Drawing Conclusions (24 page)

thirty-seven

Choppy waves swirled as
the wind kicked up over Long Island Sound, making the marine patrol boat bounce around. I lost my footing a handful of times before taking a seat on a plastic floatation device next to FBI Agent David Swell.

“Ms. Prentice,” he said, “you've made a habit of keeping the FBI busy.”

“I like to see my tax dollar at work,” I responded, grabbing Swell's shoulder as the boat careened over a tsunami-sized white cap before landing with a jolting thud. “Can a boat like this crack?”

“Anything is possible in this case,” Swell laughed into the sea breezes, his perfectly combed hair remaining unnaturally in place.

“So what's our job?” I asked.

“We wait,” he said and then added, “The truth is that most police work is waiting and watching.”

What an understatement. We'd been circling the shore of Connecticut for the last hour and my virgin sea legs had given way to a nasty bout of seasickness. The Relativity.com offices appeared like a small-scale house on a train set, while Dacks's yacht bobbed about at leisure two hundred yards away. DeRosa had instructed Igor to meet with Dacks at Relativity.com's offices Thursday morning as if nothing had happened. Dacks was unaware that both Becky and her father had been picked up by the police the previous day. With Becky detained in a cell, Igor—I still couldn't think of him as Stash Volwitz, despite hearing his entire story multiple times—was highly motivated to follow through on the plan. Unfortunately, Igor was not a natural student and his repeated mistakes in the scripted conversation had frazzled DeRosa, who was jet-lagged and injured, not to mention emotionally paralyzed by his own personal drama.

“Repeat after me,” he had said hours earlier in the interrogation room at the station. “Does the doctor know you sent Becky to kill his son?”

“The doctor knows you killed his son,” Igor misstated.

“No,” DeRosa had said with frustration, growing acutely aware of the man's language deficiencies. “Try it again and get it right this
time.”

Our boat cut through the waves as smoothly as a baby carriage being shoved through a rock quarry. The constant slapping broke down what little resolve I could muster. Apparently, my inability to control my impulses had banned me from the premium seating section in the parking lot of Relativity.com's corporate offices. DeRosa, Cheski, and Lamendola were all positioned strategically on solid ground, while I had been relegated to the offshore nosebleed seats under the careful supervision of Agent Swell. Our surveillance did serve a purpose, as Swell reminded me more than once.

“If Dacks leaves land and points his yacht toward international waters, you'll get to see some action,” he said. “We are plan B, and that means waiting for plan A to fail.”

“Waiting is not one of my talents.” I pushed my hair aside and felt a wadded, salty knot forming at the nape of my neck. “How much longer?”

Swell referenced his watch and then dialed DeRosa's cell. “What are we looking at?”

I was sitting close enough to Swell for me to hear Frank's response. “Igor's been inside for about twenty minutes.”

Then I heard his tone change, his voice get a bit louder.

“Wait a second. We got a live one. Igor is leaving the building and he's giving us the signal.” I heard a commotion of slamming doors and footsteps as the police team made its way in.

I grabbed the pair of binoculars Swell promised me and focused the ocular dial on the building. “I can't see a damn thing with the boat bouncing like this,” I whined as the binoculars slammed the bridge of my nose. “What's going on?” I turned to Swell, who shook his head at my impatience. “Right, I get it. I have to wait.”

I sat back down and was rewarded with a trill of Swell's cell phone. He tapped the screen, peered at it, and handed me the phone. “There's your money shot.” Sure enough, there was a photo of Peter Dacks, his hands secured behind his back, being escorted across the parking lot by Detective Frank DeRosa. Underneath the latter's long-sleeved shirt were two thick bandages covering a total of seventeen stitches, wounds he had earned solving his twin brother's murder. The man he strong-armed across the parking lot was not only the mastermind behind the murder but the one who had helped tear him and his brother apart in infancy. Within weeks, my life had been turned upside down, but it wasn't about me any longer. This was Frank's life, and that included all the time stolen from him and Teddy.

