We didn’t get to bed until four in the morning. Four. It took that long for all the witness interviews to be done and the street to be cleared so the trams could get back in to retrieve The Girls’ guests. The hospital confirmed that Santa hat had been shot and he wasn’t the only one. Palfry panicked and fired warning shots that were less of a warning and more of an assault with a deadly weapon. It was just dumb luck that he only hit two partiers and neither were seriously injured. He said he didn’t hit the boy, but I’m not sure if he’d know that for a fact. Loftis admitted to firing his weapon but didn’t think he hit anyone until the enraged firefighter he winged limped up and punched him in the nose.
Considering the night’s insane events, I have to say everyone took it well, except for me perhaps. I had road rash on my knees from kneeling on the icy snow and it suggested things that I’d rather not have suggested. And people could not stop suggesting it. Everyone thought it was hilarious. And, yes, I changed out of my dress into knee-concealing sweats, but the damage was done. There were photos and bat boy did manage to get enough footage of my chest that I was once again trending on Twitter.
Mickey Stix called at three and wanted me in that dress for the next DBD album cover. The angle in the photo made me look…unnatural, and he was all about it. On the upside, I used the dress as a bargaining chip to get Dr. Halifax the swag she wanted for keeping my turtle transgression under wraps. Mickey agreed to send everything she wanted and then some. It meant I’d be on the next cover, but I’d pretty much accepted that already. Mickey’s daughter, Peek-a-boo, was upset that we hadn’t gone to Greece and he was sort of blackmailing me over it. I wasn’t against going to Greece, but things happened. Things were constantly happening. Waking up that morning to Chuck’s tremendous snoring and gas was a case in point. I needed sleep, but it wasn’t happening next to the smelly grizzly bear with congestion, so I rolled out of bed at seven-thirty, threw on a robe, and hobbled down the stairs on my sore knees, not expecting anyone else to be conscious.
I was right, but someone was up. Sort of. Rocco was conked out in the kitchen on Lester’s chair, fully clothed and drooling. He had on clean clothes, so he’d gone to bed. I couldn’t imagine why he’d be up. The Girls weren’t going anywhere. They’d stay in bed until the afternoon.
I tiptoed across the kitchen and turned on the espresso maker. If I couldn’t sleep I had to be caffeinated. There was a job to be done and I was a Watts. We did not kick up our heels, even on Sundays, as Dad reminded me on his way out.
The case. I’d dreamt about it. Disjointed dreams with faces appearing and disappearing. Kimberly singing. Anton coming at me. Baby pictures. Green fog. Dad lecturing. Ann frowning.
I pushed the button for a latte, holding my breath as the beans were ground and tamped down. Rocco was still dead to the world and I went searching for something to eat. The kitchen was a wreck. A contracted cleaning crew would show up at noon so Joy or the maids wouldn’t have to do anything, but I wasn’t sure I could stand it. I’m no neat freak but seeing the counters would be nice.
My latte finished and I found some bread to gnaw on. Normally, there would be lots of food left over, but since everyone stayed hours longer than expected I was lucky to find a crust.
I was considering calling Aaron and begging for sustenance when Rocco said, “Where’d you find that?”
“Under a chafing dish,” I said. “Why are you up?”
He yawned and stretched. “It’s Sunday.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Hello,” he said. “Mass at eight.”
“Hello,” I said. “Mass at five.”
Rocco smacked his forehead so hard he fell back in the chair. “I friggin’ forgot. Jesus H. Christ. I’m an idiot.”
I looked at him piously. “And on a Sunday, too.”
“Bite me, blondie.” He got up and snatched the bread out of my hand.
“Hey!”
“Whatever.” He split it and gave me half before finding The Girls’ little Moka pot for a real espresso. “Why are you up?”
“Chuck smells and snores. Plus, I still have a job to do,” I said.
“Yeah, I heard your dad. He’s not intense at all.”
“Speaking of intense, I think Fats was a little better last night.”
The kettle started whistling and Rocco assembled the pot mindlessly as he thought about what I said. With the pot on the burner, he turned around and said, “No. She’s not.”
I raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“She’s my sister. I know when she’s putting on a show. She felt terrible. I don’t think she kept anything down. We have to figure something out.”
I thought about what to say and how much. Tiny had told me about their mom, Gloria, but I wasn’t sure how that was going to go over with Rocco.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m working on it,” I said.
“My mom isn’t going to do anything.”
“Yeah, I got that.” Here goes. “Tiny clued me in.”
The pot started gurgling and Rocco took it to the sink to run the bottom under cold water. “Did he?”
“I won’t mention it to Fats,” I said.
He nodded and poured himself a perfect espresso. “This is going to get worse.”
“The morning sickness? It might not.”
“She’s going to have to give birth eventually.”
I frowned. The point was eluding me completely. “That’s the plan.”
“You haven’t thought about that?” he asked.
“Er…not really. I’m doing the baby shower, but that’s as far ahead as I’ve gotten.”
“What are the chances that she doesn’t have a C-section?” Rocco asked, totally astonishing me. Here was a character who looked questionable at best, drinking espresso and thinking not about a future bank heist, but his sister’s birth plan.
“I haven’t given it an ounce of thought.”
“She has and she’s freaked,” he said. “Tiny was a whopper. Fourteen pounds. His mom had a C-section. So did my mom. Those two didn’t exactly get off to a good start.”
“That’s hardly Fats’ fault.”
“Tell that to my mother.”
I didn’t know what to say. When in doubt, pivot. “C-sections aren’t that bad these days. Minimal scarring and excellent pain control.”
Rocco put his finger on the side of his nose.
“No,” I said.
“She’s scared to death of taking anything. Didn’t Tiny tell you that?”
I pounded my latte and went for another. “She’ll have to. It’s surgery.”
“It’s Fats,” said Rocco. “Have to isn’t in her vocabulary.”
“Well, maybe it won’t happen,” I said. “How big was she?”
“Twelve pounds a week early. And we’re talking the baby of Fats and Tiny. She’s going to be bigger. She has to be.”
“Maybe not. How big were you?” I asked.
“Seven and a half.”
“There you go.”
Rocco stared at me with half-lidded eyes, disappointment radiating off him.
“I know. I know. But the scans will tell us more and we can plan,” I said.
“You’ve noticed planning and Fats work out, have you?”
“No, she just does her thing.”
He sighed. “And she’s been doing her thing since day one. That comes from being a macro in a world of micros.”
“What was it like to be her brother?” I’d been wanting to ask that for a while.
He pulled out his wallet. “I’ll show you.” He slid out a picture and handed it to me.
“Holy crap!” I looked down at a photo of Fats and Rocco and it was hard to believe what I was seeing.
“I’m two and a half there,” he said. “She’s six months.”
They say a picture says a thousand words and does it ever. The photo he gave me was a studio shot with Rocco and Fats posed together in a typical way. Big brother behind little sister, holding her. That’s where the normality ended.
Rocco was a typical two and a half year old. I’d have guessed him at fifty percent on the height and weight charts. Fats, on the other hand, was off the chart. He was holding her, but, at six months, she was bigger than him. The oddest thing was that she wasn’t really fat. She was just massive.
“She walked at eight months and beat me up at ten,” he said.
“Why?”
“I took her bear. She kept me in a headlock until Dad pried her off me.”
I looked back at the picture. Both kids were smiling. There was genuine love in Rocco’s eyes. Of course, Fats hadn’t beat him up yet.
“You look happy and very cute.”
He grinned at me. “We were good looking. Thank God. Can you imagine if Fats had been ugly?”
I shuddered. It would’ve been bad. “Both your parents are good looking. The odds were in your favor.”
“Have you seen Uncle Moe?” he asked.
“I take it back. You dodged a bullet.” I handed the photo back and he looked down with both fondness and dismay.
“When I was a kid, I kept praying that God would switch us.”
“Huh?”
“It was like I got her size and she got mine. I was a boy. I wanted to be the big one and we were so alike. I mean, I look more like Dad and she’s more like Mom but—”
“Let me see that.” I held out my hand.
