Five

“Thirteen thousand, two hundred and thirty-two? You’ve got to be kidding!”

I was on the phone with Jennifer Harvey, who worked in the public relations department at Jackson Memorial. She sounded young and a little green, but she recited the number of births last year at Jackson the minute I asked the question. She knew her stuff.

“Let me see,” I said, punching numbers on my calculator. “Divided by three hundred and sixty-five, that gives me thirty-six point twenty-five births a day.”

“Approximately,” Jennifer said perkily.

“Right,” I mumbled, jotting down the numbers. I had the phone wedged between my shoulder and my ear, and it was becoming uncomfortable. Just then Leonardo grunted loudly from the next room, where he was lifting weights. He sounded like a cow giving birth. I wondered what Jennifer thought of that.

She didn’t hear, or pretended not to. “I can’t give you the breakdown on males and females,” she said. “But you can just divide the number in half. That comes to six thousand, six hundred and sixteen females per year.”

Jennifer was no help when I asked her about Jackson’s procedures for registering births, but she transferred me to obstetrics, where a husky-voiced male nurse confirmed everything Mario told me. I also learned something interesting: Patients without their own private doctors ended up with “staff physician” on their birth certificates. Which confirmed that Allen Samuels, whoever he was, had definitely delivered Michelle Moreno, and that the mother had been his patient.

I had already learned that there were twenty-nine community hospitals in Dade County alone, most offering maternity services. There was no way I could investigate the female births at all of them in the time I had. I was stuck with a certificate that listed Jackson Memorial, but in reality the Morenos weren’t even sure Michelle was born in Dade County. All they had was Betancourt’s word—and he had proven himself completely unreliable. All I knew for certain was that the birth certificate Betancourt produced had never been registered with the Bureau of Vital Statistics.

Speaking of births, Leonardo’s delivery in the next room seemed to be progressing nicely. He screamed something incoherent in a high voice, then groaned again. A moment later I heard a loud thump as he dropped the weight to the floor.

I needed ideas. I got my magnifying glass out of my desk and inspected the documents the Morenos gave me. They looked just as genuine close up.

It bothered me that Betancourt hadn’t registered Michelle’s birth. Parents needed original, certified records for Social Security numbers, passports, government services. It didn’t make sense for Betancourt to assume that his clients would never do any of these things. A snake like Betancourt would be too careful to screw up, unless he had been sloppy on just the Morenos’ case. There was only one way to find out.

“Mr. Moreno? Guadalupe Solano speaking. I don’t have anything to report to you at this time.” I spoke quickly, not wanting to get his hopes up. “But I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Anita, please leave me alone for a moment. Close the door behind you.” I had called Jose Antonio at his office, and he dispatched his employee with cold imperiousness. But when he spoke to me, his voice became soft. “Anything, anything I can do to help.”

“How many copies of Michelle’s birth certificate did Elio Betancourt give you?”

“Ten—all certified. I remember the number, because I thought it was a lot of copies. Why do you ask?”

I heard grinding metal from the next room. Leonardo was about to start on his leg machine. “I’m working on something, Mr. Moreno, but I’d rather wait until I have more solid information before I go into it. I want to follow up on a couple of things before I get your hopes up.”

Jose Antonio was silent, but I could hear him breathe harsh and jagged into the phone.

“One more thing. Your wife mentioned she heard of Betancourt through her cousin Elvira. Could your wife call Elvira and find out how many birth certificates Betancourt gave her for her children, and if she might give you copies? I want to take a look at them.”

“Of course, of course,” Jose Antonio said, pathetically happy to finally be of use. The poor man was probably about to break. I knew the Cuban male mentality enough to be sure he wasn’t sharing his feelings with his wife. It isn’t the macho thing to do.

Just as I hung up the phone, I heard a shriek from the next room. I called out and Leonardo answered he was okay. I lived in daily fear that he was going to hurt himself working out in the office. I imagined emergency rooms, a long convalescence, and an almost total work stoppage at the agency.

