Visions
Page 65
“No, sorry. I didn’t check e-mail this morning.”
I felt Don’s gaze on me. Thinking that his son had also been out of touch last night? Shit.
“I could use you in here.” Gabriel glanced at Don. “Is that all right? Olivia’s getting a crash course in law, and this seems a good case for her. She’s signed a confidentiality waiver, of course.”
Should I be involved in a case regarding Ricky’s gang? I hesitated. Don noticed. Shit.
As Gabriel asked Lydia to bring coffee for the clients, I quickly texted Ricky.
At office. Your dad’s here.
The answer came back in seconds. Yeah, I know. Didn’t want to warn you. Better if you were honestly surprised.
Except I missed Gabriel’s message. So your dad knows I was out of contact last night. Like you.
Fuck. I’ll fix this tonight. Sorry.
I signed off as we settled into the room. I thought no one had noticed me texting, but I looked up to see Don watching me.
“How are you doing, Olivia?” Don asked.
“Fine. Apologies for the disruption. I’m not used to having a job where I need to check e-mail.”
He nodded. It was a pleasant nod, just as the inquiry had been pleasant. Civil and warm. No hint of suspicion, but I felt like a mouse squirming under a tiger’s gaze. I suspect a lot of people feel like that around Don Gallagher. There’s no mistaking he’s Ricky’s father—same blond hair, same dark eyes, same chiseled features, softer in Don. Those looks were the only softer part about him, though. Ricky could find his edge when it suited him; with Don, that edge never went away. It didn’t matter if Don looked as if he belonged at the country club, with his clean-shaven good looks, golf shirt, and pressed trousers. You saw the set of his jaw and the glint in his eye and the biceps straining the sleeves of that shirt and you knew this was a guy you did not want to piss off. Shit.
Gabriel brought me up to speed. The other guy in the room was Chad Sullivan, who naturally went by Sully. He was a big bruiser with a ponytail, beard, and tats. A stereotypical biker, which was actually the minority in the Saints.
The case was a personal matter. Except in a gang it seems that nothing is ever truly personal.
Sully’s ex was after him for unpaid child support. Don was pissed about it. I could see it in his face, hear it in his tone. You have kids; you pay for them. No exceptions. When Don learned of Sully’s debts, he’d paid them, with Sully owing him the money. Which would have been fine, except it came too late, Don having only found out about the problem last night, when Sully got arrested for assaulting his ex.
Whether Sully had assaulted his ex or not was a matter of debate. He swore he hadn’t. Don was still pissed. Sully had let the child support slide to the point where it seemed she retaliated, and in doing so, he’d violated club rules, which said all legal matters had to be brought to Don’s attention immediately.
Don and Sully left just before noon. Gabriel took a call before we could speak. When he came out of his office, I could tell something had happened. He waved me inside.
“The police put a rush on the DNA,” he said. “The press is breathing down their necks. When a young woman turns up dead and mutilated, the assumption is ‘serial killer,’ even if that’s rarely the case.”
“Is there a problem with the DNA?” I asked.
“It’s not a match for her mother.”
“What?”
Gabriel motioned for me to sit. “They tested against the mother. That saves any unexpected family surprises.”
“In case Dad’s not the father. You can’t lie about maternity, though.”
“Yes. But it seems Ciara Conway isn’t biologically related to her mother.”
“Could it be . . . ?” I shook my head. “Okay, I was going to suggest she was adopted and the family was hiding it, like with me, but obviously not if they asked for the DNA.” Even as I said it, my heart thudded. I guess I wasn’t completely over that shock yet.
“Olivia?”
“I’m fine. Sorry.” I forced a smile. “Back to the subject at hand . . .”
“There’s no hurry. Take a—” He cleared his throat. “I meant that if you want to . . .” He seemed to search for words.
“Take a minute?”