Rocco made a face and handed over the photo. “Why?”
“Hold on.” I examined the photo, my mind pinging around wildly. Once I got past the size difference, I saw Fats and Rocco. I saw Gloria and Tony. Of course, I’d seen it in the family photos that Tiny had shown me, but the photo in my hand was pure. No makeup. No hair gel. Just them. Brother and sister. Fats had her mother’s tremendous size and bone structure. That overshadowed everything else it was so pronounced, but when you got down to it, Fats Licata looked like her Dad and brother, too. And they looked like her.
I dashed out of the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Rocco yelled after me. “That’s the only one we’ve got!”
I ran through the house, dodging balloons and drinks tables, to dart into the library. It was pretty normal in there, except for the piles of wrapping paper from the children’s gifts. Every child at the party got three gifts, a savings bond, a book, and a toy, lovingly selected by The Girls. I waded through the paper, bows, and ribbons to the shelf where I’d stashed the Thooft albums.
Rocco plowed into the mess and demanded, “I want my picture back.”
“Don’t have a conniption. I need it for just a second.”
“For what?” he asked. “We’ve got nothing to do with the Thoofts.”
“But you can prove something for me,” I said. “Help me clear an area.”
Rocco and I stuffed the mess in a corner and I got down, rather painfully, onto my knees. He stood there, watching in confusion.
“Come on.” I waved him down and he knelt beside me.
“What are we doing?”
“You’ll see.” I flipped through the eighties album until I found Kimberly. The photo of Anthony holding her was useless, but the one of her holding onto Ann’s leg was good. I slipped it out of its spot and laid it on the floor. “Help me find similar pictures of Anton, Gregory, and Kevin.”
We set to work and found them in short order, laying out the photos in a four square.
“Do you see it?” I asked.
“I see some kids,” said Rocco. “What of it?”
“Look closer.”
He bent over and eyed the photos. “They’re cute, healthy, and normal. The clothes are terrible. Is that polyester?”
“Oh, for crying out loud.” I pointed at the photos again.
“What am I looking for?”
I gave him the picture of him and Fats. “Look at the two of you and now look at them.”
He did as I asked and then sat up, frowning. “Yeah, but you know genetics isn’t an exact science.”
I smacked his arm. “Yes, it is.”
“So she doesn’t look like her brothers. So what? It’s a fluke or…like we were talking about yesterday.” He winked at me. “Mom had a little visit from the milkman.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m calling Holt.”
“It’s Sunday,” he said. “Church.”
“I’ll leave a message.”
I dialed and Rocco looked again. He came up less convinced. “You’re going to need more than that. Look at you, for instance. Are you a gangly anorexic-looking redhead? I don’t think so.”
“You’re missing the point,” I said.
“Are you sure you have a point?”
I was about to smack him down with a stinging retort that I hadn’t quite thought of yet, but someone answered the phone. I was all ready with my message and I was at a loss when Holt said, “Mercy?”
“Oh, I…uh.”
“Are you okay?”
“I thought you’d be at church,” I said.
“I would normally, but we had a bit of a blowout last night and I’m not welcome,” said Holt, sounding tired but not exactly unhappy about it.
“Did they find out about the albums and our meeting?”
“Did they ever.”
Apparently, Ann had a few informants in town and one called her to say that she’d seen Holt going into the shoe company carrying albums. A huge blowout ensued when Holt got back to the farm. Ann demanded to know what had happened. He refused to tell her. She wanted me fired and Kimberly agreed, but Holt said that was only because that’s what Kim did, she agreed with Ann. Gregory and Kevin were taken off guard and didn’t want me fired. They didn’t see the problem at all and neither did Anthony. Everyone wanted to know what we talked about, but Holt wouldn’t give an inch on that. I gathered there were threats from Ann and then Anthony, mainly because he wanted the yelling to stop.
