Childless: A Novel (16 page)

Tyler plopped
himself on a rotting park bench, tearing open the paper sack overflowing with fat and flavor: two bacon double cheeseburgers, extra mayo, large cheese fries, and a chocolate shake. Inhaling the lovely smell he realized he risked contaminating his clothes with an aroma that would sicken Renee. But he couldn’t last another day without eating something that could make him smile.

A robin landed, curious enough to hop within a few feet before giving up and flying off. It was peaceful here. A great place to get things done. The rusting play structure had long been abandoned, the neighborhood possessed by those beyond childrearing years or those lacking any desire for the task. Vacant swings served as little more than a reminder of a quainter time when young mothers would bring their even younger children to play. Women who worked hard at pretending to enjoy themselves. At least, that’s how Tyler had perceived it. He couldn’t imagine his own mother actually enjoying places like this. Duty, that’s what it was, not pleasure.

So why on earth Renee still hoped to have a kid escaped him. Worried him.

Tyler dug a floppy fry from the bag, shoved it into his mouth, then pulled out his tablet with his other, non-greasy hand. A small icon strobed subtly to indicate a new message. Julia Simmons. At first he couldn’t place the name, then remembered—he had tried to contact the journalist who’d written the feature about Jeremy Santos. Tyler tapped to open the message full-screen.

He sent back a quick reply suggesting late afternoon.

The pounding of a man’s running shoes approached. Tyler glanced up in time to see an elderly but fit jogger frown self-righteously at Tyler’s half-eaten burger. The man passed by down the sidewalk.

“Yeah, well…which one of us is happier?” Tyler called out smugly…after the man was out of earshot, of course. Then he remembered, he was only here eating this sack of junk food to escape his live-in girlfriend and her parents. Not exactly the poster child for happiness.

Just then his tablet flashed and began to beep. He tapped his earpiece. “Tyler Cain,” he slurred through a mouthful of burger.

“Mr. Cain?” the voice of Jennifer McKay said hesitantly.

Tyler forced a hard swallow and wiped his face. “Ms. McKay! I was just thinking about you.”

“Why do I seriously doubt that?”

“Thinking about your case, I mean. I have a few leads, and so—”

“Mr. Cain. We have a problem. Can we meet?”

“Problem? What kind of a problem?”

“We received another letter. Hand-delivered to the security guard late yesterday, and…well. This one seems like an overt threat.”

“Can you forward me a copy? I can take a look.”

“No,” Jennifer said firmly. “Once you go digital, you lose control. If this information gets in the wrong hands…well, we just can’t chance it.”

Tyler resented the thought of an unnecessary drive downtown. He could work the case just as easily from where he was with the tap of a
SEND
button. Jennifer McKay was being much too uptight about the whole thing.

He reminded himself that another meeting would translate into more billable hours.

“OK. Where should we meet?” He hoped it could be someplace far less…antiseptic…than before.

At least Tyler managed to finish his second burger, the fries, and the shake on his drive back to the Tenth District Federal Courthouse.

Jennifer’s desk looked even more expansive now that Tyler’s home desk sat nestled into a cramped corner. He slid his hand enviously across its surface, then noticed his own greasy fingerprint trail. He immediately wiped it away with his sleeve, an instinctive reaction against leaving Renee any potential “evidence.”

“You mentioned having some leads,” Jennifer said, turning away from him to locate the most recent letter from the bottom filing cabinet drawer.

She stood upright, spun abruptly, and handed him the letter. He scanned it quickly. On the surface it wasn’t much different from the others. Same signature. Same request for the judge to post an anonymous reply. But this one, unlike the three prior, had a greater sense of urgency. And the final line about “more drastic measures” caused concern.

Something has changed
, thought Tyler. Whoever was writing these letters was becoming impatient to know the judge’s decision. But who, he wondered, would benefit from a decision against NEXT besides Jeremy Santos?

“You’re right,” he said in Jennifer’s direction. “This is a problem.”

She sat down. “What do you think he means by drastic measures?”

“No idea. But it concerns me.”

Tyler glanced around the office to find signs of adequate security. There was the check at the building entrance, of course. But after that, what would stop some crazy person like Mr. or Ms. Manichean from coming in here and creating a scene…or worse?

Jennifer apparently followed his gaze as it drifted to Santiago’s office. “His office is locked at all times, even when we’re working. Only he and I can get in during regular business hours.”

“What about after?”

Jennifer frowned. “Mr. Cain, I can assure you Judge Santiago is in good hands here. There hasn’t been a single violent incident in this building in over twenty-five years. I need you to focus on finding the person writing these letters. Let our security team handle things at the office.”