Next I called my cousin Luisa at home. She’d had a baby boy a few months before Michelle Moreno was born. I asked to borrow her baby’s birth certificate for a few days, so I could compare a legitimate certificate with Michelle’s. Luisa, bored to tears at home, was happy to help. Prior to having her son, she was a senior account executive at Barnett Bank in Miami. She was overjoyed being a mother, but I knew her brain was turning to jelly at home alone every day.

I hung up the phone and stuck my head into the next room to see Leonardo contorted over his leg machine, looking like he was about to undergo a painful medical examination. Then my phone rang.

Jose Antonio didn’t waste time with preliminaries. “Elvira also has ten birth certificates for each of her children. I sent a messenger to her home to pick them up. You should have them within the hour.”

“Did Elvira ask Betancourt why he gave her so many?”

“Her husband did. Remember, he’s an accountant. He probably worried he’d be charged extra.” Jose Antonio laughed weakly. “Betancourt said he wanted them to have extra copies because it might take him a long time to file with the county.”

I didn’t say anything. Betancourt dealt with desperate people, the kind who didn’t ask questions.

“Now, Ms. Solano, I need you to be honest with me. Obviously you’ve found something.”

“The reason you and Elvira, and probably all the other adoptive parents, were given so many birth certificates is because Betancourt never intended to register your babies’ births in Dade County. I went to the Bureau of Vital Statistics today, and Michelle was never registered there. As far as the county is concerned, she was never born.”

Jose Antonio said nothing. I gave him a moment to take it all in. Then he shouted, “Anita, I told you to stay out of here! Leave, and close the door!”

I heard something in his voice I hadn’t expected: embarrassment. “I’d imagine the same is true with Elvira’s children,” I said. “I’ll be able to say more after I get the documents you sent me.” “Is this good or bad in terms of finding her birth mother?” Jose Antonio asked.

“I don’t know what it means. I’ll keep you posted on any developments as they arise, I promise.” I knew my reassurance sounded weak, but it was the best I could do.

“There’s one other thing,” he added, a little sheepishly. “Lucia … Lucia asked that you come to our home, to visit Michelle. My wife feels it would help somehow if you saw her.”

“How about tomorrow, after lunchtime?” I said, without thinking. This wasn’t the best idea in the world, I realized. The Morenos’ emotions were so strong that I might become caught up in them. Jose Antonio said he looked forward to seeing me, and hung up.

In less than an hour I held Elvira’s children’s birth certificates in my hand. I put them next to Michelle’s on my desk. The documents were identical except for the names of the children and parents and the dates of birth. The hospital was the same—Jackson Memorial. And the doctor was the same—Allen Samuels, his office address listed as the same as the hospital’s. All the documents looked completely authentic, down to the notary stamp for the state of Florida.

Leonardo came into my office and dropped into a client’s chair. He toweled sweat from his face for a while, then flexed his pecs through his tank top. He seemed pleased with his results for the day—so much so that I thought about offering him a mirror.

“Is there something you need, Leonardo?”

His eyes widened and he brushed a wet lock of hair from his forehead. “I just came in to say hello,” he said sheepishly. “I heard you on the phone earlier.”

“I’m surprised you heard me over your screaming. Did the birth go well? Should I send you a blue or a pink baby blanket?”

Leonardo shook his head and got up to leave. He was used to my sarcasm, but I was taking out too much of my frustration on him.

“Hey, Leonardo, I’m sorry,” I said to his retreating back.

“Whatever. I’d keep the door closed, but I want to be able to answer the phone if it rings.” His feathers ruffled for the moment, he waited in the doorway. “Anyway, I thought you’d want to hear my idea.”

I bit my tongue—literally—before I said something nasty about Charity, or Peacefulness, or whatever the hell her name was with the yoga lessons.

“You can’t find out where those kids came from, right? And you’re looking for a doctor at Jackson Memorial?” Leonardo shrugged. “I looked at the notes on your desk when you were out.”