“So am I fired?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Ann threatened to kick my practice off the farm and I walked out. Kim wouldn’t talk to me and cried all night. This morning she said it was best if I stayed home, so I did.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be,” he said. “All Ann’s yelling did was make me sure we were on the right track. I’m not stopping. I’ll pay you myself, especially after Stephanie.”
“What about Stephanie?”
“Didn’t I mention that?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t know where my head is,” he said. “She followed me out last night when I left. I don’t think they know though.”
“Anton did something to her, didn’t he?” I asked.
“How did you know?”
“I could tell when I was at the farm.”
Holt was surprised I knew. He hadn’t detected anything in Stephanie’s manner that raised a red flag and was completely taken aback when she chased him down with her information. She’d wanted to tell me but couldn’t bring herself to go against Ann. Stephanie and Kevin got married in October of 2002. Kevin always said his sister was his favorite singer even though she hardly ever sang, so Stephanie asked Kimberly to sing their first dance song as a surprise. Kimberly sang “Vision of Love” by Mariah Carey and she blew the roof off. Kevin was thrilled. The wedding band wanted to hire her. The guests went wild with the glaring exceptions of Ann and Anton.
Later, Stephanie was in the ladies’ room and heard Ann haranguing Kimberly about showing off and not being a lady. She said she’d made other guests feel bad and that she shouldn’t have sang and left it to the professionals that were hired to do a job. It was a combination of accusations and compliments that made Stephanie think something weird was going on. She caught up with Kimberly later and found her in tears. To comfort her she told her that she should go on American Idol. The first season had just finished a month before and people were still talking about it. The women discussed the idea, how she would get there, what it would be like, but unfortunately Anton heard them. Later, he grabbed Stephanie, still in her wedding dress, and dragged her outside into the alley. He shoved her against the wall and threatened her. He said that if he found out that she ever tried to get his sister on American Idol or any other show, she’d be sorry. When she protested, he smacked her and went back inside. Stephanie was stunned and terrified. When she went inside, there was Anton laughing and talking like nothing happened. She decided he must be crazy and kept it to herself.
“She didn’t tell Kevin?” I asked.
“No, but she told her family and her friends,” said Holt. “She says they will back her up if you want to talk to them.”
“Well, I already knew he didn’t have a problem beating up a woman. This just backs that up.”
“I thought you’d want to know,” he said. “I wish she’d told Kevin. Maybe they could’ve done something about Anton.”
“I doubt it would’ve made any difference,” I said. “Is everyone at church?”
“As far as I know. They’d have to be on their deathbeds to miss it.”
“Can you get into the house?”
Holt hesitated, but he said, “What do you need?”
“A picture of Kimberly’s baby picture.”
Rocco snorted and said, “All babies look alike.”
I pointed at Fats.
“Almost all.”
“I can do that,” said Holt with a worried tone. “Are you still thinking that Ann…ya know?”
“No, I’m not.” I waited to see if he’d get it, but all he said was, “Thank goodness. If you showed up here, saying Ann had an affair, I don’t like your chances.”
“I can take care of myself,” I said.
Rocco snorted again and I wanted to bite him.
“I’m walking over now,” said Holt. “Give me five minutes.”
He hung up and I started through the albums again. “Not all babies look alike.”
“You were blonde and plump with a rosy cheeks and a button nose, I bet,” he said.
“You weren’t,” I said.
Rocco shrugged. “I said most.”
“Explain this.” I laid out first grade school pictures. Three blonds and Kimberly, the lone brunette.
“She had an Italian grandmother. That would account for the good looks.” He grinned at me.
“If you’d look you’d see it.” I got a little evil. “Fats would see it.”
He gritted his teeth and stood up. “I’m getting coffee. Don’t ask me. I’m not getting anything for you.”
“You know I’m right,” I called after him.
My phone dinged and there it was. Not a great shot since Kimberly’s baby photo had been framed forty years ago, but, to my dismay, Rocco was right. She was a generic baby and wearing one of those newborn stocking caps so that I couldn’t even see her hair. The photo was faded enough that her eyebrows were an indistinct color. She was tiny. I’d have guessed thirty-three or thirty-four weeks. So much for something obvious. Rocco would never let me forget it.