“But I think—”

“We hired you to be a private detective,” she said abruptly, “nothing more.”

Tyler recalled Smitty’s comment about being the right person for this job. He shoved the thought aside. “Ms. McKay, I need to be blunt. I get the distinct feeling you’re more concerned with protecting yourself than protecting the judge.”

“What?” The word erupted from Jennifer’s lips, her gaze piercing. “Protecting myself? How dare you suggest that I…”

She paused to regain composure while lowering herself back into her seat, her manicured nails pressing firmly into the surface of the desk. “I would like an apology for that, Mr. Cain.”

Tyler shrugged, trying to see how far she might go. “I just call it like I see it, is all.”

“Really?” she answered, her eyes pinched into a condescending glare.

“Yes. Really. Listen, I don’t get paid to be nice.”

“You won’t get paid at all if—”

“If what? You hired me to protect the judge.”

“No. I hired you to look into these letters and find out who sent them.”

Tyler decided to call her bluff. “Is there a difference?”

He let the question settle, then added another dig.

“You seem too afraid of losing your own job to look out for the judge’s best interest.”

She glared back, her arms crossed defensively. “The judge’s best interest?” she began. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Cain. This is a federal appeals court, not a traffic court. Major issues are decided in this building. And Judge Santiago plays a very important part in that process.”

“Why can’t he let another judge handle this one?”

She rolled her eyes as if the question revealed inexcusable ignorance.

“This isn’t like popping into a local magistrate’s office and requesting a search warrant,” Jennifer said derisively. “Let me educate you, Mr. Cain.”

Tyler held his tongue. He knew next to nothing about federal appeals. But he was loath to let it show.

“There are three judges who render opinions in this court,” she continued. “In this case, one of the three leans left, the other right. That leaves Judge Santiago as the only judge really open to the merits of both sides. So his is the opinion that truly matters. It also means there’s no way on earth he’ll ever allow anyone to influence his decision. He has asked me to shield him from that. So, yes, that is my job, if we’re talking about jobs. And Judge Santiago is well aware of the risks. But he trusts me. And I admire his integrity, a rare quality in this day and age. Frankly, I’ll do anything to make sure I don’t let him down.”

“Even if it gets him killed?”

A look of dread replaced the air of superiority on Jennifer’s face. “Killed? Do you really think it could come to that?”

“I don’t know what it could come to, Ms. McKay. But as a precaution—”

“Precaution is what we’re paying you for,” she snapped angrily, as if trying to balance her earlier show of fear. “Just find out who is sending these letters, and make sure they stop. Can you do that?”

He hesitated, looking toward the window to consider options. Part of him wanted to walk away from the whole mess. He was getting too old for lectures from self-important assistants, even ones as attractive as Jennifer McKay. But he also knew blowing this case was not an option. He might never get another lead from Smitty or anyone else on the force. Swallowing his pride in this instance might just get him back in the game. Besides, it was Santiago’s business if he wanted to risk his life for some higher good.

He turned back toward Jennifer, who seemed to have softened.

“Listen,” she said conciliatorily. “I wasn’t going to tell you this so soon…”

“Tell me what?” he asked, upset that something had been withheld.

“That I’m authorized to pay beyond your daily rate on this case.”

Tyler’s head jerked toward her with a start.

“I can offer you a bonus of thirty thousand if you actually find the culprit.”

Tyler tried to suppress a stunned reaction. A grin on Jennifer’s face told him he’d failed. Thirty thousand dollars was more than enough to pay off the loan cosigned by Renee. With this one case he’d be able to return to bachelorhood a year and a half earlier than he had hoped.

Jennifer’s smile grew. “Who’s concerned more about his job now, Mr. Cain?”

He beamed in her direction, abandoning any pretense of indifference.

She stood and held out her hand. They shook.

Control had shifted unmistakably back into the hands of Jennifer McKay.

“Excellent,” she said. “I look forward to a quick and tidy conclusion to this mess. I have the utmost confidence in you.”

She’s good
, Tyler thought.
Very good
.

“Mr. Cain?”

The woman extending her hand toward Tyler seemed assertive, like Jennifer McKay, but less forged. Comfortable in her own skin. Little wonder. Julia Davidson was a rare sight. Stunning but effortless beauty. Perfectly styled hair fell mid-length to merge feminine chic with a refined elegance. Her outfit was tasteful, implying rather than flaunting a lovely figure.

“Ms. Davidson,” he said, accepting her greeting. Her left hand brushed a black strand from her face to return it to its proper place. That’s when he noticed a ring. He remembered she had a new last name he couldn’t recall.

“Call me Julia,” she insisted.

He matched the offer. “Tyler. Thanks for meeting.”