I’d given him crap a few weeks ago for that particular turn of phrase, one used when a client was upset. He meant it to sound sympathetic, but I always picked up that note of impatience bordering on contempt. Really, this is an inconvenient time for all this emotional nonsense. If you must, get it over with quickly, please.
This time I suspect he really was showing empathy. But it was like watching a teenage boy hold a baby, making a genuine effort while clearly as uncomfortable as hell.
“I’m fine,” I said. “So the dead body isn’t Mrs. Conway’s biological daughter. Does that mean the corpse isn’t Ciara? Or has there been a lab mix-up?”
Gabriel visibly exhaled, much happier to get back on the relatively safe ground of discussing dead people. “In reality, such mistakes are exceedingly rare. I also don’t see how the body could have been someone other than Ciara Conway. While death photos are difficult to ID—given the difference in pallor and muscle tone—there seemed no doubt this was Ms. Conway.”
“But if she isn’t the child of her parents, what does that mean? Switched at birth? Does that even happen outside of soap operas?”
“That is what you’re going to find out. I suspect the likelihood isn’t any greater than that of a lab error or misidentification, which means we’ll be looking at three equally dubious possibilities.” He tapped his pen, frowning, his gaze distant.
“Whatever the answer, I think someone knew,” I said.
“Hmmm?”
“Someone advised them to get that DNA test, when it seemed a complete waste of time and money. But it wasn’t. We need to find out who advised them. I bet he—or she—knows what’s going on here.”
Gabriel nodded. “I’ll try to make an appointment to speak to the Conways tomorrow. Are you free?”
“Until three again.”
“Good. I’ll set it up.”
—
Switched at birth. There’s actually a Wikipedia page for that, which was damned handy, but also a little disconcerting.
After my diner shift, I’d set about doing the research. As I expected, though, the idea was primarily used as a plot device. In fact, that’s what most of the entry covered—all the ways it had been used in fiction and film. The list of actual documented cases was short. Of course, one could argue that only the cases that are discovered are documented, but it would still be exceedingly rare. Modern hospitals have measures in place—like wristbands—to prevent mix-ups.
I felt Don’s gaze on me. Thinking that his son had also been out of touch last night? Shit.
“I could use you in here.” Gabriel glanced at Don. “Is that all right? Olivia’s getting a crash course in law, and this seems a good case for her. She’s signed a confidentiality waiver, of course.”
Should I be involved in a case regarding Ricky’s gang? I hesitated. Don noticed. Shit.
As Gabriel asked Lydia to bring coffee for the clients, I quickly texted Ricky.
At office. Your dad’s here.
The answer came back in seconds. Yeah, I know. Didn’t want to warn you. Better if you were honestly surprised.
Except I missed Gabriel’s message. So your dad knows I was out of contact last night. Like you.
Fuck. I’ll fix this tonight. Sorry.
I signed off as we settled into the room. I thought no one had noticed me texting, but I looked up to see Don watching me.
“How are you doing, Olivia?” Don asked.
“Fine. Apologies for the disruption. I’m not used to having a job where I need to check e-mail.”
He nodded. It was a pleasant nod, just as the inquiry had been pleasant. Civil and warm. No hint of suspicion, but I felt like a mouse squirming under a tiger’s gaze. I suspect a lot of people feel like that around Don Gallagher. There’s no mistaking he’s Ricky’s father—same blond hair, same dark eyes, same chiseled features, softer in Don. Those looks were the only softer part about him, though. Ricky could find his edge when it suited him; with Don, that edge never went away. It didn’t matter if Don looked as if he belonged at the country club, with his clean-shaven good looks, golf shirt, and pressed trousers. You saw the set of his jaw and the glint in his eye and the biceps straining the sleeves of that shirt and you knew this was a guy you did not want to piss off. Shit.
Gabriel brought me up to speed. The other guy in the room was Chad Sullivan, who naturally went by Sully. He was a big bruiser with a ponytail, beard, and tats. A stereotypical biker, which was actually the minority in the Saints.