“What are you right about?” Fats walked in, wearing lime green workout wear stretched to the limit over her belly and a white fur jacket that had no hope of closing.
“Where’s Moe?” I asked automatically. That dog was practically an appendage.
“She’s working the old folks home with Uncle Moe.”
Working?
“Oh, okay,” I said.
“Back to my question, what are you right about?” Fats asked.
“That you would see what I’m getting at,” I said.
“Rocco’s not the brightest bulb.” She took off her abominable snow coat and tossed it on the love seat. “What am I looking for?”
I pointed at the photos and printed Kimberly’s baby pic on Myrtle’s photo printer. I slapped it down next to the others and Fats raised an eyebrow. I smiled. “I knew it.”
My phone rang and it was Holt. “Anything else?”
“This is a little off the wall, but are there other albums, ones from Anthony’s and Ann’s childhoods?”
“Not that I’ve seen, but I’ll look in the cupboard.” He shuffled around. Doors opened and closed. “Sorry, no. Why do you want those?”
“I have an idea,” I said. “Are there any family photos from back in the day?”
“A few on the wall. They’re not all great quality,” said Holt.
“That’ll work,” I said.
Holt sent me four photos, but I only needed one. Ann at about twelve, all dressed up with perfect blonde curls and wearing a lovely cardigan and pleated skirt. I printed it and the others for good measure.
“That’s all I need,” I said. “You better get out of there before you get caught.”
“I’m already out,” said Holt. “They’ll be back any minute. What has this got to do with Kim’s singing and Anton?”
“I’m working that out. I’ll let you know as soon as I have the definitive answer.”
Holt wasn’t happy, but he let me go with that promise. I would tell him, but the pictures weren’t enough.
Rocco came in with the Moka pot and groaned, “Shouldn’t you be home heaving?”
“Nice,” said Fats. “I hear you can’t put two and two together as usual.”
“Look, Fatzilla,” said Rocco. “I got it, but a bunch of pictures doesn’t prove that Ann was messing around. She might have an Italian grandmother. Who knows.”
I handed him one of the latest photos, Ann and Anthony’s wedding, and Rocco cocked his head to the side. “That’s a whole lot of blonds.”
The two other photos were family reunions. Rocco tilted his head to the side. “Okay. It doesn’t look good. What’s the theory? Ann cheated and Kimberly’s somebody else’s kid and that made Anton nuts ‘cause he knew? That’s stupid. So what? It happens. If Mom hadn’t been Paul Bunyan, I’d have thought you were Bad Sampson’s kid.”
“Bad Sampson?” Fats asked.
“That enormous dude that lived on the corner, used to throw things at us,” said Rocco.
“That guy? You would’ve thought Mom did that guy? He got beat with an ugly stick.”
“He was a prize fighter.”
“Not a good one.”
“That’s not the point,” said Rocco. “You didn’t look like Dad.”
“Yes, I do.” Fats pointed between her eyes and Rocco’s. “We’ve got the same eyes, dipstick.”
“That’s the point,” I said. “Kimberly hasn’t got anyone’s eyes or chin or hair or skin.”
Rocco dropped down and looked at the photos again. “She has to. It’s just not obvious.”
“It’s not obvious because it’s not there,” said Fats. “What made you think of it?”
“You and Rocco,” I said. “Your mom. Your dad. They’re in you. I saw that and I didn’t see it when I was at the farm. But I didn’t dwell on it because it’s crazy.”
“Yes, it is,” said Rocco. “What makes you so certain now?”
“Because Ann lied,” I said, “and Kimberly told me that the very first time I met her.”
Rocco and Fats both said a simultaneous, “Huh?”
I held up the picture of Ann. “Ann told Kimberly that she was a bottle blonde and Kimberly dyed hers to look like her mother. She believes they’re both natural brunettes. The evidence that her mother was lying to her was right in front of her the whole time.”
“I copied my mom when she dyed her hair red,” said Fats softly. “It made things worse.”
