Authors: Jean Lorrah
She thought a moment. “The prime suspects were all acquitted. In fact, did any of them ever come to trial?"
“No. They were all frames. A salesman was setting the odometers back to increase his sales, an employee and some buddies were operating the chop shop after hours, and some students were running the so-called dating service, using the dean's computer."
“What you're saying,” said Brandy, “is that Murphy seems to have an inordinate number of cases in which somebody is framed."
“Not just somebody. All the suspects were either wealthy or influential, or both. And guess whose political campaigns they now all support?"
“I don't need three,” said Brandy.
“Judge L. J. Callahan declared insufficient evidence in every case. That left a sword still hanging over each man's head until, after a time, the true culprits were discovered."
“After a time, or after a bribe?” Brandy wondered. “But Rory Sanford's not rich or influential."
“Callahan hates him just for being a Sanford."
“Why?” asked Brandy. “Callahan's mother was a Sanford. Doc Sanford's sister, the one he claims was murdered."
“A family feud. The worst kind.” He continued excitedly, “Brandy, help me find other cases like these three. Look for a pattern: Callahan wants a wealthy or influential backer, the person is reluctant; the person is accused of a crime that would ruin him, Judge Callahan comes to the rescue, and suddenly he has a loyal backer!"
When they found two more such cases, Church and Brandy decided it was time to go to Chief Benton.
The police chief scowled as he flipped over the pages. “Is this what you're paid for—to dig up closed cases? What the hell do you think Judge Callahan did—forced honest people to commit crimes so he could blackmail them? Do you know how crazy that sounds?"
“But the evidence—” Church protested.
“The evidence shows that L. J. Callahan has been our local judge for the past fifteen years! Of course he's involved in these five cases—hundreds of other cases, too! God Almighty, the man has to pay just like his father for the sin of being rich and powerful."
“His father?” Brandy pounced.
“People claimed he murdered his wife. Or rather, the Sanfords claimed it. The woman was caught in adultery and committed suicide. Doc Sanford can't accept the truth. He's the one who keeps that feud alive."
Church refused to be deterred. “Sir, a little investigating can't hurt. We've found five suspicious cases. Suppose—"
“Suspicious? I'm suspicious that you two won't work on open cases! We still don't know who killed Rand and Paschall! We'll have no more of this shit. Suspicious,” he muttered again, pulling a file from his “In” box and slapping it on his desk as a dismissal. Brandy and Church had turned to go when he suddenly called after them, “Why ain't you suspicious of your professor boyfriend, Detective Mather? He did all that computer work for Judge Callahan last summer. You think maybe he's into white-collar crime?"
The dig came as a blow to Brandy's solar plexus. All what computer work? Was Dan in Callahan's clutches? Or was there something even more sinister?
Everything strange about Danton Martin poured back into her mind, from the Vulcan nerve pinch to his sun allergy. As she went about her work, Brandy's mind replayed every moment she had spent with Dan, every conversation. He seemed so open, yet she found herself trying to patch together his background from bits and pieces.
His “contraband Christ.” Willed to him by his archaeology professor? It wouldn't have belonged to that professor, she now realized, but to the university that funded the expedition. How did it get into private hands?
And sunscreen. Dan had said that when he was in college he had had to cover up or not go to the beach. Exactly when had he been in college?
The university offices were still open when Brandy got off duty, so she stopped by Personnel and requisitioned Dan's records. Graduate transcript and letters of recommendation were there. For his undergraduate work there was only the transcript from an Omaha community college followed by upper-level work at the University of Nebraska.
He had been an undergraduate from twelve to fifteen years ago, when Brandy had been in middle and high school. She clearly remembered one of her classmates, a magnificent redhead with skin like milk, slathering on high-SPF sunscreen and swimming with the rest of the kids.
Dan had said he had had to cover up or not go to the beach. Beach? In Nebraska? A lakeshore, maybe—but how could he not know about sunscreen?
