Faye Kellerman - Street Dreams

Raymond Paxton’s office was on the twenty-second floor, an ear-popping elevator ride that I wouldn’t have taken, had I been afflicted with a cold. I got off, turned left, and walked through a door embellished with a brass nameplate that told me Paxton was a legal corporation. The secretary, a twenty-something Asian with her hair tied in a ponytail, greeted me with the typical “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Paxton,” I told her. “I don’t have an appointment.”

“That could be a problem” was her response. “He’s booked straight through until one. Then he has a lunch meeting.”

This meant he was in the office. Opportunity presented itself. I showed her my badge.

Now she looked worried. She had on a red silk blouse and she fingered the corner of the collar. “What’s this in regards to?”

“David Tyler. And it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

“I’m not sure I know the name,” she told me.

“But Mr. Paxton will know it.”

She picked up the phone and spoke into the receiver with muted tones. Paxton came out a moment later. He was around five-nine, dressed in a silver suit with a black shirt and tie. He was also black, and when I realized that I had made that immediate distinction, I sort of realized my father’s point. I had also identified his secretary as Asian-using race as a descriptive factor. Confession wasn’t easy for me.

“You’ve heard from David?” Paxton’s voice was anxious.

“No, I haven’t heard from him. Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

His expression fell. The lawyer frowned and checked his watch. “Five minutes?”

“More than enough time.”

I followed him through the interior of his firm, down hushed and carpeted hallways. These places were labyrinths to me, and I always thought that such convoluted pathways were meant to confuse the enemy. Disorientation distracted from the purpose at hand and gave a home-court advantage when doing depositions. Eventually, we came to an open space. It wasn’t his office. It was a conference room, and a small one at that. He was kind enough to offer me coffee and I was smart enough to refuse politely. We sat down across from each other.

He said, “Is he all right? David?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. I take it you haven’t heard from him since Mr. Klinghoffner called you.”

“If I had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He leaned over the table. “Why are you here?”

“I have a story that might interest you. David had a girlfriend at the Fordham Communal Center, where he worked as an art instructor. Her name is Sarah Sanders. They used to go to the park and have sex. One day, a gang of punks walked in on them, raped Sarah, and beat David. They left him in a trash can. I believe that was the last time anyone who knew him has seen or heard from him. Forgive me for encapsulating this in a blunt manner, but you told me to be quick.”

His face registered pure shock. “Is… is this true?”

“I don’t have any reason to doubt it. Sarah Sanders gave a statement to the police just yesterday, although the incident happened about six months ago. This information was just given to me a couple of days ago. Why? you may wonder. Because Sarah Sanders was the girl in the paper who dumped her baby in a trash can. I found the infant and have taken a personal interest in the outcome and in everyone’s welfare.”

“Wait a minute.” He brought a finger to his forehead. “This is all coming way too quickly for me to absorb.”

“What would you like me to repeat?”

He stared at me with dark piercing eyes. “You haven’t found David?”

“Not yet. But I haven’t started looking for him.”

“Okay. And you think he was beaten up and… then what?”

“Sarah told us-us being the police-that they beat him and stuffed him down a trash can. Being frightened and retarded, she left not knowing what happened to him. She never told anyone because she was just too scared.”

“So are you saying that David is dead?”

“No, not at all. I suppose I was hoping you had heard from him.” His expression turned a mite hostile. “I haven’t.”

“He hasn’t called at all?”

“I said no.”

“No other kind of communication? A letter perhaps?”

“Are you accusing me of holding back?”

I was taken aback by his vehemence. I said, “Sir, all I’m trying to do is get some information on David Tyler’s whereabouts.”

“And I’m telling you I haven’t heard from him.”

“Fine,” I said coolly. “We can leave it at that. But there is another point to this little tête-à-tête. The baby that Sarah Sanders gave birth to. I think she’s David Tyler’s offspring.”

That gave Paxton pause.

“I know that there was money in a trust fund for David. Should it be determined that something happened to David, the money should go for the care of the child. The funds are legally hers-”

“Wait a minute! You come in with this fantastic story of crime and then lay a baby on top of it? Who are you?”

“Would you like to see my badge again?”

“What is this to you, Detective…”

I didn’t correct him. “Decker.”

“Detective Decker, where is the proof of this rape story? Where is the corroboration? And then how do you know that this child is David’s offspring? What is this to you?”

“Just doing my job. So there’s been no request for funds from David?”

“No. I told you I haven’t heard from him!” Paxton got up and went over to the coffee table. Out of nerves, he poured himself a cup.

“So his money is still in the trust?”

He spun around and glared at me. “Of course, his money is still in the trust! Are you implying some illegality on my part?”

“Absolutely not. I’m just trying to be brought up to date.”

He stared at me. “I did this as a personal favor to the Tylers. All I take out of it are small processing and conservator fees. And I wonder if you’d be grilling me so extensively if I were one of the big shots from Frisby, Mathews, and Young.”

“I didn’t realize I was grilling you, and truly I don’t understand what you’re driving at, Mr. Paxton.”

“Deny what you will, Officer, but I know intimidation when I see it.”

“Intimidation?”

“You know what I mean. I know how you people feel about minorities!”

I jerked my head back in shock. “You people” being the police. He thought I was riding him because he was black. Man, was he off target. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to shout: I’m not a racist, you jerk! I’m just trying to do a job! I’ve dated black guys!

Actually, it was a black guy-in the singular-but that didn’t sound as good.

I softened my tone, trying to get him on my side. “You’re entitled to be compensated for the paperwork. If you think I’m implying any wrongdoing on your part, you’re mistaken.”

It mollified him, but not by much.

I pressed on. “What would happen to the money if there isn’t any offspring and David doesn’t surface?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.” He sat down again. “If David passes on before I do, the money is supposed to be distributed to various charitable institutions. Of course, if there is a legitimate offspring, that would change everything.” He regarded my face. “But I would need proof, Detective-a blood test, a DNA test. I hope you understand this. I can’t give away hundreds of thousands of dollars based on some disabled girl’s fantasy.”

Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Sarah had chosen well. “That’s going to be hard to do with David missing.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t see what choice I have.”