Crown Jewel (21 page)

Quick on the uptake, Ricky stifled his grin.
Fingerprints.
How he loved that woman.

“My brother, your son, died six months ago in a tragic accident, Mrs. Farquar. He was also battling a terminal illness he hid from me. What harm can it do now to tell me the truth?”

“I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Lam, but it has nothing to do with me. I'd like you to leave now. I find this whole conversation very upsetting.”

“Will it be more upsetting if I go to the Associated Press or perhaps the Fox News Channel? How upsetting will that be to your husband and your family?”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Lam? Or are you trying to extort me? Which is it?”

“It's neither, Mrs. Farquar. All I want is the truth. We live in a new world these days. DNA is a powerful tool. We have yours.”

“That's…hogwash, and you know it. There's no way on this earth you could possibly have my DNA. No way at all.” She was starting to bluster. Ricky almost felt sorry for her and his part in being such a bulldog.

Ricky leaned across the wicker, glass-topped table, where six issues of
Time
magazine lay scattered next to the latest copy of
Money
magazine. They looked like they had never been read. “Now, you see, that's where you're wrong, Mrs. Farquar. Don't you recall the letter you put in Philly's cardboard box? The carton you dropped him off in. You sealed the envelope. That means you had to use your own saliva to seal the envelope.
Voilà!
DNA. All these years later. Your DNA, your Social Security number, your fingerprints. That's pretty conclusive to my way of thinking.”

Lorraine Farquar appeared to be visibly shaken. Still, she blustered. “I want you to leave, and I want you to leave
now!”

“Please, just tell me the truth, Mrs. Farquar.”

“If you don't leave, I'll call the police.”

Ricky sighed. “I'll leave, Mrs. Farquar. Thank you for talking to me. Maybe I'll have more luck with Vincent Nolan.” He fully expected his hostess to throw the pitcher of ice tea at him. Instead, she burrowed into the colorful cushions; her face was pasty white and fearful. “I can see myself out.”

In the car, Ricky looked at Roxy, who was still holding the glass in the palm of her hand. She'd either emptied the contents or consumed them. He shook his head at her questioning gaze. “She's sticking with her story. But when I mentioned the name Vincent Nolan, she kind of shrank into herself. I thought she looked afraid. I'm not very good at this detective stuff. You, on the other hand, are the marvel in marvelous. In a million years I never would have thought of taking the glass. If I had a gold star, I'd give it to you.” Ricky leaned over and hugged her. Roxy beamed.

“I feel sorry for her, Ricky. I remember what it was like to be pregnant at sixteen. I thought about giving Reba up for adoption, but when it came time to sign the final papers I couldn't do it. It wasn't easy those first years. Maybe Mrs. Farquar didn't have any other choice. It's possible her husband isn't the understanding type. I remembered who he is while I was sitting here waiting for you. He's that famous venture capitalist. He's incredibly wealthy.

“If she was nervous at the mention of Vincent Nolan,” Roxy continued, “that might mean she's more afraid of him than her husband. Possibly both. What now?”

“I say we look for a private lab and see what they can do for us by lifting the fingerprints off the glass. If the fingerprints match those on the letter, that's our proof.

“Before we go home, Roxy, I want to stop by our old house. There's a box in Philly's closet I want to pick up. With all the stuff I packed in the car last night there wasn't room for it. It won't take long.”

An hour later, Ricky exited his old home, a blue cardboard box in his hands. He opened the passenger-side door and handed it to Roxy. She looked down at the black lettering and then up at Ricky.

 

It was midafternoon, and the sun was high in the sky when Ricky drove his Porsche through the gates of his Holmby Hills estate. As he and Roxy were getting out of the car, Gracie Lick, her red hair flying behind her, along with her shirttail, the mother and father dog running alongside her, shouted, “Mr. Lam! Mr. Lam! I think I found something! If I'm right, this is going to blow your socks off! I'll be right back. I have to go back to my office to get it.” She was breathless with excitement. She called over her shoulder, “By the way, a letter from your attorney was hand-delivered earlier. It's on the kitchen table.”