Brandy copied down the names of the high school in Nebraska and the elementary school in Iowa that Dan supposedly attended. Back at the station she ran background on Danton Martin. He had no criminal record—at least not under that name. He owned a car, which she knew. He had one speeding ticket, from eighteen months ago.
Trying to remember how Dan had done it, Brandy got into several wrong menus before she managed to access his bank records. She could find nothing unusual. Dan now had $5769.20 in a savings account, $1340.33 in a checking account, and just under $25,000 in certificates of deposit. When he had arrived in Murphy he had opened the savings and checking accounts with less than $4000 transferred from Tallahassee. His money had grown slowly over the past five years—the one thing in common with Everett Land was that he saved an exceptionally large percentage of his pay.
On the other hand, both were single men without families, and Dan had mentioned a reason for saving: he was up for tenure this year. If he didn't get it, he would have to move on; if he did he planned to buy a house. In either case, that money would become important.
She went on to his school records, sure that the ones from Florida Central were real. Computer records at the University of Nebraska confirmed what was on the transcript.
She found his birth record in Iowa, but for ten years on either side of that date she could find no record of the brother he had told her about. The elementary school records were not computerized, but Dan's high school and college records were available.
Brandy went home to Sylvester and a frozen dinner. But the next morning she could not resist calling the schools in Iowa and Nebraska, asking them to fax her photos of Danton Edward Martin.
She didn't know what she expected. A little boy with Dan's black eyes huge in a young face? A gawky teenager with a bad haircut and a promise of grace to come? Or, would the photos show some blond, blue-eyed child who had at some point been replaced by the man she knew?
In the end, it was none of the above. All three schools faxed back that they had only computerized records. Dan's hardcopy files were missing. The high school vice-principal included the fact that there was no Danton Martin in the yearbooks, and that he had gone so far as to question two teachers who were on staff at the time he was supposedly enrolled. Neither remembered such a boy. “What was going on,” he wanted to know. Was it a criminal alias of someone who had gone to their school?
It was clearly the most exciting thing that vice-principal had come upon in ages. Brandy faxed back thanks, and asked for his confidence. She probably made his day.
But he had unmade hers.
She was certain that if she got her hands on the yearbooks for the University of Nebraska for the two years Dan supposedly attended, they would also have no photos, and no references to him. He hadn't gone to college there, probably not anywhere in Nebraska—and wherever he had gone, it was earlier than he claimed.
It was the same kind of manufactured identity as Everett C. Land's, and Dan was obviously claiming to be younger than he really was.
The date of birth on Dan Martin's driver's license made him thirty-five. Could he really be forty-five? Fifty? She thought of his smooth, unmarked skin, his black hair with no hint of gray. Did he dye it?
What was Dan Martin?
Brandy prayed “Witness Protection Program” with all her heart. But she knew, deep inside, that that would not explain Danton Edward Martin any more than it did Everett Charles Land.
On Saturday morning, Brandy threw her nervous energy into cleaning. Then she showered, and debated over what to wear to confront the man she—was involved with—about the web of lies that bound his life.
Too serious for jeans, she decided, but not an occasion to dress up. She put on her best gabardine slacks with a dark green lambswool sweater and a tweed jacket.
It was cold but sunny, an almost painfully brilliant day. The first snow of the season had fallen in the night, enough to make a pretty coating on trees and lawns without disturbing traffic.
Dan wore his ubiquitous hat and sunglasses as he got out of his car and followed the path she had swept to the front steps. Brandy's first thought was,
We made the same decision about what to wear!
for Dan was in brown wool trousers, a maroon sweater, and a tweed jacket. But for the first time, the compelling magnetism Brandy always felt around him was completely missing.
“Would you like some lunch?” she asked.
“Not now,” he replied. “Coffee might help, though."
All she had to do was punch the button. She had also put out a can of soup and a saucepan, a frying pan, and bread, intending to make grilled cheese sandwiches.
As the coffee percolated, Dan picked up the soup can. “Campbell's Tomato,” he said. “My mother used this."
