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O’Rourke smiled thinly. “I try not to. What was your mother’s name, Mr. Lowe?”
“Call me Alex,” I said.
“What was your mother’s name, Alex?”
“Marina Lowe,” I said.
“Maiden name?”
“Leach,” I said.
“And is she a US Citizen?”
“Was. She was a US Citizen.”
“Has she passed away?”
I gritted my teeth. “Yes.”
“And when did she die?”
“When I was eighteen.”
“Huh. Sorry to hear that. And how old are you now?”
“Forty-one.”
“And what was your dad’s name, Alex?”
I scowled. “Just what is all this about? You know all this already.”
“I’m just asking questions, Alex. We’re having a conversation. Like I said, that’s what I do. Have—”
“Have conversations, yeah, you said,” I snapped impatiently.
“Easy,” murmured Jeff.
“I agree,” said O’Rourke. “Take it easy, Alex.”
His voice and the tense atmosphere in the dark room was making me increasingly irate. Just what was the point of all this? I hated talking about my family, about my past. And the bright light above me was beginning to make a bead of sweat stand out on my forehead. I tried to think happy thoughts, to relax myself.
Oddly, a thought of Lola came into my head, laughing with me in the restaurant. But I pushed it aside.
“My father’s name was Max Lowe,” I said.
“Right. And do you have a birth certificate?”
“Obviously,” I said. “Besides, don’t hospitals keep records of that stuff? You’re not accusing me of something, are you?”
“You’re being indited on charges of Fraud and Unlawful Procurement of a Liquor License. Which can incur a fine and a federal sentence of up to fourteen years in federal prison—”
“I know. What I’m asking is, exactly what are you accusing me of doing?”
I had to force his hand. Otherwise, there was no way I’d find out what O’Rourke had up his sleeve. He reached for a stack of papers on the table. I hadn’t even noticed they were there when I walked in, they were so bland and anonymous. At the bottom was a pale, cream document wallet. He pulled it up and took out a piece of paper.
“That’s your birth certificate?”
I looked at it.