“Okay. Take your time. Want some coffee?”

“Are we going to drink it or look at it?” she called over her shoulder, a second time.

“Depends on what you have to show us.”

“With what I think I found, we're all going to need some
hard
stuff in our coffee. I'll be right back.”

“I like that girl, Ricky. You're right, she's perfect for Max. I'll make the coffee while you put
that box
somewhere.”

“Since I can't have the
hard
stuff Gracie is talking about, you better make the coffee extra strong,” Ricky said, his heartbeat accelerating.

Lorraine Farquar stared across the room at the French doors that had closed behind Ricky Lam. Her gaze was so intense, her eyes started to water. She looked down in horror when the triple strand of pearls around her neck broke, scattering across the floor. She needed to think. Really think. What a foolish old woman she was to believe this would never happen.

The maid in the gray uniform and prim apron opened the French doors, and said, “Luncheon is served, madam. Mr. Farquar called a short while ago to say he wouldn't be able to join you but suggested dinner at Estevan's this evening.”

“I'm not hungry, Thelma. I would like some coffee, though. You can take away this ice tea. The ice melted, and it's too watery.”

The maid entered the room, picked up the tray, and looked around. “I don't see the glass, madam. Oh, what a shame, your pearls broke. I'll pick them up.”

Lorraine shook her head. “You can gather them up later.” She suddenly realized what had happened to the glass. Not trusting herself to speak, she shrugged and waved the maid away. She knew they hadn't believed her. How sneaky and underhanded they were to steal a glass. For fingerprints, of course. How could she have been so stupid? Thank God Armand wasn't joining her for lunch. He would have picked up instantly that something was wrong. At least she would have the afternoon to compose herself before dinner.

Movie stars were such tacky people. They loved splashing their business in the media, thinking it made them more important. She hated the media because she knew they were capable of destroying her. She wished now that she had been more forthright with Ricky Lam. Perhaps if she'd thrown herself on his mercy, he would have left matters alone. Now he was going to dig and dig and dig. Eventually, he'd come up with all the right answers, and her life would come crashing down around her. No, no, that was wrong. He already had all the answers. Except one.

Did she dare make the phone call she had promised never to make? Did she have any other choice?

When the maid set the elegant silver service on the table and closed the French doors behind her, Lorraine poured the coffee she knew she wouldn't drink. Instead, she curled herself into the corner of the sofa she was sitting on. She started to cry. Not out of anger, not out of frustration with her situation, but out of grief. Her only child, a son, was dead, and she'd never known of his passing until just a few minutes ago. Life was so cruel sometimes.

She'd named her son Caleb in her mind because it was such a strong-sounding name. She knew he was going to need a strong name to survive in the world he was going to. The guilt and shame that she'd lived with all those years covered her like a shroud. Right then, right that second, she wanted to die so she could be with her son to tell him how sorry she was that she had listened to Vincent Nolan. She wanted to tell him how, during those first years, she'd driven around a fifty-mile radius, hoping for a glimpse of the son who was lost to her. She wanted to tell him how she'd gone back to the orphanage and pleaded with them to tell her where her son was. She'd been a runaway from Dubois, Pennsylvania, convinced she could make it in Hollywood. Convinced because at fourteen she looked like she was twenty. It was just a dream. If she'd had the money, she would have hired a lawyer to help her locate her son, but, unfortunately, she didn't earn much waiting tables, hoping some movie producer would spot her. That never happened either.

She cringed when she recalled the look of loathing she'd seen on the movie star's face. She understood that look because she'd looked at herself the same way during the nearly fifty years since she'd taken Caleb to the orphanage.

Her memory of that time in her life was crystal clear. So clear, she could see the memory shattering all about her. She'd read so many articles while she waited in doctors' offices with Armand, articles that said that, as one aged, memory faded. It was such a blatant lie, she'd been tempted to write to the magazine refuting the articles. Unfortunately, she had never mustered the courage to do it.

