A Billionaire's Secret Baby - Chapter 12

“Charged?” I said.

“I’m afraid so,” said Zeke sadly. He and my lawyer were sitting, looking at the piece of paper on my desk. Not only had our liquor license been revoked, but I’d been sued in court. And Section 12-Bs were being issued for all my businesses across the company.

It turned out that Gerald Bone had been all around town that morning, issuing the notices to close my clubs and bars. Without the ability to serve alcohol, my bars were shut until further notice. And until we removed all the alcohol from the ground floor of The Blue Orchid, we’d have to stay closed.

“But how could they do this?” I said. “What the hell? We always get our license renewed on time.”

“I think I can answer that,” said my lawyer, Jeff Reinhart. “If you look at the liquor license, you’ll find that Luca Desilva’s the signatory for the property.”

“Luca?” I groaned.

Of course. It was Luca who’d got the liquor licenses for our businesses. He’d had them processed at an alarming rate. I hadn’t even thought about it at the time. But since he’d done all the paperwork himself (or gotten his lawyer to do it), it would be his name and mine on the license. No doubt he’d spitefully informed them of the change in license-holder, first thing after leaving the company.

And with Luca gone from the company, that meant the license would have to be renewed.

“It’ll take a few days,” I said, “but I’m sure we can get a special order done given the circumstances. After all, it’s The Blue Orchid, not a nightclub. We don’t even serve alcohol after 11pm. Besides, I’m the signatory for the other places. There’s been a mistake.”

“I’m sorry, Alex,” said Jeff. “But it’s more complicated than that.”

“Someone tell me some good news,” said Zeke.

“The fact of the matter is, you don’t get a Section 12-B for any old liquor license trouble. Normally it’s a Section 12-A, which means you have time to—”

“Spare us the legal Jargon, Jeff,” I snapped. “We’re in a hurry here.” Overnight, my businesses had frozen. We’d had to close early on Friday, and The Blue Orchid was temporarily closed until further notice.

“Here’s the deal,” said Jeff. “Section 12-A? You’ve got a set period of time to change the license or file for an appeal. That would be no trouble. But Section 12-Bs? That’s an immediate suspension of privileges. And that can only be issued in cases where the license would involve a case of fraud.”

“Fraud?” I said. “You think Luca’s committed fraud?”

“I’m afraid…” said Jeff, “…that it’s more likely the DA has something on you, Alex. After all, he isn’t the signatory on the other properties.”

I felt crushed. I sat down in my chair. What had I done? I’d got in trouble as a kid a few times back in Baltimore, but never been taken to the station or charged. I had a clean record, as did Zeke. As did Luca, amazingly.

None of us had done anything wrong. Zeke and I both ran a clean business. We were well aware that over the years we’d had the opportunity to grease the wheels of progress here or there by bribing an official. But we had both promised ourselves never to endanger the business that way. And we’d kept a close eye on Luca to make sure he didn’t do the same. Not close enough, apparently.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” said Zeke.

It was Cherise, the head waitress.

“Alex,” she said. “It’s the NYPD. They want to talk to you about something.”

“What now?” I said.

“I’ve put them on the line.”

“Okay,” I said. I turned to Zeke and Jeff. “Let me talk to them.”

“You sure?” said Jeff. “Maybe one of us could…”

“OUT!” I barked. Immediately, I felt guilty. These were the guys who were supposed to have my back, and here I was shouting at them. But I was suspicious of everyone and everything. Overnight, The Blue Orchid, my prized possession, had gone from being one of the most famous places in town to an empty restaurant front, with costs that ran in the thousands per week. And not a cent coming in through the door.

Zeke and Jeff left, and I picked up the phone.

“Alex Lowe speaking.”

“Mr. Lowe,” said a gravelly voice. It sounded like a voice well accustomed to drinking scotch and late nights. “Morning. This is Inspector Russell O’ Rourke. I’m with the NYPD, Fraud Squad.”

“You’re a detective?” I said.

“That’s right. Mr. Lowe, as you may or may not be aware, Section 12-B notices have been issued—”

“—I’m aware,” I said quickly. “I’m going to fight these charges, Detective. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Mr. Lowe, I must inform you that I am permitted by state law to use this conversation as evidence, and as a matter of courtesy, I’d advise you not to make any claims about your innocence. I’m calling to ask if you’d submit to a round of voluntary questioning, preceding your court date on the 19^th April.”

I thought about it for a moment. This would be a chance to clear my name. “I’ll submit,” I said, quickly.

“Terrific. How’s about you come down to my office? We can have a little talk.”

“When’s a good time.”

“I’m always here, Mr. Lowe. When’s a good time for you?”

I wanted to show him that I was innocent. That I knew I was innocent. And everything was at stake now. My businesses. Zeke’s job.

Lola’s job.

“How about this afternoon?” I said.

***

“This is crazy,” I said in the car on the way. “What can they possibly throw at me? And why do they think I’ve committed a crime?”

“Whatever it is, Alex,” said Jeff, “they’re not going to do this unless they have some serious evidence. I want you to be prepared.” Jeff had insisted on coming.

“That can’t be true,” I said. “I bet Luca’s just told them a pack of lies.”

But Jeff looked out of the window as we got to the station. “Like I said. Just want you to be prepared.”

I couldn’t remember if I’d even been inside a police station before, but it wasn’t like I expected. The Fraud Squad had its offices at the 19^th Precinct these days. It was a comfortable, clean looking place, with a white linoleum floor and a big, heavy desk.

When we got there, I introduced myself.

“Take a seat,” said the cop at the desk. Jeff and I sat down.

Ten minutes passed, and there was nothing. We waited there, watching people come through. At one point a man passed with a police dog, and it looked up at me with brown, soulful eyes.

“What’s taking him so long?” I said.

“He’s sweating us,” said Jeff. There was a sense of foreboding on his face, and suddenly I wondered if it really had been a bad idea to come here.

Then, Russell O’Rourke came in. He was a big guy—almost as tall as me, and heavy in the shoulders. He looked like a retired boxer. If it weren’t for his balding head and the slight paunch at his stomach, I’d have taken him for an athlete. He had a hard face, weathered and rough, and seemed to be in his late fifties or early sixties, with a straggly half a head of steel-gray hair. He wore a disheveled suit, with a tie that was barely done up. It was raining outside, and his coat was slicked with water. I smelled cigarettes on him as I approached.

“Mr. Lowe,” he said, as I stood up. I reached out to shake his hand and he returned it, with a slow, light squeeze from his big paw. “Thank you for coming in today.”

“Inspector O’Rourke,” I said.

“Detective, please. I’m a detective. Inspector’s just what they call me when I’m sitting in my fancy office.”

He led me down the corridor, and soon I realized that he was taking me to an interview room. He opened a door at the end of the corridor, and suddenly we were in a small, dark room with a light over a table. There was a piece of metal in its center with a hole. I’d seen it before on TV shows. It was where you clipped the handcuffs in if your suspect had been arrested.

I sat down for a moment, but O’Rourke was smart. I could see that from the beginning. He didn’t even give me a chance to get comfortable, and he’d begun speaking before he even sat down.

“You from Philadelphia, Mr. Lowe?” he said, and a chill crept up the back of my spine.

“Wait a minute,” said Jeff. “You’re recording this?”

“Of course. Mr. Lowe agreed to that, didn’t he?”

“I want his Miranda Rights read.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any need to do that,” said O’Rourke. His chatty, friendly tone belied his sinister purpose. There was a hard look in his eye, and his posture was still and steady. I realized that this was a guy who could make anyone confess to anything if he wanted to.

“You mean,” said Jeff, “the contents of this conversation don’t need to be admissible in court?”