The case was a personal matter. Except in a gang it seems that nothing is ever truly personal.
Sully’s ex was after him for unpaid child support. Don was pissed about it. I could see it in his face, hear it in his tone. You have kids; you pay for them. No exceptions. When Don learned of Sully’s debts, he’d paid them, with Sully owing him the money. Which would have been fine, except it came too late, Don having only found out about the problem last night, when Sully got arrested for assaulting his ex.
Whether Sully had assaulted his ex or not was a matter of debate. He swore he hadn’t. Don was still pissed. Sully had let the child support slide to the point where it seemed she retaliated, and in doing so, he’d violated club rules, which said all legal matters had to be brought to Don’s attention immediately.
Don and Sully left just before noon. Gabriel took a call before we could speak. When he came out of his office, I could tell something had happened. He waved me inside.
“The police put a rush on the DNA,” he said. “The press is breathing down their necks. When a young woman turns up dead and mutilated, the assumption is ‘serial killer,’ even if that’s rarely the case.”
“Is there a problem with the DNA?” I asked.
“It’s not a match for her mother.”
“What?”
Gabriel motioned for me to sit. “They tested against the mother. That saves any unexpected family surprises.”
“In case Dad’s not the father. You can’t lie about maternity, though.”
“Yes. But it seems Ciara Conway isn’t biologically related to her mother.”
“Could it be . . . ?” I shook my head. “Okay, I was going to suggest she was adopted and the family was hiding it, like with me, but obviously not if they asked for the DNA.” Even as I said it, my heart thudded. I guess I wasn’t completely over that shock yet.
“Olivia?”
“I’m fine. Sorry.” I forced a smile. “Back to the subject at hand . . .”
“There’s no hurry. Take a—” He cleared his throat. “I meant that if you want to . . .” He seemed to search for words.
“Take a minute?”
I’d given him crap a few weeks ago for that particular turn of phrase, one used when a client was upset. He meant it to sound sympathetic, but I always picked up that note of impatience bordering on contempt. Really, this is an inconvenient time for all this emotional nonsense. If you must, get it over with quickly, please.
This time I suspect he really was showing empathy. But it was like watching a teenage boy hold a baby, making a genuine effort while clearly as uncomfortable as hell.
“I’m fine,” I said. “So the dead body isn’t Mrs. Conway’s biological daughter. Does that mean the corpse isn’t Ciara? Or has there been a lab mix-up?”
Gabriel visibly exhaled, much happier to get back on the relatively safe ground of discussing dead people. “In reality, such mistakes are exceedingly rare. I also don’t see how the body could have been someone other than Ciara Conway. While death photos are difficult to ID—given the difference in pallor and muscle tone—there seemed no doubt this was Ms. Conway.”
“But if she isn’t the child of her parents, what does that mean? Switched at birth? Does that even happen outside of soap operas?”
“That is what you’re going to find out. I suspect the likelihood isn’t any greater than that of a lab error or misidentification, which means we’ll be looking at three equally dubious possibilities.” He tapped his pen, frowning, his gaze distant.
“Whatever the answer, I think someone knew,” I said.
“Hmmm?”
“Someone advised them to get that DNA test, when it seemed a complete waste of time and money. But it wasn’t. We need to find out who advised them. I bet he—or she—knows what’s going on here.”
Gabriel nodded. “I’ll try to make an appointment to speak to the Conways tomorrow. Are you free?”
“Until three again.”
“Good. I’ll set it up.”
—
Switched at birth. There’s actually a Wikipedia page for that, which was damned handy, but also a little disconcerting.
After my diner shift, I’d set about doing the research. As I expected, though, the idea was primarily used as a plot device. In fact, that’s what most of the entry covered—all the ways it had been used in fiction and film. The list of actual documented cases was short. Of course, one could argue that only the cases that are discovered are documented, but it would still be exceedingly rare. Modern hospitals have measures in place—like wristbands—to prevent mix-ups.