Swell's phone rang in my hand. I politely handed the phone to him. He spoke to the caller and then passed it to me.

“Frank?”

“We got him.”

“You sure did,” I said in congratulations and then lowered my voice. “I'm wondering if you want to see my mother. She's leaving for rehab today.”

“It's next on my list.”

thirty-eight

The drive to my
parent's house was somber. Teddy had been gone almost a month, but we knew we were close. With Dacks in police custody, the danger of the investigation downshifted, taking on a more personal tone. DeRosa had a right to hear his own story, uncover his own truth. He had laid out a strategy that bordered on entrapment with elements I felt were unethical and downright mean. However, I vowed to stand by him. On some level I knew he was right, but his plan, unfortunately, had cast my mother as a central figure.

“CeCe, this is a typical police setup. We do it all the time.” He checked the main road for traffic before turning down my parents' street. “Your mother is the weak link and in a game of prisoner's dilemma, you need a weak link.”

“What the hell is prisoner's dilemma? Is my mother going to prison?!”

“Most likely no, but if she thinks she is then she'll rat out her husband or Peter Dacks or any of the players she has knowledge of. That's the concept of the prisoner's dilemma. The subject asks himself, should I lie or should I pin it on the other guy in order to save my own hide? In almost every case, the weak link breaks and spills the truth, which is ultimately used as evidence against the other players.”

“Well, since my mother is already broken, I don't think it will take much to get her talking.” I wondered how far I would allow him to push my mother before I intervened.

We pulled up to in the circular drive and I realized my family home was becoming strangely familiar to me again. I had been a no-show for years, but I'd made many visits in the last two weeks. Pointing out the best spot to park on the circular drive, I checked for the light in my father's library. The doctor, it appeared, was out.

DeRosa rang the doorbell.

“Really?” I said, “We can go right in, you know.”

“I want your mother to assume this is police business. In that case, I can't enter the home without permission.”

“Shit, you're really playing the part.”

“I hear footsteps.”

Norma opened the door and a welcoming smile filled her face when she saw me. I felt like a turncoat, and I had tremendous remorse knowing I was about to disappoint this kind woman. She cared for my mother, and our visit would be difficult for the maid to understand.

“Miss CeCe, you come back?”

“Yes, Norma. Would you mind bringing my mother to the door?”

With a worried look on her face, Norma scurried away. Eventually my mother appeared at the front door and I could tell she was nursing what was possibly the worst hangover of her life. She squinted, her hand shielding her face from the sun, as if every ray were drilling down on her pounding head.

“May I help you?”

She had not even registered my presence.

“Elizabeth Prentice, you have the right to remain silent.” DeRosa did not hesitate in his delivery of Miranda rights even as my mother wilted like a water-deprived plant. The scene was intense and I wanted nothing more than to plead for her innocence, but I needed to hear it from her first.

“Please come in,” she croaked.

Finally seeing me next to DeRosa, she searched my blank gaze for an answer. We followed her limp figure back to the atrium, where she gratefully took up her spot on her lounge.

“What is my crime?”

DeRosa remained standing as he addressed her. “Illegal adoption and kidnapping across international waters.”

“Just tell me what you want from me without accusing me.”

And just like that, she folded. Exactly as DeRosa had anticipated. Given the facts we'd already collected, her story was not remotely far-fetched. He had already deduced most of the twists and turns covering a thirty-year span. However, it was more powerful coming from someone who'd actually lived the story—my mother, my real mother.

“I met your father in Italy by chance, at a café, only to find out we were both from the same area on Long Island, just a few towns apart. Our parents were actually acquaintances. We flirted and drank too much. It was a bit of a fling, and then we parted as friends. I traveled back to Germany, where I was involved with a superb Bauhaus artist.”

“My father?”

“Yes, CeCe, your biological father,” my mother confirmed. “I'm sorry, but it would never have worked.” She reached for my hand, and I struggled to accept that the past was just that. Not to say that I wasn't intrigued by this man, my real father, but twenty-eight years had gone by. Another few minutes in the dark wouldn't make a difference.