“In this case, it made things better,” I said, flipping to the page in the album when Kimberly became blonde at about fourteen. “She doesn’t stand out anymore.”
“She’s not their kid,” said Rocco.
“No,” I said, “and Anton was the only one who knew it.”
Spidermonkey was at brunch when I called him and one of his buddies was telling a story about golf. Spidermonkey loved golf. He didn’t love hearing about golf.
“Saved by the Mercy,” he said. “Tell me there’s an emergency.”
“Well…”
“There’s an emergency. Irwin has been in that sand trap for a half hour.”
“Change the subject,” I suggested.
“Impossible. He loves a captive audience,” he said. “Did you think about what I said?”
When did you say what?
“Sure. Of course. I’m mulling it over.”
“I’m so disappointed. You’re a better liar than that,” said Spidermonkey.
“Sorry. I didn’t get a lot of sleep,” I said.
“I’m surprised you’re up.”
“Me, too.”
“Snoring?”
“Yep,” I said. “We talked last night, didn’t we?”
“We did. After the shootings. Before the interviews.”
I’d forgotten in the adrenaline rush and chaos. “Remind me of the gist.”
The gist was pretty good and I had to be seriously frazzled to forget it. Novak in Paris had gotten back with his deep dive into Anton’s online activities or rather what was made to look like Anton’s activities. On the surface, it appeared that Anton had gone to Incel and 4chan sites to look at discussions and photos of violence against women, but Novak concluded that he hadn’t. The evidence was planted and they didn’t do a great job if you thought about it and Novak was great at thinking. The history showed Anton going to pages, but he never clicked on anything. He stayed on the first page of every discussion. He didn’t scroll. He didn’t go into discussions that branched off from the original.
To make sure this was abnormal behavior for the kind of guys that visited the sites, Novak’s data guys did what they did best. Data. The behavior Anton was supposed to have done wasn’t just odd, it downright never happened. Incels loved to look, scroll, and talk. They couldn’t shut up. Anton never made a single comment. He didn’t dive into the depths of any site. It was all superficial. When Novak looked at the photos found on his computer, although they were tagged from certain sites at the time of download, he found all kinds of discrepancies. Anton downloaded photos from sites before they were on the sites. Photos had identifiers that were wrong and, most interestingly, Anton had never looked at them. They were simply put on the computer and left there. Not typical Incel behavior at all. If they downloaded a photo, they looked at it. A lot. Novak would eventually unravel where the plants had come from, but it would take a day or so.
Spidermonkey had been busy, too. He’d taken Anton’s finances back to the studs, looking for unusual patterns or abrupt changes in the weeks before he came back to the States. After hours of pinpointing transactions, he finally found what he was looking for. A change. Two months before my abduction, Anton started taking money out of an ATM in Sindelfingen. It wasn’t near where he lived and he didn’t appear to be a shopping kind of guy. At first, it was small amounts. A hundred euros here and there. Then, two days after I found the evidence about the liquor cabinet, the amount went way up to 300 euros and he started taking it out every couple of days. He took cash out of other ATMs, too. There was no evidence that he was buying anything. He didn’t talk about it on Facebook or texts. In fact, during the short period before he came to the States, he stopped texting friends almost completely and when he did, he was perfunctory.
“He was being blackmailed,” I said.
“I don’t see what else it could be, but what could they have on a middle-aged high school teacher?” Spidermonkey asked.
“Well,” I said, “let me tell you.”
Spidermonkey typed as I told him what I’d put together and was quiet when I finished. Fats and Rocco watched me with identical stubborn looks on their faces. I would never tell them how much they looked alike when they did that and it made me all the more confident in my conclusion.
“Are you not buying it?” I asked. “I can send you the photos. We can do facial analysis, if you like.”
“No need. You’re right. Everything points to it.”
Fats mouthed, “What?”
I shrugged and asked, “Okay, so what’s the problem? Other than proving it, I mean. There’s DNA. I’m sure I can swing that with Holt’s help.”
“Yes, I think that is fairly simple,” said Spidermonkey.