“Fine, fine. What are you getting at?”

“Gladys Rodriguez,” Leonardo said. He waited for my memory to kick in and my eyes to light up, then happily left the room. I could hear him slapping out a beat on his tight stomach muscles as he made his way to his desk.

Gladys was the nurse who took care of my mother in the last painful months until her death. I remembered now, and apparently so did Leonardo, that Gladys worked for years in the neonatal unit at Jackson. She had retired a few years before, but she might have known Dr. Allen Samuels.

The moment she picked up the phone, the sound of Gladys’s voice—creaky, a little loud—took me back in time. “Dr. Samuels? Dr. Samuels? Let me think.”

Gladys was silent too long, and I was worried that her formerly sharp mind had dulled with age. “Lupe, querida, there were so many doctors there. Jackson is the teaching hospital for the University of Miami medical school. Sometimes residents, even medical students, delivered babies there. Also visiting doctors. There were so many … but Samuels, I remember him. I think he was there for a long time.”

Gladys sighed with a musical little exhalation. She had to have been well into her seventies, but she still sounded exactly the same.

“You know, I’m sure I remember him now,” she said. “A fine doctor. In fact, I think someone told me something about him not too long ago. Ay, my mind! Ever since I retired, I swear it retired too!”

I laughed with her. “You’re fine, Gladys. It’s good to hear you sounding so well.”

“I know. I’ll call my friend Regina. She was the assistant to the head of delivery at Jackson, so she’ll remember your Dr. Samuels. What do you need to know?”

“I need to know where he’s living now. I’m working on a case involving a baby he delivered.”

Gladys’s voice rose. “Oh, a case. I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were a detective, Lupe. You were such a nice girl.”

While I waited for Gladys to call back, I tried to think of a gift for Leonardo for helping me, and in case he stayed mad at me for making fun of him. I had settled on a jumbo tub of his favorite brand of disgusting bodybuilder’s protein shake, when my phone rang.

It was Gladys. “I just spoke with Regina. She says Dr. Samuels retired about five years ago, and she thinks he moved to North Carolina. He used to have a house there, him and his wife. Regina remembers going to his retirement party, as a matter of fact. She said he was a good doctor, but she thinks he had some kind of problem and that’s why he moved away. Is that enough, Lupe? Did I do all right?”

I could tell that for Gladys, this was more fun than watching telenovelas anytime.

“What kind of problem was she talking about?” I asked, getting the hot sensation in my ears I always felt when I was close to something important.

“No, I don’t know anything about that.” Gladys spoke abruptly; she liked to gossip, but I remembered she always felt protective of anyone in the medical profession.

“Gladys, do you think Regina would talk to me?” Now I really had the warm feeling.

“I’ll call her and make sure it’s okay, Lupe. I’ll call you right back,” Gladys said, and hung up.

It was Regina herself who phoned me. “Guadalupe Solano,” she said in a deep, rich voice. “I remember Gladys telling me about your family. She said your mother was a wonderful woman.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

“Gladys told me what you want to know about. I will help you, but not on the telephone. I want to meet you face-to-face.”

I quickly agreed. I was familiar with the mentality of the older-generation Cubans. Regina wanted to emphasize her importance by making me come to her. She was probably also bored and would simply enjoy a visit. Tomorrow I was in for a few hours on Regina’s porch, drinking coffee and talking about Cuba. It was a small price to pay to find out what happened to Samuels.

When I came out, Leonardo was at his desk, gluing little mystical symbols to a piece of paper for a yoga flier. It didn’t bother me one bit.

“Leonardo, you’re a genius,” I said.

He flashed a perfect smile. “So it worked?”

“It worked. Thank you.”

“Great,” he said. “You know, this might be a good time to ask you if I can—”

I held up my hand. “Whatever you want,” I said. “Just don’t tell me now. Things are going too well.”

I locked my office and stood by the hall window for a minute, listening to the parrots cackling at each other. A late-afternoon breeze wafted through, carrying a sweet flower scent. Life was good.