“The relationship was tumultuous. We fought constantly, but at times we were very much in love. You were a product of one of those moments. Always remember that.”

“But I have a father? Right?” I pleaded. “Somewhere out there, I have a biological father?”

“You do.”

“Is he alive?” I asked and then turned to DeRosa. “I'm sorry to get off track, but I need to know.”

“Go ahead,” he nodded.

“Well, I wasn't sure until recently, but I was curious, just as you are, so Norma showed me how to Google.” My mother almost whispered the word as if Googling were code for illicit activities.

“And?” I said literally sitting on the edge of the patio chair.

“He's alive and well, still painting in Berlin.”

“Wow,” I exhaled with astonishment.

I couldn't believe how a few lies had snowballed into an interconnected tangle of deception. I let my mother's revelation sit for a second before returning to the task at hand. I had more questions, many more, but a strange calm came over me when I learned my real father was alive. I also felt a kind of relief knowing that my mother had experienced love. It was quietly depressing growing up in a home devoid of passion. At the least, I now knew my mother had felt fulfillment and joy, and that I was somehow a piece of it. I could see in her face that she had been genuinely excited at searching for her past love online. She must have been searching my face for signs of him over the years. In the midst of the craziness, it was a bittersweet thought, but it didn't mask the issue at hand.

“Mom, you have to help Frank now. Can you finish your story?”

“By spring I was pregnant with you, but the relationship was over and I refused to terminate. Your grandmother got involved and put pressure on me. I sought your father out and I thought maybe we could make a go of it. Before I knew it, William and I were married.”

“Did Dad know you were pregnant?”

“I'm sure he did, but he chose to ignore it. Talking of pregnancy was a little too gauche for him. He may have told himself you were his,” she said. “We never discussed it.”

“Why did he marry you?”

“For appearances. A prominent doctor needs an attractive wife.” My mother caught her words self-consciously. “At least in those days, I was attractive. Anyway, he needed to be married, but he knew he wasn't programmed for a life-partnering. But I came from the right family and because I was independent, he knew he could leave me alone without complaint.”

“What about the other babies? Teddy and me?” DeRosa asked.

“Theodore and Franklin,” she corrected. “I believe he chose those names because he had great admiration for the Roosevelt family. You can see his library is filled with books on the Roosevelts.”

“I didn't realize Dr. Prentice named me,” DeRosa said, clenched teeth holding back his anger. I could see it irked him, like a permanent tattoo he despised. “Mrs. Prentice, I have to ask you,” he went on, “what was your involvement in our ab
duction and separation?”

My mother was visibly offended by Frank's accusation. “I was a mother,” she said defensively. “I knew Teddy was not my own, but I loved him dearly. As the years passed, I made no distinction between Teddy and CeCe.” She squared her shoulders and addressed DeRosa directly. “I would have done the same had it been you, and it easily could have been.” She lowered her head, and I'm sure she was reflecting on her involvement in all of our lives. “I may not have been perfect, but I loved my children and I did my best by them.”

“You did, Mom,” I reassured her. “Teddy and I loved you.” I gave DeRo
sa an icy stare.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Prentice,” he backpedaled, “and I understand. I know my adopted mother loved me unconditionally, and I'm sure you gave Teddy and CeCe the best possible life. I'll never get back the time with my brother, but I can find some peace knowing he grew up loved.” He took a deep breath. “Let me rephrase my question: Can you relate the events that occurred shortly after our birth?”

My mother picked up with her interpretation of the days preceding the twins' immigration to the United States. “We went to Italy in August. It was murderously hot, and I was starting to show. I was uncomfortable and I began to realize that it might be very difficult to remain in a relationship with William. On the trip, I was introduced to a man by the name of Peter Dackow, a business acquaintance of William's. On a beach excursion, Peter brought his twin boys along, and although he was fair-haired, I assumed his wife must have been Italian by the look of the twins. The wife never materialized.”

