Monster in Miniature (30 page)

Skip made arrangements for a trustworthy officer and
technician to escort me home. Charlie, a young officer I didn’t know, insisted on driving my car while I rode with Gene, the LPPD computer technician, also very young, in an unmarked beige sedan. Gene threatened to use the lights and siren as we drove up Springfield Boulevard toward my Eichler neighborhood. I knew that would have pleased Maddie, waking up to such excitement, but we were beyond mischief like that at just past midnight.

Beverly opened the door to us. I assumed she’d checked the peephole and probably even recognized the vehicle as belonging to LPPD’s fleet. Nick, looking like backup, was by her side.

“A suitably grand entrance,” Nick said, greeting my escorts by name. He and Beverly had already moved Maddie’s computer to the dining room for easier access by Gene. Being laid up in a hospital bed didn’t seem to be cramping Skip’s networking style.

Gene worked at Maddie’s computer while Charlie looked on and Beverly, Nick, and I talked about the day’s events. It didn’t seem possible that this was part of the day that began with my touring the Ferguson twins’ factory.

I was glad for Nick’s presence, not because I thought I was in any immediate danger, but because I didn’t look forward to being alone with Beverly and two secrets about her brother. I doubted that I could stand her scrutiny, face-to-face, at this vulnerable hour.

It was difficult for me to keep up my end of the conversation, not knowing how much Skip had told his mother and Nick about why the information on the drive was important. I waited them out and determined that they knew only that the drive had files pertinent to the Oliver Halbert case. Since Beverly seemed happy and unconcerned, I figured Skip hadn’t told her what it might say about Ken’s past business dealings.

One question kept us going for a time: what would Maddie’s reaction be in the morning when she noticed what had been going on at her computer while she slept? Guesses ranged from delight that her skills had been useful to annoyance that we hadn’t wakened her. And further annoyance that Gene removed the drive from her computer, or at least I think that’s what happened to get it out of our custody.

“Are we going to have a chain-of-custody problem with this evidence?” Beverly asked Nick.

“That problem started long before tonight. We don’t know who put the information on the drive in the first place, let alone all the back-and-forth there seems to have been. But it’s the DA’s job to introduce the contents in the proper light, and it should be okay. You’d be amazed at the kinds of messy evidence the lawyers get sometimes.”

Whatever that meant, I didn’t think I wanted to know. I pictured Maddie’s having to testify that she had indeed cloned the drive and not added or subtracted from it. She’d be thrilled.

I hoped it didn’t come to that.

 

 

Gene had waved a shiny blue (did they come in all colors?) flash drive at me. “Got it,” he’d said. He mentioned the number of gigabytes he’d downloaded and the rate of transfer, but I wasn’t knowledgeable enough to be impressed.

I hoped I was correct that both Charlie and Gene were too young to have been corrupted, and thus that the drive would get to the police station and in the right hands soon.

“We’d be glad to stay with you tonight,” Nick said.

“Absolutely not,” I said. “I really think all the drama is over for the day, and besides, there’s an LPPD car out there.”

“You could always call Henry and have him come over,” Beverly said, holding back a grin.

“What a ridiculous idea,” I said. I ushered them out the door before there could be any more discussion.

I waved to whoever was in the unmarked on the sidewalk and locked my front door. I leaned against it and asked myself why it would be so ridiculous to call Henry.

Because we’re not going steady, I answered myself. Yet, I added.

 

 

An early morning round of e-mails circulated among the
adult Porters, plus Nick, and Henry (to whom I sent a special note at one in the morning). We collectively decided that since Skip was due to be discharged from the hospital before noon today, there was no reason to tell Maddie anything about the attack on him. There were some things an eleven-year-old, even one going on twenty-five, shouldn’t have to deal with.

As far as her computer went, we’d tried to return it to its exact location on her desk. When she realized after the fact that it had been tampered with, we’d deal with it. She didn’t usually access her computer on mornings when she was packing to go home, so we might be safe for a while.

I was ready to leave Oliver’s murder investigation in the hands of the police technicians who would work on cracking the flash drive password. In their hands also would be the answer to another question, but Ken’s name was either there or not, no matter how much I tried to worry it off.

Even with those two items mentally crossed off, I had an important mission for Tuesday. I needed to track down either Artie Dodd or Sunaqua Estates, or both, and organize all the Halloween projects I’d committed to.

While Maddie was getting dressed for school and packing her things, I made a call to the number Henry had written down for Sunaqua Estates. Six thirty in the morning in Lincoln Point, nine thirty in New York. A reasonable hour; I had no excuse.

I punched in the number and waited through four long rings, almost hanging up after each one.

“You have reached Sunaqua Estates, home for special-needs children,” a voice said. No one—”

“Want some oatmeal, Grandma?” Maddie asked.

I clicked off.

What was wrong with me, choosing this time to make a call? It was as if I wanted to be interrupted, as if I could handle only one small bit of information at a time. I took a breath. I had my bit for the morning—“a home for special-needs children.”

“Grandma? I’m making some oatmeal. Do you want some?”

“No, thanks, sweetheart. I’ll eat when I get back.”

If ever again.

 

 

I’d awakened several times during the night, worried
about Maddie’s safety, and gone into her bedroom. A couple of times I kissed her forehead, feeling her warmth, relieved she was alive. If my able-bodied homicide detective nephew was at risk for assault, what could happen to my little granddaughter? Maddie seemed to get smaller and more fragile every time I looked in on her.

