The Case of the Killer Divorce (4 page)

Chapter 13

"So, let me get this straight," Grace said, after we'd polished off two tacos each and an iced tea. "Your dad could be anywhere, including prison, or possibly dead, but wherever he is, he's definitely
not
looking for you, because he doesn't know there
is
a you?"

"
Exactly--except you forgot the part about the political intrigue, the tragic love story, and the nagging question of whether I'm morally obligated to learn Spanish now. God knows I've tried, but the subjunctive tense makes me crazy. And the verb conjugations, Dios mio! There's a formal 'you,' an informal 'you,' a plural formal 'you,' and a plural informal 'you'--like saying "you guys"--
but only if you happen to be in Spain.
It's way too complicated. Don't you think 'Spanglish' should be good enough? I mean, I'm only half-Cuban, you know?"

Grace laughed and shook her head. "You're losing it, girl! Seriously though, do you think it's a good idea to look for him? It's such a long shot and even if you found him, what then? Are you picturing a big family reunion?"

I knew she was trying to protect me. The truth was I'd only begun to move past my mom's death and the last th
ing I needed was more heartache.

I sighed. "I promise not to get carried away. And no family reunions with matching t-shirts or anything like that. I'd just like to know what kind of person my dad is, or at least what happened to him. I know the odds of finding him are not good. It's like a "Where's Waldo" game that's the size of a small country. I have a better
chance of winning the lottery."

"Well, I hope you bought a ticket, because it's u
p to $60 million." Grace smiled.

"You bet I did! And when I win, my friend, dinner is on me.
In Paris."

"You should book the Learjet now," she said, "Just to be safe."

As we were talking,
Grace took her expensive, state-of -the art tablet out of her purse, placed it on the bar and started typing like a woman on a mission.

"What are you doing?" I asked, looking over her shoulder. "Don't tell me you're working right now, in the middle of Latin Night at Tekila's? No wonder you need so
many Rolaids, you're a maniac."

Grace rolled her eyes. "Of course I'm not working, silly. I'm looking for Waldo. I have to warn you
though, my Spanish is worse than yours, so, if we get stuck on a word, we'll have to use Google translator. Why don't you tell me what you've done so far?"

***

Ever since we'd met our second year at Nova Law, I could always count on Grace. Smarter than most and funny as hell, she was like a brilliant comet lighting up the long, black night that was law school. Okay, I'm exaggerating a little, but, believe me; law school was anything but fun.

W
ith her black glasses and trendy clothes, Grace already looked the part of a lawyer, even back then, but underneath it all, she was such a goofball. I swear, nobody can make me laugh like Grace can, especially when she does funny voices. She can imitate almost anyone. I'll never forget the night Grace called our friend Suzie and pretended to be our cranky Torts professor, Maryellen Brennan. Grace had Suzie shaking in her shoes for a full fifteen minutes, while I sat next to her, cracking up. It wasn't until Grace told Suzie she should bake an apple torte for extra credit that she finally caught on.

Grace had another talent; one that all lawyers wish for,
what I like to call 'the voice of reason.' The voice of reason is a voice that's calm, modulated, and as soothing as honey on a sore throat. Because of it, Grace always sounds like she's right.

I
n law school, you're taught that if the law isn't on your side, you should argue the facts, and if the facts aren't on your side, you should argue the law, but they teach you nothing about delivery, which can make all the difference. Sure, if you work at it, you can learn the mechanics of being an effective speaker: frequent eye contact; strong posture; controlling your pace; and using appropriate body language--like not flailing around and distracting people from what you're saying--but you'll never have the voice of reason, a voice so compelling that even if it recited the phone book to you, you’d have to listen. Think about it and you'll understand why James Earl Jones was the best person to be the voice of Darth Vader. Having the 'voice of reason' is why Grace sounds like she has all the answers, even when she doesn't.

***

I told Grace everything I'd done, which wasn't much, to be honest, but considering I’d had to deal with Becca's crisis, it was still something. Then I asked her where she thought we should start.

"
How about we Google 'how to find a lost relative in Cuba?"

"Well, duh, why didn't I think of that?"

"You're too close to the problem," Grace said, kindly.

"
Then I'm lucky I have you," I said. And I meant it.