“Not a problem. I only hope I can help.”

The hostess escorted them to a table situated next to a large window overlooking an outdoor parking lot. The same lot Renee frequented whenever she shopped at Bulrich’s Organic Market.

“Would it be all right if we sat away from the window?” Tyler asked. He didn’t need the agitation of defending an innocent lunch with a beautiful woman.

The hostess raised a surprised brow, then moved them to an inferior spot.

They made small talk while perusing menus. He learned about her recent marriage to Troy Simmons, who, it turned out, had spent time in Washington DC working with Congressman Kevin Tolbert. “I voted for Tolbert,” Tyler boasted, claiming his share of credit for the newcomer’s victory.

“I didn’t,” Julia said with a laugh. “But his wife and I have been friends since high school.”

Tyler gave a curious glance.

“Don’t ask,” she said preemptively. “Let’s just say that if you told me a few years ago I would end up married to a man like Troy Simmons, I would have said you were crazy.”

“A hard marriage?” he heard himself ask. The same question he posed to potential clients. “Sorry,” he added quickly. “None of my business.”

She smiled at his embarrassment. “I guess every marriage is hard sometimes.”

Tyler’s phone vibrated, a welcome interruption. He glanced at the message.

He begged Julia’s pardon and tapped the
RETURN CALL
icon.

“Hi,” he said with professional distance. “What’s up?”

“‘Hi’? ‘What’s up’?” Renee scolded. “Not ‘Hi babe’ or ‘How are you?’”

“I’m in a meeting.”

“Oh, sorry,” she replied, a touch of warmth returning to her voice. “My tracker app says you’re at Bear Rock Café. I’m just around the corner. I thought we might meet up for lunch. What time will you be done?”

“Can’t do it,” he said abruptly.
Why not
? “I’m, uh, booked up the rest of the day. I think I found an important lead in the new case.”

“The case you won’t tell me about?” she asked suspiciously.

He sensed hurt and paranoia overtaking the conversation. “I told you, I can’t reveal—”

“I know what you told me,” she interrupted. “Not much. That’s what you told me. For all I know the case is a cover for a secret rendezvous with another woman.”

Was she teasing or accusing? He looked at Julia nervously. Their lunch was completely innocent. It
was
about the case. He wasn’t cheating on Renee. Granted, Julia was the kind of sharp, confident woman he found irresistibly attractive. And yes, he had wondered whether a marriage that was “hard sometimes” might mean she was open to advances. But he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Can we discuss this later?” he asked, aware of Julia’s failed attempt to ignore the conversation.

“I’d rather not wait…” she said. Then the call ended.

“Renee?” he asked into the phone. No response. Had they lost a signal? Or had she hung up angry? Was she on her way over right now?

“Everything OK?” Julia asked as he returned the device to his pocket.

“Fine. Fine,” he said while motioning toward the waitress, who took their orders and retrieved their menus. That’s when Tyler got down to business.

“I read your story on the Santos case,” he began. “I found it while doing research for a client.”

“You mentioned that in your message. May I ask what type of client?”

He hesitated. But she needed the detail. “A federal official.” He offered no title or name. But she was smart enough to connect the dots herself. “Confidentially, someone has been writing letters. It appears they’re worried about the NEXT appeal decision. Now they’re making threats.”

“What kind of threats?”

“We can’t be certain,” he replied. “But I fear the worst.”

“I see,” she said with alarm. “How can I help?”

“I met with Jeremy Santos the other day,” he began. “I figured him to be a prime suspect. You know, eager to get at the money tied up by the appeal.”

Julia took a sip of water, her eyes offering a knowing smile. “And?”

“Dead end. That kid’s no threat.”

She nodded in agreement. “I felt bad for him. Very sad situation.”

The sentiment offered a window into a tender side of the hard-hitting journalist. Tyler admired the sweet sympathy in her eyes.

The restaurant door opened. Tyler yanked his gaze away from Julia, expecting to see Renee charging in their direction. To his relief he saw an elderly couple shuffling toward the hostess desk.

“How’s he doing?” Julia asked.

“The kid? Oh, he seems to be surviving. Just.” He took a sip of water. “Anyway, I was hoping you could suggest other suspects. Did you come across anyone associated with the Santos story eager for NEXT to lose their appeal? Maybe a religious zealot trying to bring down a big transition provider? Or some other family with a wrongful death case waiting in the wings?”

Julia sat back to consider the question. She seemed to reach for details long forgotten. “Holly?” she asked herself. “No, not Holly. Hannah.”

“Hannah who?”

“I’ll need to find her last name. She’s the transition specialist who was injured during the incident.”

“I see,” he said, jotting down the name while stealing another glance at the door. “Mad about the injury?”