Each time I got up, I checked to be sure the unmarked was still outside and considered going out to make sure he was awake. I wondered if it would have been insulting to offer a thermos of coffee.

I’d never been so pleased to be dropping Maddie off at her Palo Alto school.

As I predicted, once Maddie saw her friends spilling out of SUVs and sedans in front of Angelican Hills School, she seemed happy to enter another world, far from murder and mayhem.

I’d seen the phenomenon often through the years, where children like Maddie, who could act very intelligent and grown-up around adults, switched to kid talk and a healthy silliness once they were among their peers and (they thought) unobserved.

Maddie unbuckled herself from Henry’s SUV, gave me a quick kiss, and said, “ ’Bye, Grandma. ’Bye, Mr. Baker. See you tomorrow afternoon, Grandma.”

I’d almost forgotten. Tomorrow was Wednesday already and Maddie would be back for our usual crafts night.

I hoped Lincoln Pont would be safe again by then.

Henry waited until I phoned Richard and Mary Lou at
home to let them know Maddie was back to school. Then he got down to business.

“Have you gone through all the cartons in the garage?” he asked. He pulled away from the curb, waved to the crossing guard, and maneuvered around SUVs of every color, each with some form of proud parent bumper sticker.

“I’ve done as much as I need to. I couldn’t look at every single document, but I’ve sifted through a great deal of correspondence, contracts, and meeting reports. I sampled just about every package. I’m satisfied that I found the only suspicious memo.”

“The one suggesting that Ken had an arrangement with Patrick Lynch?”

“That’s the one.”

“Good. Then as soon as we get home, I’ll put the boxes back up on the shelves.”

I noted the ease with which Henry talked about going “home.” I relished the comfort that gave me.

At first I thought how nice that he’d get the cartons out of my way again. Then . . . “No,” I said. “I’m going to burn them.” Henry turned to me briefly, a question in his eyes. “I know now that there’s nothing I need from those boxes. I already have the personal things that matter.” I thought of the scrapbooks we’d kept of our trips, of happy memories on both coasts, of our son and grandchild, of my thirtiethanniversary pearls, the last piece of jewelry Ken bought me. “What was out there was none of my business in the first place.”

Henry gave his steering wheel a purposeful tap. “All right, then. I’ll come around sometime with my truck and load them up and take care of that for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, aware of how inadequate that sounded.

“The next thing is to go home and finish that call to Sunaqua Estates.”

I gulped. “I don’t even know what to say when they answer the phone. Whom do I ask for? All I have is some pink clothing and three faded Polaroid photographs with no names or dates. I don’t even know the child’s name.”

“You know Ken’s name.”

Another gulp and a loud breath. My pleasant ride with Henry had taken a disquieting turn. “You’re not going to let me off easily, are you?”

“You’ll thank me later,” he said.

“Where have I heard that before?”

“From your own lips.”

“Can we stop at Seward’s Folly for coffee first?” I asked, sounding like Maddie, the best negotiator in the family.

“Coffee afterward,” he said, and took the exit nearest my house.

Henry could be tough when he had to be.

I liked that.

 

 

Henry honored my request that I be alone when I made
the call to Sunaqua Falls.

“Of course,” he’d said. “I’ll be back with my truck within the hour, but if you need me before that, give a call.”

I couldn’t ask for better conditions as I sat in my atrium and picked up the phone. It was just before lunchtime in Sunaqua Falls, New York. I punched in the number that I already knew by heart.

“Sunaqua Estates. How may I direct your call?”

If I only knew, I thought, collecting myself. “I’m trying to track down a child who was in your institution—”

“Home.” The voice was perfunctory.

“Pardon me?”

“Sunaqua Estates is a home with a hospital wing. It’s not an institution. What’s the child’s name?”

“I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous. I’m looking for information on a child—”

“Who are you with?”

“Pardon me?”

“Are you social services? Hospice? Police? Who are you with?”

I wondered if I could get away with “police.” Should I add masquerading as a police officer to my résumé?

“I’m a private citizen,” I admitted, “and I’m writing a family history.” I paused to clear my throat. I might write it someday, I mused. “I found some photographs of one of my ancestors holding a child in front of your insti—in front of Sunaqua Estates.”

“Hold on, please, I’ll transfer you.”

I could easily have hung up then and there. I’d gotten one more piece of the puzzle—that Sunaqua Estates was a kind of placement for children needing social services or hospitalization. Or were in the custody of the police.

I stayed on the line.

“How can I help you?” A softer voice this time, one belonging to an older woman.

I repeated my genealogy pitch. “The only thing I know about the little girl is that she was related to Kenneth Porter”—I nearly choked, never having admitted that out loud until now—“and this would have been some time before 1972.”

I’d given voice also to my greatest wish, that whatever had happened had taken place before Ken and I met.

“Kenneth Porter? Who is this, please?”

“You know, I realize now that’s a very long time ago, and I’m sure your records don’t go back that far.”

“We have records from our founding in 1937. Are you a relative of Kenneth Porter?”

I’d always been so proud when people asked me that, at a ribbon-cutting ceremony or an awards banquet. “I’m his wife,” I’d say, thrilled that he was so well known.

It was a different story now. I was disappointed that he was known at Sunaqua Estates and wary as I said, “Yes, my name is Geraldine Porter.”

“Is this about the Porter endowment?”

Endowment? Was Sunaqua Estates a charity Ken supported? That would explain everything. He’d given money to an institution—a home and hospital, rather—and had had his photograph taken with one of the little patients. All that worry for nothing.