flush and Davis held out his arm, but he couldn’t reach her chair and so he suspended his hand, palm up, in the air between them. “I know what you’re thinking. That all these years later there’s still this… this absence, and the desire to fill it with something can be overwhelming. But to certain people clones can be like projections of the originals — abstract figures, actors on film, a cast of shadows. If we had another little girl walking around this house inside a shell that looked like AK, wouldn’t that only make the void blacker?”
Jackie started to cry and Davis joined her, but he didn’t go to her and she didn’t come to him.
— 19 —
Big Rob’s office was so tiny he couldn’t clear the space between either side of his desk and the wall without sliding through hip-first. Sally Barwick sat in a foam-padded aluminum chair with torn vinyl upholstery. If she stretched a muscled leg out in front of her, her red shoe would have hit Big Rob’s metal desk before it straightened. She could tilt her head back on her long brown neck and knock on the wall behind her, and Big Rob, from his chair, could do the same to the opposite wall. Phil Canella’s lanky body was wedged between a filing cabinet and the wall, the only other human-sized space in the room. Philly, like Big Rob a former cop turned private investigator, had driven down from the northern suburbs on a case.
Just dropped in to say hi.
Barwick held up a three-sided section of sandwich from the Ogden Avenue Deli, one flight down. The thick, striated layers of meat and lettuce and tomato and toast made it difficult to bite no matter how many angles she tried.
“It’s not him,” she said after managing a mouthful of bread with some mayo and turkey.
“How do you know?” Big Rob asked.
“The Finn kid has a birthmark. Eric Lundquist did not.”
“So what does that prove?”
“They’re clones, Biggie. Genetic duplicates.”
“What do you know about clones, Barwick? I mean really. You some kind of expert all of a sudden?”
“It’s common knowledge. Read
Time
magazine. Go hire a doctor, an expert or whatever, and ask him if you want.”
“I’m not hiring a doctor, Barwick. The Finns are already paid up. I’m not going back to them to get money for an opinion, and I’m not paying some doc out of my pocket.”
“Take my word for it, then.”
His cheeks filled with corned beef, Big Rob waved an inch-thick red folder over his head. “I don’t need your word for it. I got eight months of diligence here that says Lundquist’s the guy, and I’m not going back to the Finns and telling them that it’s suddenly a whodunit.”
“Okay. So what do you want?”
“I want you to give me the discs and sign off on your interview with the old lady. Based on the work we’ve done just following the paper (solid detective work, by the way — congratulations), the Finns already think Eric Lundquist’s their guy, and if we hand over the interview they’ll get exactly what they want: a biography of their son’s cell donor.”
“Except Eric Lundquist’s
not
their son’s cell donor.”
“Says you. These people are chasing a phantom, anyway. This Lundquist fellow, the clone donor or whatever, no matter what, he ain’t the same person as their kid. You got your nature, and then you got your nurture, and so forth. So what if you’re right? Whatever curiosity they got, you’ve got the stuff that can satisfy them.”
Sally said, “If Lundquist’s not the donor, don’t you want to know who is? Something stinks here, Biggie. We might be on to a huge scandal here. Woodward and Bernstein shit. Don’t you want to know why all the paperwork, all the medical records, point to Lundquist as the cell donor, but the two kids don’t look alike? Why the Finn kid has a birthmark that Eric Lundquist never had?”
“I want to know everything my customer wants to know. No more. Right, Philly?” His friend nodded. “The customer wants
Jackie started to cry and Davis joined her, but he didn’t go to her and she didn’t come to him.
— 19 —
Big Rob’s office was so tiny he couldn’t clear the space between either side of his desk and the wall without sliding through hip-first. Sally Barwick sat in a foam-padded aluminum chair with torn vinyl upholstery. If she stretched a muscled leg out in front of her, her red shoe would have hit Big Rob’s metal desk before it straightened. She could tilt her head back on her long brown neck and knock on the wall behind her, and Big Rob, from his chair, could do the same to the opposite wall. Phil Canella’s lanky body was wedged between a filing cabinet and the wall, the only other human-sized space in the room. Philly, like Big Rob a former cop turned private investigator, had driven down from the northern suburbs on a case.
Just dropped in to say hi.
Barwick held up a three-sided section of sandwich from the Ogden Avenue Deli, one flight down. The thick, striated layers of meat and lettuce and tomato and toast made it difficult to bite no matter how many angles she tried.
“It’s not him,” she said after managing a mouthful of bread with some mayo and turkey.
“How do you know?” Big Rob asked.
“The Finn kid has a birthmark. Eric Lundquist did not.”
“So what does that prove?”
“They’re clones, Biggie. Genetic duplicates.”
“What do you know about clones, Barwick? I mean really. You some kind of expert all of a sudden?”
“It’s common knowledge. Read
Time
magazine. Go hire a doctor, an expert or whatever, and ask him if you want.”
“I’m not hiring a doctor, Barwick. The Finns are already paid up. I’m not going back to them to get money for an opinion, and I’m not paying some doc out of my pocket.”
“Take my word for it, then.”
His cheeks filled with corned beef, Big Rob waved an inch-thick red folder over his head. “I don’t need your word for it. I got eight months of diligence here that says Lundquist’s the guy, and I’m not going back to the Finns and telling them that it’s suddenly a whodunit.”
“Okay. So what do you want?”
“I want you to give me the discs and sign off on your interview with the old lady. Based on the work we’ve done just following the paper (solid detective work, by the way — congratulations), the Finns already think Eric Lundquist’s their guy, and if we hand over the interview they’ll get exactly what they want: a biography of their son’s cell donor.”
“Except Eric Lundquist’s
not
their son’s cell donor.”
“Says you. These people are chasing a phantom, anyway. This Lundquist fellow, the clone donor or whatever, no matter what, he ain’t the same person as their kid. You got your nature, and then you got your nurture, and so forth. So what if you’re right? Whatever curiosity they got, you’ve got the stuff that can satisfy them.”
Sally said, “If Lundquist’s not the donor, don’t you want to know who is? Something stinks here, Biggie. We might be on to a huge scandal here. Woodward and Bernstein shit. Don’t you want to know why all the paperwork, all the medical records, point to Lundquist as the cell donor, but the two kids don’t look alike? Why the Finn kid has a birthmark that Eric Lundquist never had?”
“I want to know everything my customer wants to know. No more. Right, Philly?” His friend nodded. “The customer wants
Similar Books