She hated Vincent Nolan with a passion that was unequaled. And, yet, back in her youth, when she wanted to fit in, to have fun and romance, she'd allowed him to seduce her. She knew better, and yet she had let it happen. Vincent was the rich college boy out looking for cheap thrills. That's what she was, a cheap thrill. All Vincent and his friends wanted were virgins, so they could notch their belts. Vincent had staked out his claim to the greasy restaurant where she worked and had his way with six of the other waitresses. He'd boasted later that she was number seven in his notched belt.

When she discovered she was pregnant, she'd contacted him. He'd said he would see her that evening after she got off work. She'd been so excited, dreaming about the handsome Vincent and living the academic life. She promised herself to take etiquette lessons, so she wouldn't shame him. She'd buy expensive creams and lotions, so her hands wouldn't be red and rough. She'd get manicures and pedicures and have her hair done once a week. She'd learn to play bridge and shop in the finest stores. The dreams of a young girl who thought she was in love. How incredibly stupid she had been.

That dream had crashed around her feet that night in the alley behind the restaurant. Vincent had looked at her in the dim, yellow light, disgust on his face. “Don't think you're pinning this on me! I'm not your free ride out of this hellhole. If you even think of accusing me, I'll have every single one of my friends say they had you for two bucks each. Who do you think the authorities are going to believe, me or you?”

All her virginity had been worth was two dollars. She'd cried for weeks. Maybe it was months, not knowing what she was going to do. The owners of the restaurant had helped her every way they could. A minister counseled her and managed to convince her adoption was the best thing for the baby. She'd agreed until she set her eyes on the pink-cheeked Caleb. She knew she would scrub bathrooms in dirty gas stations if she had to, just so she could keep him.

It hadn't worked out. She'd gotten sick, Caleb was sick, she had no money to care for him. She called Vincent again and threatened to go to the police if he didn't help her. Something in her voice must have convinced him she was serious. He'd showed up at the rooming house where she lived and snatched the sleeping child, who was rosy red with a fever. She followed him, sick and frightened out of her wits. She wanted to die when she saw him raise the lid of a Dumpster and drop the baby inside. What was more horrifying was that he
closed
the cover. She watched him look over his shoulder before he ran from the alley. Quicker than lightning, she opened the cover, climbed in, and rescued her baby. Somehow, she found her way to the minister who had counseled her and she told him her story. They stayed with him at the parish house until both of them were well enough to go to the orphanage to place Caleb for adoption.

And that was the end of her tawdry little tale as far as Vincent Nolan was concerned. These days, Vincent Nolan went by the name of Adam V. Nolan, vice president of the United States.

Lorraine looked down at the coffee in the bone china cup. She knew it was cold, but she drank it anyway. She probably had more in the way of luxurious surroundings and material things than Adam V. Nolan could ever hope to have. Her husband Armand, twenty-five years her senior, was a billionaire. He was a good man, a kind man, who lavished his wealth on her. The only thing he hadn't been able to give her were the children she coveted. Armand was old and frail and spent his days in a wheelchair. But he still managed, with the aid of a male nurse, to go to his offices three days a week.

Such a terrible secret.

Armand had an impressive Rolodex. He was also a heavy contributor to political campaigns. Wealthy philanthropist that he was, he knew everyone, and everyone knew Armand Farquar.

Lorraine left the sunroom and headed to her husband's in-house office, where she flipped through his Rolodex until she found the number she wanted. Armand was proud of the fact that the White House always returned his phone calls. Always. She wondered if they would return hers. Well, there was only one way to find out. She dialed the number from the little card in the Rolodex. She identified herself, clarifying that she was Armand Farquar's wife. “Please tell the vice president this is an urgent call and one that needs to be returned as soon as possible.” She rattled off her phone number and spelled her last name slowly and distinctly.

The return phone call could come within minutes, hours, or possibly days. It
would
be returned, she just didn't know when.

Tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks, Lorraine paced the confines of her husband's study.
Now what am I supposed to do,
she wondered.
How do I get through the minutes and the hours until
he
calls me back. God in heaven, what am I going to say to him?
She played different scenarios over and over in her mind. Nothing seemed right or even appropriate. The tears continued to cascade down her cheeks.

She tried to remember what she'd read about Adam V. Nolan over the years. When she was safely married to Armand and knew her future was secure, she'd allowed her obsession with Adam V. Nolan to come to the fore. She'd haunted the library and even kept a diary of sorts. Armand thought she was the best-read wife he'd ever had, and he'd had three before her. She didn't even know where that diary was now. That was all right; there was always the internet.

Lorraine was far from computer literate, but she did know how to check email for Armand, and she knew how to go to various websites that interested her. She looked for Keyword and typed in the vice president's name. She reared back when the man's whole life flashed in front of her. Well,
almost
his whole life. Her shoulders set grimly as she pressed
PRINT
again and again. When the printer grew silent, she got up, walked around to the machine, and withdrew a thick stack of paper.

Lorraine carried the papers with her to the sunroom, stopping only long enough to pick up her reading glasses from her bedroom.

The coffee service was gone, and her pearls had been gathered up and placed in a crystal candy dish. She knew she'd never have them restrung. In the scheme of things, a pearl necklace, triple strand or not, simply wasn't important. Her son could have attended college for two years for what the pearls cost.

Lorraine settled herself in the same corner of the sofa she'd sat in earlier. She perched her reading glasses on the tip of her nose and read through every single piece of paper she'd printed out. When she was finished, she looked at the telephone. For some reason, it looked ominous. She was surprised at how calm she felt.

Such an illustrious career. No hint of scandal anywhere in his life. One couldn't have scandals or skeletons when one had presidential aspirations. Lorraine flipped through the pages until she found the ones she wanted. She'd even taken the time to download the pictures of the vice president and his family. The caption underneath the family picture called the Nolans the All-American Family.

The all-American family consisted of a son who was a second-term congressman from Virginia. A second son was a cardiovascular surgeon who lived in San Francisco. A daughter, married to a senator from Illinois, was a psychiatrist with her own flourishing practice. There were nine grandchildren ranging in age from five years of age to seventeen. The oldest, a boy named Patrick, had an appointment to Annapolis.

Mrs. Nolan Senior worked diligently for the Red Cross, the United Way, and sat on five different charitable boards. She had silver-colored hair worn short with full bangs. Lorraine thought she looked like a female Buster Brown. Mrs. Meredith Nolan had graduated from Sarah Lawrence and never worked a day in her life for monetary remuneration.

Adam V. Nolan had been a two-term governor and a two-term senator before the president had tapped him to be his running mate.

All the Nolan money was tied up in blind trusts, according to their financial disclosure statements.

There was even a shaggy, lovable dog and a fat, white cat in the photograph.

The charming all-American Nolan family. She wanted to puke.

The phone rang. Lorraine snatched it the moment it rang. Her greeting was cautious. It was Armand's nurse. “Is something wrong, Thomas?”

“I'm at the hospital. Mr. Farquar started to experience chest pains on the way home. I thought it best to bring him in and admit him. Your husband wanted me to tell you he's sorry, but dinner at Estevan's is out of the question. I think you should come to the hospital now, Mrs. Farquar.”

“Of course I'll come. Thomas, tell me the truth, is it bad, or is this just a setback?”

“I'm afraid it's very serious, ma'am. I'll tell your husband you're on the way.”

Lorraine ran through the house, out to the kitchen, then outside, where the chauffeur was vacuuming the interior of the Bentley.

“Stop what you're doing, Henry. You have to take me to the hospital right away. Thomas just called to say they had to admit my husband. We have to hurry, Henry.”

“Yes, ma'am, we can go right now. Do you need to take anything with you?”

“No. No, I'm fine. Armand carries all his own medical cards.”