“But…”
He took a breath and said, “I’m a father, Mercy. I love my children beyond what I can express.”
“I know,” I said confused.
“What happened to Ann’s baby?” he said and my whole body went cold. I hadn’t thought of that. “And where did she get a baby at precisely the right time that she needed it?”
I took a breath and told Fats and Rocco what he said. Fats touched her belly tenderly and Rocco went red in the face.
“Maybe there wasn’t a baby,” I said. “Women have been known to fake it.”
“One can hope.”
“We need that birth certificate,” I said.
“I’m working on it,” he said.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “I’ll get Holt to find it. Can you get into the hospital in St. Seb and look for records on Kimberly’s birth?”
“Sorry, no. They’re not required to keep anything past ten years and a birth record from 1980? Forget it.”
“There has to be something to show if she had a baby or not,” I said.
Rocco grinned at me. “Insurance.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look,” said Fats.
“If you weren’t pregnant.”
“What?” she asked. “You’d get pounded faster.”
The siblings began bickering and I left the library. I had to think and rivalry wasn’t good for that.
“Insurance,” I said.
“I’m accessing their financials and I’ll find Ann’s current doctor. Something may turn up,” said Spidermonkey, “and, Mercy, we need to think about who was blackmailing Anton.”
“I’m thinking about it.” I went up the stairs slowly with my mind going in ten different directions. “What did Anton’s phone show?”
“Nothing of significance.”
“Can you look again?”
“Of course,” he said. “What for specifically?”
I explained that if we were right and someone had sent Anton on a mission to nab me, then they were unlikely to stay out of touch. They’d want updates on his progress. I’d expect him to contact them asap when he’d gotten me in that trunk.
“Got it,” said Spidermonkey. “I’ll look for a false front.”
“Eh?”
“An app that’s disguised as something else to hide what the user’s really doing.”
“Like texting their blackmailer,” I said.
“Exactly.”
We hung up and I snuck into my room to find Chuck doing his version of da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Yes, he was buck naked on top of the covers and still snoring and off gassing old eggs. Under his arms were Pickpocket and Skanky, curled up tight and apparently unbothered by the tremendous racket coming out of Chuck’s face.
I hurried into the closet and threw on jeans and one of Chuck’s flannels. He’d worn it into supreme softness and I’d been eying it for a while. This was my first chance to steal it. It was his own fault for making it so comfy and leaving it unguarded in my closet. At least, that would be my defense when he caught me wearing it.
I yanked on some boots and scooted to the door. Who was there waiting? The poodle. I didn’t know Pick had a look that said, “Ha, I caught you,” but he did.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered, trying to push him out of the way, but he latched onto my wrist and I was forced to drag him into the hall.
“What are you doing?” Fats asked with her hands on her hips.
“Trying to go to St. Seb,” I said.
“Without the dog?”
“That was the hope.”
“You promised to take him everywhere,” she said as she checked her Python for flaws and then stuck it back in her holster.
“But hear me out, I don’t want to,” I said.
Fats turned around and did her muscle bound sashay to the stairs. “Give that a try and see how it works out.”
“You could help me.”
“I am.”
I dragged Pick to the stairs and pulled out my phone to call Holt, who was oddly breathless.
“I got it,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m freaking out here. I went back to the house and I looked and I see it now. I don’t know what to do. They just got back. They’re at the house.”
I pinned the phone between my head and shoulder and tried to pry Pick’s jaws off my wrist. “Get off,” I hissed.
“What?” Holt asked, panic rising in his voice.
“Not you. Hold on.” I shook my arm and told Pick, “Fine. You can go, you big worthless fuzzball.”
The poodle did let go, but he gave me a hurt look. Dogs.
“Okay, Holt,” I said. “What happened?”
“I see it, but it can’t be,” he whispered.
“Are you alone?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why are you whispering?”
He paused and then said, “I don’t know.”
“Alright then.” I went down the stairs behind Fats, who may or may not have been doing a prego thing by going down a little sideways. I wasn’t about to ask. “What are you talking about?”
“You think Kimberly isn’t a Thooft,” he said.
