A rusted Ford F350 was parked beside her, a mess of lawnmowers and weed wackers sticking out of the bed. The driver was catching a siesta , his Diamondbacks hat pulled over his face, a Budweiser Tall Boy wrapped in a paper bag between his thighs.
The door chimed as she walked in. She could smell the dank odor of mold. The floor was beige linoleum, stained with footprints, peeling at the edges. A cheap IKEA coffee table sat in the middle, adorned with a spread of outdated tabloid magazines. There was a receptionist’s desk but no receptionist.
She tapped her palm on the service bell.
“ Hello?”
She could hear the buzz of a television in the back room.
She pressed the bell twice.
“ Hello?”
“ Yes?” he shouted from behind an open door. “Com-ing!” She could hear the pitter-patter of quick footsteps on the linoleum.
He appeared from behind the open door. He was a short, pudgy man with red hair and a mottled complexion. He wore a short-sleeve white dress shirt, exposing pale freckled forearms.
He extended a hand. “Dennis Wilson.” His words had the nasal inflection of a midwesterner. Michigan, Wisconsin maybe. Another transplant. Nobody was ever from Arizona.
She shook his hand. “Like—”
“ Yes, like the Beach Boy.” He chuckled, resting his stubby hands on his belly. “No relation. Please, please. Come with me.”
She followed him through the open door. He waved to the one available seat opposite a gray aluminum desk cluttered with papers, manila folders, and Big Mac cartons. A bulky twelve-inch TV with rabbit ear antennas rested atop a filing cabinet in the corner. Jeopardy was on, the picture encumbered by static. It was the point in the show where Alex Trebek would walk over and talk to the contestants. She always thought that Trebek had a smugness to him and the sight of him making time-filling chitchat with an overweight second grade teacher from Cleveland made her roll her eyes.
She took a seat.
He punched away at his keyboard for a few seconds before directing his attention to her. A Big Gulp doubled as a paperweight, forming a wet ring on a stack of invoices. No photos of a wife or children or any signs of a life outside of that stuffy little office. Just a framed poster on the cracked plaster wall behind him of an astronaut floating above the earth. The caption at the bottom read your attitude determines your altitude .
“ So?” He leaned forward on his elbows, hovering above her seat, examining her with cockeyed curiosity. “Where’s the child?”
“ No, no, no. I’m not here for paternity testing.”
His mouth formed an ‘oh.’ “You’re not?”
“ No. I need somebody to test some items for DNA. Your website said that’s what you do.”
“ I offer a range of services, from your run-of-the-mill paternity testing to proving Native American genes. You know those tribes don’t let you in on a piece of the casino profits without the right documentation. The work is done in a lab out in Mesa. Takes anywhere from two to five business days for results. What, what exactly are you looking for, ma’am?”
She reached into her purse and set two items down on the little available space on his desk. Two ZipLoc baggies—one containing the red lighter, the other containing the crushed Red Bull can.
“ Can you test these two items, tell me if there’s a match?”
Dennis picked up the baggies, visually examining the items. “Yeah, so long as there’s DNA transfer.”
“ I’m confident there is. Just one thing. After you’re done, can I get the lighter back?”
CHAPTER 10
January 14, 2014
Miami, Florida
Wrapped in her terrycloth bathrobe, Daniella Avery watched the Caribbean Princess motor out of its berth from the broad window of her thirty-sixth floor apartment at the Templeton. Twenty-five hundred square feet of white marble floors and vaulted ceilings. A breeze rippled the current, forming little white caps that popped and then disappeared. The
The door chimed as she walked in. She could smell the dank odor of mold. The floor was beige linoleum, stained with footprints, peeling at the edges. A cheap IKEA coffee table sat in the middle, adorned with a spread of outdated tabloid magazines. There was a receptionist’s desk but no receptionist.
She tapped her palm on the service bell.
“ Hello?”
She could hear the buzz of a television in the back room.
She pressed the bell twice.
“ Hello?”
“ Yes?” he shouted from behind an open door. “Com-ing!” She could hear the pitter-patter of quick footsteps on the linoleum.
He appeared from behind the open door. He was a short, pudgy man with red hair and a mottled complexion. He wore a short-sleeve white dress shirt, exposing pale freckled forearms.
He extended a hand. “Dennis Wilson.” His words had the nasal inflection of a midwesterner. Michigan, Wisconsin maybe. Another transplant. Nobody was ever from Arizona.
She shook his hand. “Like—”
“ Yes, like the Beach Boy.” He chuckled, resting his stubby hands on his belly. “No relation. Please, please. Come with me.”
She followed him through the open door. He waved to the one available seat opposite a gray aluminum desk cluttered with papers, manila folders, and Big Mac cartons. A bulky twelve-inch TV with rabbit ear antennas rested atop a filing cabinet in the corner. Jeopardy was on, the picture encumbered by static. It was the point in the show where Alex Trebek would walk over and talk to the contestants. She always thought that Trebek had a smugness to him and the sight of him making time-filling chitchat with an overweight second grade teacher from Cleveland made her roll her eyes.
She took a seat.
He punched away at his keyboard for a few seconds before directing his attention to her. A Big Gulp doubled as a paperweight, forming a wet ring on a stack of invoices. No photos of a wife or children or any signs of a life outside of that stuffy little office. Just a framed poster on the cracked plaster wall behind him of an astronaut floating above the earth. The caption at the bottom read your attitude determines your altitude .
“ So?” He leaned forward on his elbows, hovering above her seat, examining her with cockeyed curiosity. “Where’s the child?”
“ No, no, no. I’m not here for paternity testing.”
His mouth formed an ‘oh.’ “You’re not?”
“ No. I need somebody to test some items for DNA. Your website said that’s what you do.”
“ I offer a range of services, from your run-of-the-mill paternity testing to proving Native American genes. You know those tribes don’t let you in on a piece of the casino profits without the right documentation. The work is done in a lab out in Mesa. Takes anywhere from two to five business days for results. What, what exactly are you looking for, ma’am?”
She reached into her purse and set two items down on the little available space on his desk. Two ZipLoc baggies—one containing the red lighter, the other containing the crushed Red Bull can.
“ Can you test these two items, tell me if there’s a match?”
Dennis picked up the baggies, visually examining the items. “Yeah, so long as there’s DNA transfer.”
“ I’m confident there is. Just one thing. After you’re done, can I get the lighter back?”
CHAPTER 10
January 14, 2014
Miami, Florida
Wrapped in her terrycloth bathrobe, Daniella Avery watched the Caribbean Princess motor out of its berth from the broad window of her thirty-sixth floor apartment at the Templeton. Twenty-five hundred square feet of white marble floors and vaulted ceilings. A breeze rippled the current, forming little white caps that popped and then disappeared. The
Similar Books