Chapter 14

We spent the next hour sitting at the bar at Tekila's, brainstorming. I felt bad taking up seats for so long, but the crowd had thinned and Jan said she didn't mind. Yet another reason she's our favorite bartender.

G
race's idea about googling how to find a lost relative in Cuba turned up dozens of leads, mostly genealogy sites such as geneaology.com, FamilySearch, MyHeritage, and Cubagenweb.org, which was a how-to guide for genealogical research for Cuban people.  While this information could prove useful eventually, I wasn't at that stage yet, since I knew nothing about my father or his (and my) relatives in Cuba, not to mention that he had a fairly common surname and I didn't know his place of birth. The only thing I knew for sure was his age. In her letter, my mom had mentioned that they'd met when they were both twenty. Since she would've been fifty-five this year, he'd be fifty-five as well.

In our internet treasure hunt, we also discovered "Cuba Google" and "Cuba blogs," which looked promising, but since neither of us spoke Spanish, we decided to leave those for last, maybe find someone to translate for us. Grace liked the blog idea. She was convinced that anyone as politically active as my dad would've left an internet
footprint, specifically a blog, but I wasn't so sure. Maybe being arrested and deported and losing the woman he loved had left him feeling defeated. And if it turned out he was in prison, he sure couldn't maintain a blog from his cell.

At the end of the night, it looked like one of our best leads was the
Cuban American National Foundation in Miami, which provided information to people about their relatives in Cuba, or provided contacts to help them find that information. The other promising lead was the Cuban Consulate in Washington, D.C. Grace had a friend who worked for the state department in D.C. whom she planned to call and ask for advice. I said I would contact the Cuban America National Foundation, as well as the other Miami groups I'd found while doing my own research.

"It's a good start," Grace said, as she
slipped her tablet back in her purse. "Do you think we should ask Duke for help? He did offer."

"
I would, but I can't think of anything for him to do right now. We should wait until we really need him, you know, for the cloak and dagger stuff."

"Cloak and dagger--listen to you!  I told you that watching
so much TV would fry your brain, Jamie, and now it's happened. Such a shame."

"Don't be jealous, Grace. One day, you’ll have the time to enjoy 'quality couch time' like I do, with a remote control in one hand and an iced latte in the other. I can see it now--you'll dance in the aisles with Ellen DeGeneres, learn 'what not to wear' and become a gourmet chef, all without leaving the sofa. What a life!"

"Thanks, but I'd rather drink a Margarita with my friend and watch people salsa dance
in the real world
," Grace said.

"Or, you could come over; we'll make Margaritas and watch 'Dancing with the Stars' on my
couch. It's su-per comfortable."

"You're a
nut, you know that?" She smiled. "I think I'll call it a night so you can go catch up on your shows."

I laughed as I slipped into one of our old jokes, borrowed from
the great George Burns. "Say good-night, Gracie."

"Good-night, Gracie," she said, and then she yawned, which wasn't part of the routine, but still a nice touch.

Chapter 15

I spent the weekend doing boring weekend stuff--laundry, groceries, paying bills, cleaning house and, of course, catching up on my shows. I always like to start my week with a full tank of gas, a full fridge and money in my wallet; otherwise, I feel like I'm behind before I even get started. Having clean clothes to wear is also high on the list. It's strange, but I find working every day hard to get used to, although I did it for ten years before my mom died. It seems that once you stop punching a clock, you immediately forget how to do it; and then, you don't even remember what the clock looks like.

Given that I'm fairly obsessive, you m
ight think I showed remarkable restraint by not spending the weekend online looking for my father, but the truth is my brain was on overload. If I didn't have some downtime to absorb all that new information, my head would explode. Besides being obsessive, I'm also hyperbolic, which sounds like a disease, but isn't.

I was glad I hadn't planned to have Sunday dinner with Aunt Peg and Adam. I didn't feel like talking about my mom, my dad, family secrets, or anything that came under those headings. Instead, I invited my next-door neighbors, Sandy and Mike,
over for Indian take-out and a glass of wine. It was fun and relaxing and just what the doctor ordered--if you could get a doctor to write you a prescription for Curry, Pinot Grigio, and an evening in the company of nice people.

By Monday morning, I was refreshed and ready to tackle the world, or at least ready to tackle my in-box. I was in such a good mood, I could've even handled Lisa's crying, but I hoped I wouldn't have to. As a precaution, and to spread the good cheer around, I stopped at Einstein's on my way to work to pick up a dozen bagels for the office, including cinnamon-raisin
, Lisa's favorite.