My mother began to choke up at this point, and I began to understand that her substance abuse and depression was a by-product of these happenings. Seeds of sympathy started to sprout and I envisioned my father, domineering and powerful, involving her in a sticky spider's web.

“At the end of the vacation, Peter Dackow met us at the airport.” She wiped her eyes delicately with a tissue. “I assumed he was traveling to the United States on business with your father. He got on
the airplane and secured these two beautiful babies in their airplane seats … and then he got off the aircraft. I screamed frantically for the stewardess while we were taxiing, but it was like no one else spoke English. I assumed Peter had forgotten something in the terminal and the plane took off without him, leaving his children on board. I was hysterical. Your father subdued me with a sleeping pill, assuring me everything would be alright. When we arrived at our house, there was only one baby, Teddy. The other one was gone.”

“And you didn't ask Dad what happened?”

My mother's eyes flashed briefly. “Oh, CeCe, please don't underestimate me. I badgered your father incessantly.” Her hands started to tremble then, and I could see we were pushing her to the limits of her current condition. “Your father insisted there had been a custody fight between this Peter Dackow and his wife. That he'd accused her of mistreating the boys and this solution would be temporary, and then Peter could resettle and reclaim his sons. He promised me that the other baby was
with a friend of Peter's. After a few months, your father came to me and told me that Peter was having trouble with his papers and he was afraid to bring the boys home for fear that his wife's family would kidnap them. Your father told me that we would adopt one of the babies and that he'd found a family for the other child somewhere on
Long Island. I was hesitant, but how could I doubt your father? He's a doctor first and foremost, and I couldn't imagine him putting this other baby in harm's way.”

My mother wiped tears from her face, and I watched as her head started to twitch along with her hands. I was afraid we'd gone too far into the past, but she kept on talking, as if this were her last chance to tell her story. Her fingers flittered across her face as she spoke. “I was so overwhelmed by the separation of the boys that I began to have trouble functioning. I couldn't bear the thought of twins being separated. They were so adorable, nearly identical. So much so, I wasn't even sure which baby had ended up at our house. As I faltered, your father started hiring more help, so I could rest before you were born, and then after you were born. And, the rest you know, CeCe. You grew up in the house. You remember the bad times.”

“I do, Mom,” I said as I stroked her hair. “Look, you must realize where this is going. Frank is going to have to bring Dad down to the station. Is he at the labs?'

“Oh no,” my mother's words slowed almost to a slur. “He's long gone.”

“But I saw him yesterday morning. Where the hell did he go?”

“Gone. Disappeared. He came home from work, emptied the safe, and left.”

Instantly, DeRosa pounded on his phone. “Let's hope we can catch him at one of the airports.”

My mother dropped her head and studied her loosely folded hands. Her body went slack, and I was concerned her confession had triggered another emotional attack. I hurried out of the room in search of Norma. I had no idea how she handled my mother in situations like these, but it was as though my mother's body had shifted into an irreparable shutdown. As I rounded the kitchen, I heard a shattering of glass from the atrium.

“Fuck,” DeRosa yelled. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The glass table next to my mother's lounge had splintered into a million pieces from the weight of his fist. My mother appeared oblivious to the upheaval while his hand was dripping in blood, a shard of glass sticking out of the pad by his thumb. He shook the blood from his hand, leaving speckles across my mother's aggrieved face.

“Frank, you have to stop,” I yelled as I ran toward my mother, shielding her with my body. “Come on, what are you doing?”

He was at his breaking point, his own personal line in the sand. The details of the case aside, I knew his goal had been to confront my father with enough information to bury him in moral purgatory. There was not a minute from the past thirty years he could retrieve and alter. Though they had lived within a few miles of each other, years had passed while he never met his brother. His only retribution was a showdown with my father. Now it seemed this moment, too, had passed.

“Do you know where Dad is, Mom?”

My mother appeared completely incoherent.