“Yes. The half brother was abandoned at birth. But somehow, in some way, he was able to discover his biological father, or vice versa.”
“So you figure there might be some records of this? Maybe the biological mother filed a paternity suit. Or there’d be adoption records. Or both.”
“Something,” I say. “But whatever it may be, I’m pretty sure—”
“It would involve his attorney,” Brody says. “Yes, I agree with that much. If a guy like Holden Dahlquist had a problem like that, his first call would be to his lawyer. Sure.”
“So that’s why I’m asking about his attorney,” I say.
“Okay. Well, to answer your question: These days, most files are stored electronically. But Holden the Sixth, as you call him, he died … when, again?”
“He died sometime in 1994,” I say.
“Okay.” Brody nods. “So any records would be no later than ninety-four. And back then, nobody was creating the kind of electronic files we have today. There would be hard copies.”
Hard copies. That’s what I thought. That’s what I was hoping.
“Where would those hard copies be?”
“Something that old, they would be in off-site storage,” he says. “But it’s not like you have access to them. These are attorney-client documents. You’d need a court order.”
“Then let’s get one.”
“On what grounds? Your hunch?”
“Yes, my hunch.”
He shakes his head. “It would be hard. Nearly impossible.”
“How long would it take?”
“Very long. Months. There’d be a vicious court battle.”
“I don’t have months, Mr. Brody. I have to know this now.”
“Murphy,” he says, “you haven’t even been indicted yet. When you are, there will be a court case, and maybe we can explore that. But now? Right now? No chance. Zero.”
I deflate. He’s making sense, I know it. It would take months to get court-approved access to those files, if they even exist at all.
Unless …
“Just out of curiosity,” I say, “where would the law firm keep its old hard copies of files?”
“Oh.” Brody shrugs. “Most law firms around here use a place out in Riverhead called Dunbar Professional Storage.”
Dunbar Professional Storage in Riverhead.
“I know the name of Holden the Sixth’s lawyer,” I say. “A guy named Finneus Rucker. Do you know him?”
“I knew him,” says Brody. “He died a few years ago. Cancer, I think.”
I deflate. “But I looked up his law firm online. Rucker, Rice and Spong.”
“Yeah, his firm still exists. But he doesn’t.”
“But—his firm would still have the records.”
Brody nods. “I’m sure they do.”
“Well, do you have any idea if his firm uses that storage facility?”
Brody’s eyes narrow. “No, I have no idea. But like I said, wherever they keep those records, you’d have to go through a judge.”
“Absolutely,” I say.
“Don’t get any dumb ideas. You’re in enough trouble already.”
“Of course.”
Dunbar Professional Storage in Riverhead.
Remember that.
That’s my next stop. If I ever get out of this jail cell.
101
NOAH REMOVES THE third iron bar from the window and decides it’s enough.
He tosses his cable cutters in through the open window.
He stuffs the flashlight into his front pocket.
Using the remaining iron bar as a brace, he hauls himself up and onto the window ledge.
His head through the open window, his body dangling outside, he looks around. It’s dark, but he can see enough to get the drift.
An office. A desk covered in paper, a chair, file cabinets.
He has no choice but to fall in headfirst. He can’t see the floor, but he knows it’s littered with broken glass now.
He lunges forward and catches the chair to break his fall, but fall, and fall hard, he does. An awkward landing, his jeans doing enough to protect him from the glass. Could have been a lot worse.
He brushes himself off and turns on his flashlight just for a second. Then he opens the locked office door, looks beyond it.
Darkness, until he finds the light switch.
And then: a warehouse, a wide and long and high expanse of space, filled with nothing but rows and rows of shelving, a rolling ladder in each row to reach the higher shelves. He looks around long enough to get his bearings. Then he kills the lights. Those overhead lights are no good. Someone could detect an intruder from a mile away.
With his flashlight, he roots around the office and finds the index. He leafs through it until he finds what he’s looking for.
Then he walks into the warehouse, his footsteps echoing, the space pitch-dark except for the beam from his flashlight.
He finds the right row, and then the right shelf. He’s ready to break a lock with the cable cutters, but there aren’t any locks on the doors.
Even better.
He riffles through the files, the flashlight in his mouth. It takes him longer than expected, the risk of detection growing with each moment that passes.
When he finds it, he flips through the pages briefly—time does not permit a thorough review—shining his flashlight over each page, before he closes it up, the story from the newspaper on top: