Anger flared in my belly, scorching and bitter. Every replayed word of Paulie’s dripped like gasoline. Adam’s protection was a hollow shield, a shell game. Of all the sins Adam had to answer for, the worst was that a real father wouldn’t have been stupid enough to love the rush of the game over his own family in the first place.
Chapter 17
The rest of the trip was uneventful. I begged off enjoying the island nightlife, staying in with room service and some P.I. databases to track down Avi Chomsky, while Arkady went out on the town. I searched until the words swam on screen. The trouble was that Avi—Adam—could be anywhere in the world, using any date of birth, and that was if he hadn’t gone off-grid entirely.
He might have chosen a getaway that he had no connection to. But what if he hadn’t? According to Paulie, my father had initially left to keep us safe. What if he’d ended up somewhere that had, if not an actual connection to our family, then an emotional one?
My parents had gone to New York for their honeymoon. That was a possibility. Then there was Zihuatanejo, a beach town on Mexico’s Pacific Coast. We’d gone there when I was a kid, and while I didn’t remember a lot about it, I had flashes of jumping in the water, going to a crowded market every day to buy fresh papaya, and both of my parents laughing a lot. They reminisced about that trip a ton over the years.
By the time Arkady stumbled back to his room next door just before dawn, I had a plan. Since we had to stop in New York anyway for his return flight, Arkady would check out the three Avi Chomskys I found in the different boroughs, sending me current photos. If that was a no go, from there he’d fly to Mexico and see if anyone fit that name. I’d have done it, but I had a fundraiser to attend.
Arkady grumbled a bit about not packing for an extended vacation, but agreed.
Since Paulie had confirmed that Adam had the scroll, we didn’t need Priya to track down the previous owner, so I’d fired off a text taking her off that.
I’d barely gotten any sleep from my allotted cat nap when I was woken by a call from an unfamiliar number. It was the fair company. I pushed past the grogginess to present my credentials and ask about employee records from thirty years ago.
Unfortunately, about twenty years back, they’d all burned up in a fire. I tried not to let my excitement over their misfortune show, but the lack of documentation wasn’t a coincidence. A Hispanic family, a white-blond Russian kid, Wonderland—this was the genesis of the Queen of Hearts and Moran.
“Were you working for the company back then?” I said.
“You bet,” the man said. “We’re a family business. I’ve been here more than forty years.”
I asked him about Moran, but he had no memory of him.
“Did the family who worked the midway have a daughter?” I did the math, guessing at her current age. “Probably her early twenties? Striking violet eyes?”
“Serafina.” He infused that name with a heavy dose of wistful nostalgia.
“What did she do there?”
“Told fortunes. Mostly love affair stuff.” He chuckled. “She claimed to see into people’s hearts. It was catchy. Got her a lot of business.”
“Holy. Shit.” I clutched the phone, leaning forward as if I could physically pull more information out of him. “What was her last name?”
“Sorry. Don’t remember. Serafina wasn’t her real name either. Just a stage name.”
I grabbed the complimentary pen provided by the hotel. “Is there anything else you remember about her? Like her last name? She may be in line for a healthy inheritance if I can track her down.” I pulled out a tried-and-true excuse that generally had people happy to share their knowledge.
“I don’t remember that, but her favorite lipstick was Lovestruck Red.”
“Uh, okay. That’s random.”
“She gave me a napkin with a lip print on it at the end of that summer. And, well, I may have stolen her lipstick. I was young, dumb, and had a terrible crush on her.”
“Do you still have them?!” I shrieked into the poor man’s ear.
“Maybe? Could have ended up packed away with my yearbooks and such.”
“Would you check? Please. This is very important.” After a few more minutes, I think I managed to convince him that my request was perfectly reasonable and professional. He promised to take a look today and if he found them, he’d FedEx them over to me.
I asked him to use a blood seal on the package. Offered by post offices and courier services, blood seals looked like the wax seals of old. They were affixed to a letter or package to prove they hadn’t been tampered with or opened yet, because once a blood seal was broken, the packaging was destroyed. Law firms used them.
I hung up and did a happy dance around the room. Lip prints were unique to individuals and used these days in DNA analysis much like fingerprints. Even identical twins had different lip prints. It was less certain how much DNA a lipstick from thirty years ago could yield, but stranger things had happened in cold cases. This might not get me the Queen’s identity, but it could provide a very solid genetic profile that would prove a substantial breakthrough in learning her real name and potentially tracking down other members of her family.
Thoroughly elated with the morning’s events, I traveled to the airport with Arkady. We made our flight to New York with no issues and then parted ways: me back to Vancouver and Arkady remaining in Manhattan. He was a happy camper since he’d scored a fancy hotel stay and clothing allowance from Levi.
By the time I made it home on Saturday, I was running on fumes and the scent of lemon lamb
