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Chapter 11
Working with Jake Stevens turned out to be a positive move for my career. Criminal Justice had prepared me for gathering details and applying the law to them, but that was about it. Most of private investigating required patience and a little stamina. Instead of standing poised in the courtroom, I’d be doing the footwork of an investigation.
At the end of June, I had excelled at installing tracking devices under cars without getting caught by the car owners. I usually did that job after dark, when the chances of being interrupted were less, or in the middle of the day, while the suspected cheater worked.
I learned fast to wear jeans after realizing kneeling in a gravel lot with high heels and a straight skirt wasn’t going to cut it.
“You’ve got to hide yourself,” Jake said, frowning at me. “That hair is memorable.”
I dug through the closet that Will and I shared and found a Mets baseball cap that had black bangs and dreadlocks attached to it. That, with sunglasses, a University of Pennsylvania sweatshirt, and baggy jeans, made a perfect disguise. Will said he didn’t recognize me when I met him in town for lunch dressed in my getup.
“Um, miss?” he said.
“Are you embarrassed?”
“No way. I’ve always wanted to learn about Rastafarianism.”
Cheating spouses provided at least ninety percent of the business at Stevens Private Investigation. The other ten percent was searching for information for grieving families. That left a little time to pursue what I learned was my favorite aspect of the field, death investigation.
“You’re welcome to look into the baby skeleton case, since it was found in your cottage,” Jake said, “but don’t be too disappointed if the law doesn’t recognize your work. We can get away with a lot of search and collection processes that the cops can’t do, so you want to be careful you don’t jeopardize the investigation.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
After my chat with Alan Stone, I went back to the cottage and made a chart of what I knew were the facts. Jack Smith, Pam’s late husband, had rented the cottage for the entire summer into fall ten years before. Photos found in the attic placed Pam and Jack’s son, Brent, and his girlfriend, Julie Hsu, as well as Lisa and friend Ginger Harrow at the cottage during that time.
The newspaper the baby had been wrapped in and envelopes with canceled stamps with various return addresses, including one from Student Housing, Stony Brook University, addressed to Ginger Harrow, pinpointed the date. She was smart if she’d gone to Stony Brook.
I added the dates to my chart.
Then I added the DNA results showing that Brent Smith was most likely the father and Ginger the mother of the baby.
I wished I could talk to Ginger Harrow, but since her husband was watching her like a hawk, I decided it wasn’t worth the risk. I would speak with my stepsister as soon as I could. I sent her a text. Got time to speak with me this evening? I know it’s short notice.
She answered in seconds. Come down.
I gathered up the few photos that Alan Stone hadn’t taken at the coffee shop. The longer I looked at them, the more incriminating they seemed. Someone had to know something about the baby’s birth.
The evening had cooled off. I didn’t bother with a coat, instead grabbing a hoodie belonging to Will and slipping my arms through the sleeves. Spring was in the air, the snow melting and daffodils poking up through the earth.
Trudging down the dune to the water’s edge, I looked out to the horizon, the moon rising as the sun set behind me. Living at the beach, I felt at the pinnacle of achievement, even if my father had paid for the cottage. That made me chuckle.
Lisa’s cottage was a short hike south of my place, but we rarely saw each other. I had heard through the grapevine that Ryan was living with her at the beach, that he’d had some kind of mental breakdown and was no longer going into the office in Manhattan. Pam didn’t say much about it, probably out of loyalty to Lisa. Talking to Lisa was more important than my loathing of Ryan. I was willing to expose myself to get more information.
When I reached her cottage, I stopped to study it for a moment. It had been about the size of mine originally, but she’d added dormers to the attic, turning the second story into a huge four-bedroom and two-bath space. With three children, she really needed it. There was an in-law suite above the garage, another addition.
The front screened-in porch had been enclosed, and yellow light shined from the window. Ryan was standing there, watching me. It was unnerving. We stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Lisa came onto the porch and, seeing me, went to the door.
“Come on up, Laura. Ryan is obviously having a brain fart.”
I could hear him laugh at her insult. Then I remembered that Ryan’s DNA collected when he was accused of raping Sandra was the key to figuring out who Baby Doe’s father was. Ryan didn’t greet me that visit, but he might have been in protective mode.
Lisa’s sweet beauty once again made an impression on me. “Daniela has the children under control. We can go into the living room for privacy if you need it.”
That was when I noticed she was pregnant. It was so shocking, it took me a moment to pull myself together.
I pointed to her belly. “Wow, I didn’t know. I didn’t know for sure Ryan was here. I’d heard, but I didn’t believe it.”
“I figured Pam would have told you.”
