I called Paula Claybeck the instant I was back at the car. She picked up, thank God.
“Dr. Claybeck,” I said. “Van Shaw. Hollis’s friend.”
“Oh, I’m aware. You said you would lose my number.”
“I need a small favor.”
“Color me surprised.” Claybeck didn’t seem too grateful that I’d helped extricate her from Ondine’s clutches. But then, maybe the good doctor felt she’d traded the frying pan for the fire.
“I need to compare two DNA samples for paternity,” I said.
“Honestly, dragging me into your baby mama troubles?”
In a few sentences I laid out what I needed. A long pause followed.
“That’s not something I can do here at any rate,” Claybeck said. “DNA comparison requires specialized equipment to separate the fragments and review the profiles.”
“I guessed.”
“I’ll call a friend and see if he would be willing to fit the analysis into his day. Take down this address.” She read it off. A street in the southern part of the Central District. “Unless I call and tell you differently, meet me there at seven o’clock in the morning. The process will require at least a few hours. Hours unencumbered by you hanging over his shoulder.”
“Understood.” I almost had to stop myself from adding “ma’am.” Claybeck had that superior officer vibe down cold.
“Don’t be late.”
Un-damn-likely. I would be counting the minutes. Sleep might be impossible. It was like a twisted version of Christmas Eve as a child, agonizing through the hours until morning and time to see what presents had appeared under the tree.
Not that the yuletide had ever been so showy with Dono. My grandfather had kept our festivities to an extra slab of meat and some dessert on the dinner table, with a gift or two wrapped crudely in newspaper and garden twine as the centerpiece. Usually winter clothes or something I needed for school. But there was always cash on Christmas morning, too, and Dono never gave a crap what I spent it on. Spider-Man comics and a candy feast for me and Davey Tolan from the 7-Eleven later that same afternoon was the standard spree.
Now I held what might be the conclusive link to my father in my hand, and there was nothing to do but wait.
Stanley snuffed from his tractor-tire-sized bed in the corner, battling some dreamland adversary. Normally he’d be in Cyndra’s room, occupying ninety percent of the mattress, but when I’d spread blankets on the couch around midnight he had padded out to join me, a yawn stretching his huge maw. The dog had apparently determined that he and I were guarding the castle gates together.
It was near five o’clock in the morning. For the past hour, my mind had been turning over what Burke had said about his buddy in law enforcement, how the Fed had put everything on the line to help Burke. That if the bust of Liashko went south, they would all be finished.
Burke saw his C.I. status as transactional. I had the same opinion. If Liashko wasn’t caught, Martens’s career might be flushed and Burke’s chances of survival would follow it down the same drain. No criminal trial equaled no escape into WITSEC. The man in charge, U.S. Attorney Palmer Stratton, would wipe his hands clean of the whole debacle.
It was the smart move, politically. Burke would be abandoned, forced to run. Anatoly Liashko didn’t seem to lack for trigger men to chase after him.
I finally tossed the sheets aside. Better to get something done than to fruitlessly pursue rest that I knew wasn’t coming.
Addy kept her home computer perched incongruously on a delicate secretary desk that she’d owned for fifty years. Her original computer had been a creaker, close to joining the desk in antiquity, until Cyndra had insisted on a model that could handle a teenage-sized gaming habit.
I switched on the PC and pulled up a browser, searching for news on the recall election for governor.
The race had narrowed to three contenders. Stratton, the Democratic candidate, still showed a narrow lead in the polls. His Republican challenger, Fulcher, had made headway by trumpeting his ties to business growth as a congressman in Spokane. The independent third party, Barrish, had no chance judging from the poll numbers. She had barely pulled enough donors to be included in the debates two nights before.
I clicked on a KIRO-TV news video to skim through the latest debate. It was about as enlightening as I’d expected, meaning not at all. Every question the moderator threw to the candidates was quickly spun into whatever sound bites the politician wanted to repeat.
From what I saw, there wasn’t a whole lot of difference between the two front-runners. Both white guys around fifty, with the sleek look of weekly grooming and well-rehearsed hand gestures. Stratton’s money came from his family, Fulcher’s from his corporate career before he climbed the rungs of the state and national legislature.
I focused more on the verbal combat. Fulcher was on the attack, implying Stratton was an entitled kid from a long line of career politicians. Stratton parried by emphasizing his job putting crooks behind bars and counterpunched with Fulcher’s voting record, as evidence that Fulcher was far more right-wing than he claimed. Barrish ignored them both and appealed to the voters for action on corporate tax reform and housing inequality. Of the three, she seemed to be the one stressing her actual platform. Fulcher and Stratton were too busy fighting tooth and nail for every undecided voter.
Addy came into the room, swathed in her white Turkish robe with navy piping. Her silver hair stuck out in conical clumps instead of its usual slim spikes. Stanley’s tail thumped the armrest.
“I didn’t think you cared about politics,” Addy said, closing one eye against the blue-white glare of the screen.
“I don’t.” I muted the video. The debate raged on in silence.
“Could have fooled me. It’s usually Cyndra I’m telling to not sit so close.”
It was true that I hadn’t taken my eyes off the arguing candidates. Addy sat down on the couch, shooing Stanley to curl himself onto the remaining cushions.
“Have you learned any more about—your father?” she said.
My jacket was hanging on the dowel pegs by the door. I retrieved it and took the sealed plastic bag with the swab from Burke from the pocket to show Addy.
“He gave me this. To have it tested.”
“Oh, my. That’s huge. So he and your mother were a couple.”
“I doubt Burke would put it like that. And,” I admitted, “maybe Moira had other boys, too. But something makes me doubt it. If she and Burke hooked up as kids, my guess is that he’s the only one.”
“And your father. How do you feel about that?”
Like I’d opened a treasure chest to find that the gold doubloons inside carried a curse. Like I was sorry I’d ever asked.
“Burke’s right in the middle of bad times, with bad people. I talked to Wren about him some last night. She implied knowledge is power. That by understanding the kind of person Burke is, I can make sure I’m different.”
Addy didn’t say anything. She knew me well enough to imagine that drawing that line could be so easy.
“Wren, eh?” she said with an upbeat tone. “She’s quite something.”
“Yeah. I like her. She’s . . . direct.”
“It’s nice you’re looking to the future. Not that I assume you two will become soulmates. But all of this”—Addy handed back the sealed bag—“is really just talking about what’s already passed. It’s not the same as leading your own life.”
“Whatever happened, I’ll find out the truth today.” I pocketed the swab.
Addy idly scratched Stanley’s ear. “You don’t have to. I’m not sure I would, in your place.”
The computer was still running the video of the debate. Candidates shook hands and waved to the crowd, each of them beaming a huge smile to communicate victory. I switched it off.
“I’ve come too far to let this go now,” I said.