“Oh? A farmer's wife in Iowa heated up canned soup?"
He turned abruptly. “That's what I came to talk about, Brandy. I'm not—exactly the person I told you."
“I know,” she said. “I don't know what name is on your real birth certificate, but it's not Danton Edward Martin."
He nodded slowly. “How much have you found out?"
“Everything about you before you enrolled in the Ph.D. program at Florida Central is faked."
“Not the GRE's,” he said. “I took those as Dan Martin. But you're right. When did you discover it?"
“I confirmed my suspicions yesterday."
“Can I convince you that I had already planned to tell you everything?"
“Including why you never react like a normal man?"
“What?"
“Anyone else would be furious."
“What good would that do?” he asked. “I have to tell you, though you won't want to believe it."
“You're whatever Everett Land was,” said Brandy.
“That's right."
“Witness Protection Program?"
“No. I changed my own identity."
The coffeemaker heaved its last steaming sigh, and Dan poured them each a cup of coffee. He stared into the dark liquid as if searching for words. Finally he said, “I'm older than the records show."
“How much older?"
“Seventy-four."
“That's not possible,” Brandy said flatly.
“And that,” he said, “is the easiest part to accept.” When she didn't respond, he continued, “You are perceptive, intuitive, and strongly attuned to me. You guessed I was married."
“Are you?"
“I was. It was a happy marriage until my wife died."
“Did you kill her?"
He looked up in hurt surprise. “Cancer killed her. I loved Megan—part of me always will. You're the first woman I've cared about since."
Brandy let the ensuing silence drag, an interrogation technique when one had no idea what to ask next. It worked.
“I actually grew up in Newark, New Jersey,” Dan continued. “One of the things I abandoned when I changed lives was a hospital certificate with my mother's fingerprints and my footprints. Beth Israel Hospital is still there. I'm sure you can get access to the records."
“Beth Israel Hospital is in New York,” said Brandy.
“Mom went into labor on New York City subway. I don't think you'll need proof after tonight, but if you do, the Jersey address will be in the hospital records."
“After tonight?"
“Thank God sunset comes early in November. I wanted to tell you yesterday or the day before, Brandy. It's hard to believe unless I can show you."
“Show me what?"
“Why I had to change my identity. Why I'll have to do it again in a few years. And why—I can help you solve the murders of those police officers."
“What do you know about that?” Brandy demanded.
“Not who did it. But how it was done, why no one resisted. What I don't understand is—why Carrie Wyman was murdered, and why in a way to threaten me?"
“What are you talking about?"
“The murderer thought you'd tell me about the puncture wounds, the saliva—but what good is a threat if I don't know what it's supposed to make me do? Or not do?"
“Dan, you're not making sense,” Brandy said gently, his sudden irrationality frightening her.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “It's hard to come out and say it.” He managed a wan smile. “Promise not to throw me out before sunset?"
“I promise,” she agreed.
He took a deep breath, and once again addressed his coffee cup. “Remember the night you cut your finger? Did you wonder why it healed so fast?"
“It wasn't serious."
“But it would have been painful for a few days if I hadn't healed it for you. Please—don't argue, Brandy. Let me get through this. That day in the woods, when we rescued Jeff Jones—you asked how I hypnotized him, but not how I got his leg unstuck."
“You tore your hands up breaking the rock."
His eyes met hers. “Did you observe what happened to my hands?"
“They were completely healed the next day."
“Have you also noticed that I can see in the dark?"
“I half suspected it."
He studied her. “I wish I had the proof of my age. I've been weighing the benefits of having it available against making a connection between my old identity and my present one. I should have taken the risk. For now, will you take my word that I was born seventy-four years ago?"
“Dan, how can I believe that? Look at you."
“Yes,” he said in sudden excitement, “look at me, Brandy. There is something I can show you now."
She looked at him as he asked, at first seeing only the man she knew—then—there was gray in his hair, bags under his eyes. The firm young skin of his face was replaced by sagging jowls and liver spots.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “You are seventy-four."