good day to you, ma’am. I hope your drive back to D.C. is pleasant.”
He wrote something on the Post-it, then folded it and reached a hand out to shake. She stood, as well, and accepted his hand.
He pressed the paper into her palm, then dropped his hand as if burned. He grinned at her then, and showed her to the door.
She couldn’t wait to get out of the office. She stepped down the wide graceful stairs to the sidewalk, wiped the sweat from her brow. The mike was sticking to her skin in a most unpleasant way. He must have suspected he was being taped, was very careful not to say anything that could implicate him or the firm. But he was greedy. She’d seen it in his eyes. He wanted the cash. Maybe he was going to use it to sneak away; maybe he was playing her. Who knew? They’d have to be very careful going forward.
She waited until she heard the door close behind her to check the note he’d given her. She unfolded the small square of yellow paper and felt her heart leap.
$250k, cash, today by 5. Drop at Hoyle’s.
They had him.
TUESDAY
“Keep your face always toward the sunshine—and shadows will fall behind you.”
—Walt Whitman
“Freedom is at hand, sayeth the Mother. Accept this dying breath as your final benediction and know, at last, you are free.”
—Curtis Lott
Chapter
62
Georgetown University School of Medicine
Washington, D.C.
THE FIRST MEETING of Sam’s Forensic Gross Anatomy class was over. Unlike other med school anatomy classes, this program was in place to study those who’d died violent deaths. It was specifically designed for doctors who wanted to be forensic pathologists. Who wanted to use science to right wrongs.
The room smelled faintly of formaldehyde and the meat of open bodies, the sweat of anxiety and denatured alcohol. She dismissed the students with a smile. They’d done so well. Not a fainter in the group. She remembered her first gross anatomy class, her knees knocking in fear, the surreal experience of the bodies lying inert on the tables, the unshakable feeling they might all rise from their metal graves and march out of the room to a deeper unknown.
The students left, chattering in excitement, and she packed her own things, happy to know she’d done a good job.
The craziness of the weekend would never truly fade away, but she was determined to let it go. She’d done the best she could, and that was all anyone could ever ask of her.
She ran back to her office to drop off her things, and was surprised to find her T.A., Stephanie, today with deep red streaks in her black hair in honor of the first day of bloodletting, in deep conversation with John Baldwin.
Sam gave Baldwin a quick hug, watched Stephanie wilt. Then the girl smiled at her boss and walked out, leaving them alone.
“I thought you went back to Nashville.”
“I’ve got a flight in a couple of hours. I wanted to say goodbye properly. Can I buy you a quick lunch?”
“Sure.”