“Any possibility you can find out? The more information, the better.”
“I’d rather you try running what I’ve got. If that fails, I’ll see what else I can find out.”
“You said an alleged SIDS. There’s some suspicion that maybe it wasn’t a SIDS? I need to know in case it might have been coded another way.”
“Supposedly, the child was a year old when she died. And that bothers me considerably. As you know, the peak age for SIDS is three to four months old. Over six months old, and SIDS is unlikely. After a year, you’re almost always talking about some other subtle form of sudden death. So yes, the death could have been coded a different way.” She played with her tea bag.
“If this was Idaho, I’d just call Jane and she could run the nosology code for SIDS and have an answer for me in ninety seconds. But California’s got thirty-two million people. It’s one of the hardest states. It might take a special run. Come on, I’ll walk you out. That will be my exercise for the day. ”
“Is the registrar in Sacramento?” We followed a depressing corridor busy with desperate citizens in need of social services.
“Yes. I’m going to call him as soon as I go back upstairs.”
“I assume you know him, then.”
“Oh, sure.” She laughed.
“There are only fifty of us. We have no one to talk to but each other.” That night I took Lucy to La Petite France, where I surrendered to Chef Paul, who sentenced us to languid hours of fruit-marinated lamb kabobs and a bottle of 1986 Chateau Gruaud Larose. I promised her crema di cioccolata eletta when we got home, a lovely chocolate mousse with pistachio and mars ala that I kept in the freezer for culinary emergencies. But before that we drove to Shocko Bottom and walked along cobblestones beneath lamplight in a part of the city that not so long ago I would not have ventured near. We were close to the river, and the sky was midnight blue with stars flung wide. I thought of Benton and then I thought of Marino for very different reasons.
“Aunt Kay,” Lucy said as we entered Chetti’s for cappuccino, “can I get a lawyer?”
“For what purpose?” I asked, although I knew.
“Even if the FBI can’t prove what they’re saying I did, they’ll still slam me for the rest of my life.” Pain could not hide behind her steady voice.
“Tell me what you want.”
“A big gun.”
“I’ll find you one,” I said.
I did not return to North Carolina on Monday as I had planned but flew to Washington instead. There were rounds to make at FBI headquarters, but more than anything I needed to see an old friend. Senator Frank Lord and I had attended the same Catholic high school in Miami, although not at the same time. He was quite a lot older than I, and our friendship did not begin until I was working for the Dade County Medical Examiner’s Office and he was the district attorney. When he became governor, then senator, I was long gone from the southern city of my birth. He and I did not become reconnected until he was appointed chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee. Lord had asked me to be an adviser as he fought to pass the most formidable crime bill in the history of the nation, and I had solicited his help, too. Unbeknownst to Lucy, he had been her patron saint, for without his intervention, she probably would not have been granted either permission or academic credit for her internship this fall. I wasn’t certain how to tell him the news. At almost noon, I waited for him on a polished cotton couch in a parlor with rich red walls and Persian rugs and a splendid crystal chandelier. Outside, voices carried along the marble corridor, and an occasional tourist peeked through the doorway in hopes of catching a glimpse of a politician or some other important person inside the Senate dining room. Lord arrived on time and full of energy, and gave me a quick, stiff hug. He was a kind, unassuming man shy about showing affection.