A
fter I settled in at my desk with a second cup of coffee, I e-mailed Becca to ask about Joe's funeral arrangements; I felt obligated to pay my respects. It occurred to me that Joe's parents might be the ones making the arrangements, considering the bitter divorce proceedings, but Becca would still have the information.

I worked non-stop until lunchtime and managed to jam out quite a bit of paperwork, if I do say so myself. I wish I were a steady worker, but, unfortunately, I only have two speeds: full- speed ahead and dead-stop. Happily, it was a full-speed kind of day. I was mulling over whether to get a sub or a salad from the delivery place across the street when my cell phone rang. I normally don't answer it at lunchtime as a way to establish boundaries for my clients. Just because they have my cell number (which is more for my convenience than for theirs), doesn't mean that I'm on call for them 24/7. But I saw it was Becca, so I decided to pick up.

"Hey, Becca, I've been thinking about you. How are you holding up, sweetie?"       

"I'm not, Jamie, not at all." Her voice sounded ragged, lik
e she'd been crying all weekend.

"I can only imagine. You must b
e overwhelmed, how can I help?"

"I'm calling because I don't know what to do," she wailed. "The state attorney's office called and asked me to come in for questioning. Why would they do that? What do they want from me? Why is this happeni
ng? I can't take it anymore!"

I could hear her hysteria escalating and I knew I had to talk her down off the ledge, figuratively speaking. At least I hoped it was figurative. You never know a person's limits; and sometimes, you don't even know your own.

"It's okay, Becca. It's probably just a routine thing. Listen, I know someone at the state attorney's office, how about I call him for you and see what I can find out?"

She
paused and then in a voice as small as a little girl's, she said, "Yes, please...and will you call me back?"

"I promise. But don't sit by the phone waiting because sometimes it takes a while for him to return the call. Why don't you go make yourself some tea, or lie down and relax for a bit? Okay?"

"I'll try," she said, not very convincingly.

After we hung up, I dialed the direct line of Nick Dimitropoulos, State Attorney, rising star, son of a senator, and my arch-enemy.  If you look up the word 'arch' in the dictionary, you'll find that it refers to a person with an amused feeling of being superior to or knowing more than other people. Next to that definition, you'll see a picture of Nick D. Oh wai
t, that's just in my dictionary.

I come by my feelings for Nick, honestly. He's the one who went after my disabled cousin, Adam, a year earlier and tried to pin a murder on him using only circumstantial evidence and a truckload of political ambition. We finally reached a truce after I convinced him to focus on the real killer. He ended up looking like a hero, with his picture in the paper and all the accolades to go with it, so he owed me one, and he knew it. Politicians always keep score of favors, even wannabe politicians.
Especially wannabe politicians.

"Nick Dimitropoulos."

Hearing his voice, I pictured him at his desk with his chiseled jaw and perfectly trimmed nails. He'd be wearing the latest from Armani, shiny wingtip shoes (with or without tassels) and not one hair out of place. His desk would be neatly organized and equipped with the best technology money can buy.

"Jamie Qu
inn here, how's it going, Nick?"

"Hello Quinn--I didn't expect to hear from you so soon."

I laughed. "So soon? It's been a year since I helped you get your picture in the paper."

"For your information, Quinn, my picture is in the paper all the time.
And for all the right reasons."

"I don't doubt that for a minute, Nick…" I hesitated, unsure exactly how to proceed.

"So, Quinn, what can I do for you? Are you looking for a reference?"

I burst out la
ughing. "You're kidding, right?"

"
Of course I am. What's up?"

"Well, I have a client--"

"Another cousin of yours?"

"Funny one, Nick. And no, not a cousin. One of my clients received a call from your office this morning asking her to come in. I'd like to know why."

"What's her name?"

"Becca Solomon."

"I'm familiar with that case."

"It's a case? Why is it a case? Her husband was found dead last Friday, but she knew nothing about it. She was waiting for him to pick up the kids."

There was a pause as Nick seemed to consider what information he was willing to share
.

"Quinn, I shouldn't be telling you this, but Joe Solomon died from a combination of a
lcohol and sleeping pills."

"I don't fol
low. Why shouldn't you tell me?"

"
Because they were your client's sleeping pills."