“So do you.”
“I don’t. It can’t be. It’s crazy.”
“Be that as it may,” I said as I slipped on my coat and dug around in the enormous closet for a hat that would make me look cute and not chubby-cheeked.
“How would that even happen?” he asked. “The hospital accidentally switched babies and Ann ended up with somebody else’s kid?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because it wasn’t an accident,” I said. “They knew she wasn’t a Thooft and they were working to hide that fact.”
“They?” he asked softly. “You mean Ann.”
“And Anton. He knew.”
“It can’t be. There has to be another explanation,” said Holt. “We could be wrong.”
“You’re a vet. Do a couple of German Shepherds pop out a Corgi? I don’t think so.”
“No, but humans are not dogs. Our genetics are complicated.”
Are they? Really?
“I called for a reason. I need you to find Kimberly’s birth certificate.”
He surprised me by laughing. “You think Ann put the real parents on there? Give me a break.”
“No, but there might be something off about it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, it’s fake for starters,” I said.
Holt swallowed hard. “It should be in the office. Kim used it to get her passport a couple of years ago.”
I told him to text me and promptly ran into Rocco, who didn’t look at all happy.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he said. “Wait for me.”
“You’re not going,” said Fats.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I think I am. We just found out that Mercy was targeted by someone other than Anton Thooft. Ya think that guy’s gonna say, ‘Oh, well, shit. I guess I give up’?”
Fats grabbed her beloved brother by the throat. “I’m locked and loaded. Mercy doesn’t need protection from a 140 pound knitter.”
“180 pounds.” Rocco didn’t blink and I considered that a bit of a feat since she had him up like a ballet dancer. En point. “What are you going to do? Hurl on the next guy?”
“I’ll take care of business,” Fats said so intensely that I took a step back.
“Look,” I said. “I doubt any—”
“Quiet,” they both said.
“Fine.” I turned on my heels and booked it down the hall. I don’t know where I thought I was going. My truck was still at Egon’s, I didn’t have a loaner anymore, and even if I was good at hot-wiring cars (I wasn’t) I wouldn’t dare try it on Fats’ truck. She probably wouldn’t kill me, but she would hurt me and I was against that.
I flung open the door and stomped out into a snowstorm. Of course. Why wouldn’t it snow? Pick raced past me and dashed out, jumping and biting the fat flakes as they floated down.
Rodney has a car. It’s gross, but it moves.
I stomped down the snow-covered walk and my phone dinged. There it was, Kimberly’s birth certificate in all its fake glory. I let myself into the garage/stable and tried to figure out how to get Rodney to give up the keys to the world’s rustiest, smelliest Camaro while squinting at the print on the birth certificate.
I barely made it to the other door when the Licatas got me, both of them. They had me off my feet and away from the door like I weighed nothing, which I clearly did not.
“Look, you,” said Fats. “We’re going to do this right.”
“Who’s we?” I asked.
“Us. We.”
Rocco nodded. “We came to an understanding. I go and have my baby sister’s back and yours.”
“In exchange for what?” I asked.
“I don’t tell Calpurnia how much she’s really vomiting.” He pointed at Fats’ belly. “And I’m the baby’s godfather.”
“You have to drive The Girls to mass.”
“We’ll be back by then,” he said. “I’m going to check the alley. Wait here.”
Rocco went outside, hand inside his jacket on his weapon, just in case, and the door slammed shut behind him.
“He was always going to be her godfather, right?” I asked.
“I love him,” Fats said, “but he’s not the brightest.”
“And Calpurnia already knows?”
Fats sighed. “You think I can hide it from her? Not possible.”
“Then why is Rocco going?” I asked.
She smiled and a toothpick popped out on her lip. “He’s my brother and he wants to protect me.”
I wrinkled my nose.
“I know, but I gotta throw him a bone every once in a while. He is a man and this stuff’s important to them.”
Rocco came back and declared the alley clear of predators. I thought it was kinda stupid, but I did feel better. If The Klinefeld Group was behind Anton’s efforts, I could use all the protection I could get.