“Not about the injury,” Julia explained. “About the industry.”

“But you said she works for NEXT.”

“
Worked
for NEXT. She quit after the Santos deaths. A month later she contacted Jeremy and encouraged him to sue.”

“Really?” Tyler said. “What’s her piece of the pie?”

“None. At least that’s what she told me.”

“Then why tell Jeremy to sue?”

“She said she wanted to see more restrictions placed on the practice because it’s easier to schedule a transition than to book a flight.”

Tyler recalled the video images he had seen in Jeremy’s apartment, including the lifeless stare of Antonio Santos’s cold cadaver. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for Hannah or any other person to bear such sights as a routine part of the job.

“She called them sheep,” Julia added.

“Called who sheep?”

“Transition volunteers. She said they aren’t heroes but sheep going to the slaughter.”

“How’s that?”

“You should ask her yourself. I can find her contact information if you’d like.”

Tyler knew he could just as easily find the information in the case file. But he preferred the opportunity for further correspondence. “That would be helpful. Thank you.”

“I didn’t get the impression Hannah was the type to do anything violent or rash,” Julia added. “But she did mention struggling with depression. You never know.”

“Right,” Tyler responded.

The door opened again, this time with aggression. Tyler’s head jerked. Another false alarm.

“You seem a bit jumpy. Is everything OK?”

“I’m good,” he said apologetically, offering no explanation.

The food arrived. Tyler watched Julia as she bit into a potato chip. Not a baked veggie crisp as Renee would have forced him to order, but a greasy one with ruffles. He smiled in her direction. “You like potato chips?”

“Who doesn’t?”

The perfect woman, he thought.

They both ate a few mouthfuls while Julia tried to recall other potential suspects. None came to mind.

“That’s OK,” Tyler said. “Give it more thought over the next few days. I’ll start with Hannah. She sounds like a promising lead.”

The phone vibrated again. Another call from Renee. The location tracker told him she was not in pursuit, but had driven home, probably in a huff. He ignored the call, then looked back toward his lovely lunch partner.

“So,” he said, feeling more at ease. “What are you writing?” He had never really cared about journalism, but Julia seemed a good reason to start.

She swallowed down a bite of chicken salad sandwich. “I just got the green light from RAP for a series of features. Stories about dark zones and bright spots.”

“The power grid?”

She laughed. “No. Economic regions. Dark zones follow general trends of financial decline. Bright spots show signs of growth. I plan to paint real-life portraits that embody the larger trends.”

Tyler sensed an opportunity. “I don’t traffic many light spots.”

“Bright spots,” she corrected with a charming grin.

“Right. Bright spots. But if dilapidated buildings and crack houses are any indication, I can probably introduce you to a few of my clients living in dark spots.”

“Dark zones.”

“Right.”

“What kind of clients?” she asked.

He had made a misstep. Working with a federal official sounded impressive. Spying on cheating lovers sounded pathetic. Was pathetic.

“I can’t reveal specifics for obvious reasons,” he recovered, “but I serve a niche in the private investigation field that keeps me in touch with the lower classes.”

Julia scrunched her nose at the slight.

“I mean, dark zone residents,” he corrected himself.

“Well, I have a few bright spot families lined up already,” she said. “They seem open to talking. But I’ll have a harder time finding willing victims on the other end of the spectrum.”

“Like?”

“Like people living in areas with higher concentrations of transitions.”

Surprised, Tyler asked, “Don’t you mean lower concentrations of transitions?”

“No, higher.”

“But I always thought the point was to transition wealth to younger families.”

“So they say.” She paused. “Which reminds me. I’ll also need households with few or no kids.”

“Why’s that?”

“Something about the combination of low fertility and high transitions correlates to economic decline.”

“Hmm.”

“Childless adults who’ve transitioned their parents would be the ideal interviews. Do you know any?”

Tyler tried reconciling the question with reality. Or, rather, with the reality he had always assumed.

“I know,” Julia said to his bewildered stare. “It sounds counterintuitive. But the numbers don’t lie. Trust me, my husband is an expert on this stuff.”

Tyler frowned at the mention of a husband. Then he silently rebuked his imagination for entertaining possibilities.

“I can send you a list of dark zone streets and zip codes. Maybe you could look it over to see if you know anyone who’d be willing to chat. That would really help me out.”

Her voice carried an appreciative detachment that made him feel like a guy hearing “We can still be friends.”

“Sure thing,” he agreed with a sigh. “I’ll do what I can.”

The phone vibrated: Renee calling, probably semi-distraught and eager to apologize for the earlier tiff. Tyler smiled at his girlfriend’s predictable pattern.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I need to take this call.”