Alafair Burke: Long Gone

His next call was to Joann Stevenson. It would be the second hardest telephone call he would ever have to make. The hardest would come the following morning, when he had to tell her over the phone that her daughter’s body had been found, just to be sure she didn’t hear it first from someone else.

“This is certainly a lovely treat.” Arthur Cronin was inspecting the pear-glazed pork loin the waitress had placed on the table. He waited while a second staff member poured a thin drizzle of sauce across the dish. “It’s not every day that one of my favorite people invites me to lunch. And with such panache.”

“Well, it’s not every day someone saves me from life in prison.”

“I never would have let that happen, sweetie, but in this instance, I’d have to say your friendly neighborhood FBI agent probably did more of the work than your Uncle Artie. Any chance of a love connection there?”

“He was just doing the right thing, Art.”

“But, let me guess, he’s called you a time or two to see how you’re holding up?”

She smiled.

“Aha! I knew it! What about that schlub of yours? Jeff from Indiana, isn’t it?”

“You know quite well that his name is Jeff Wilkerson.”

“How is Mr. Wilkerson dealing with your new FBI friend?”

“We’re not actually talking right now.”

“The on and off is off again, huh?” He was talking between bites now. She forced herself to take a bite of her pasta. If she didn’t eat, he might know something was wrong.

“Actually, Art, Jeff asked me to marry him.”

He dropped his fork to his plate. “Get out of town! Wilkie finally manned up, did he? Where’s the ring? Tell me the man bought you a ring!”

She whispered a shh. She had chosen this restaurant because she knew it would be empty, but even five tables away, a fellow diner could overhear raised voices.

“I politely declined.”

“You finally figured out you’re too good for him.”

“No, but it wasn’t right. It never will be.” She felt funny talking to Art about her love life, but she needed the conversation to seem natural.

“Still that thing about the kids?”

“I guess my father told you about it.”

He waved his hand with a pssh . “A long time ago, when you broke up for a while.”

When Jeff had proposed, she had almost accepted immediately. But she wanted to make sure he had really thought about the decision. She did not want their marriage to be an impulsive reaction to the events of the previous week. So she had stated her concerns. “But you so desperately want children.”

And he had answered, “I love you, Alice. I would sacrifice anything for you. Anything.”

Sacrifice. To be with her meant he would not have children of his own flesh and blood. And she knew Jeff. He would always see that as a sacrifice.

Those were details she would not share with Arthur. “It just wasn’t going to work out. We should have realized that a long time ago, but what can I say? We’re a couple of idiots. I’m fine now.”

She wasn’t fine. She had lost her brother. And her best friend, Jeff. And her fake friend, Lily. And now she was here.

“I’ve been thinking over everything that happened, Art, and there’s a couple points I keep coming back to.”

“What’s that?” He took another bite of pork.

“I know the DNA test said Dad wasn’t Mia’s father, but that doesn’t change the fact that she looked an awful lot like me.”

“There was a certain resemblance. Mostly just your hair color, though, right?”

“No. Our noses. And complexion. High foreheads.”

“Seems like an overstatement, but what are you getting at?”

“How is it possible that Christie Kinley believed my father was the father of her child, and the two of us look like each other but aren’t actually related?”

“I don’t know, but my head’s starting to hurt thinking about it. This is all over, Alice. Be thankful-”

“It hurt my head, too, Art. And that’s why I couldn’t let it go. You see, here’s what’s puzzling. Mia Andrews and I are related.”

“What are you talking about? We did the postmortem DNA tests.”

“Against my father, yes. But I contacted the NYPD. I had them test my DNA against Mia’s. We have genetic similarities consistent with being half sisters.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Wait-unless. Oh, my God. She was at the house during Ben’s party. Maybe she and Ben-”

“I thought of that, too. That’s why the NYPD compared Mia’s DNA against Ben’s. There was no match. Mia’s related to me, but not to Ben.”

“Obviously someone made a mistake. You’re not related to that woman.”

“Here’s the thing: Ben used to joke that I must be adopted, with my red hair. Mom always told me that she and Dad both had redheads back in the family tree somewhere. Recessive genes etcetera. But then I remembered that picture you have in your office, the one of your nephew at the Yankees game. He also had red hair and a sloped nose, sort of like mine. And yours.”

“Me? You think my nose is sloped?”

“Stop this, Art. It won’t be hard to get a sample of your DNA. I hear we leave it behind everywhere we go. I’ll have your DNA compared against mine. And Mia’s. The truth is going to come out. You were staying in the guest cottage that night in Bedford. My father didn’t remember what happened because nothing did happen. He really was blacked out in the theater all night. Christie Kinley’s mother had brainwashed her to adore celebrities. What happened? She was drunk and asked if you were Ben’s famous dad?”

Arthur slammed his fist against the table but then lowered his voice to deflect attention. “Alice, you’ve obviously gone through something terrible. But that does not justify these allegations.”

“My mother said she hadn’t been a perfect wife. She obviously did something that made her feel guilty enough to suffer through my father’s transgressions all these years. How long did the affair go on? Was it a long-term thing, or was I the result of a drunken one-night stand?”

“This is crazy.”

He rose to leave, but she played her trump card. “The New York State Patrol is pulling camera footage from 684 on the night of Robert Atkinson’s car accident. Once they find proof of your car tailing Atkinson’s, it’ll be over, Arthur. My guess is they’ll also find a fingerprint or two in Mia Andrews’s apartment.”

“Next you’ll be accusing me of being the second shooter in the Kennedy assassination.”

“My guess is you were already in Mia’s apartment when you called me to say you were running late to Williamsburg. You talked your way inside, probably armed, then found the gun she used to kill Larson. All you had to do was fire a couple shots when the police showed up, then finish her off with her own gun and plant it in her hand. Danes wondered why she hadn’t simply run down the fire escape. I didn’t realize there was one until he said that. You ran out and met me on the street as if you had no idea what had happened.”

“I love you. In fact, I love you as though you were my own daughter, but this is insane.”

“You’re a lawyer, Arthur. You know how this will play out. The DNA tests will be run. Video of your car near Atkinson’s will be found. And now that the police know what to look for, they will find evidence that you were inside Mia’s apartment. And even if only one of those things happens, you will not be able to lie, or lawyer, or pay your way out of it. What did you tell me about those clients of yours who go fugitive: Are you ready to walk away from your home, family, and reputation? Oh, yeah, that’s right-you pretty much don’t have any of those without the Humphreys, do you?”