“Not at all,” said O’Rourke. “Mr. Lowe, I asked you a question. You are from Baltimore, aren’t you?”

“I am,” I said. I felt tense, and my heart rate was slightly elevated. I didn’t rattle easily, but something about O’Rourke’s voice wasn’t right. He was trying to sound casual and spontaneous, but his words seemed rehearsed.

“And you grew up with your mother, is that right?”

I looked at Jeff, then looked away. “Yeah,” I said. “What is this?”

“This is a conversation, Mr. Lowe. That’s what I do. I have conversations. Oh, you can do all the fancy police-work you want. But when it comes down to it, mostly a detective just, well. Has conversations.”

“But you don’t have conversations with innocent men?”

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.

“I guess so. All the information’s correct, anyway.”

“That’s the birth certificate with which you applied for the liquor licenses on your premises, isn’t it?”

“It has to be. I mean, I’ve only got one.”

“Do you?” said O’Rourke, and for a reason I couldn’t explain, my blood ran cold.

“Of course,” I said. “Doesn’t everyone?”

This seemed to be what O’Rourke was waiting to hear. His dark, gray, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to be gleaming in the interrogation room. I looked up behind him, and frantically began to imagine a team of cops all standing behind the one-way glass.

“About four days ago,” he began, “Luca Desilva came in here to report a felony. Are you aware of him?”

“Of course,” I said. “He was my business partner. Still is, technically. And he’s a crook. I caught him stealing money out of my cash register two weeks ago. Sacked him on the spot.”

“I’m well aware of what you have accused Mr. Desilva of doing—”

“I have security tapes!” I said. “I can prove it.”

“But you didn’t report it to the police.”

“He’s my partner. He holds a stake in the restaurant.”

“I guess I can see that fly,” said O’Rourke.

“What did Luca say?”

“It’s not what he said,” O’Rourke calmly replied. “It’s what he showed me.”

He pulled another sheet of paper from inside the wallet and put it down on the table.

“See that, Alex?” said O’Rourke.

I looked closer.

It was identical in every respect to the first document.

Except for one thing.

On the first certificate, under the name of Father, Max Lowe had been written. At the bottom, the document had been signed with his signature, a swooping, shaky curve that spelled out “M. Lowe.” Something about that signature made me angry. I felt the weight of years of anger pressing down on my shoulders. It was like the shaky, loopy, lopsided signature summed up everything about my dad’s weakness. His betrayal of me and my mother.

I turned to the second one.

This time, under Father, the words UNKNOWN were written in block capitals.

Instead, the certificate had been signed by my mother.

“That’s not right,” I said.

“Yeah,” said O’Rourke. “That’s what I said. So, Alex. Which of these is the correct one? This one?—” he said, holding up the real birth certificate, “which you applied for the liquor licenses with? Or this one?” he said, holding up the forgery. The one which stated that I had no father. That my real name was Alex Leach.

“Where did you get that!” I said. “That’s not my mother’s signature.”

“I wondered if you’d say that,” said O’Rourke. “But I ran a match on it using one of our computers. And unless the forgery was skillful—highly skillful, I’d say—this is your mother’s signature.”

“But…I don’t…I don’t get it,” I said. “I don’t understand. What are you saying? That I don’t have a father?”

“I’m saying,” said O’Rourke, “that unless you can prove you do, I am required by city law to arrest you and close your businesses within the next 90 days.”

“This is Luca’s fault,” I said. “He’s manipulating you. And me. To get revenge, to get control—I don’t know.”

“I don’t know about any of that,” said O’Rourke. “All I can tell you is that the law is the law. And the evidence in this case, is damning.”

“I’m not going down without a fight,” I growled.

“I can see that,” said the detective. He smiled again, and did I detect a grudging respect in his voice?

“This is impossible,” I said.

“And how,” said the detective, “can you prove that?”

“Because I know my father,” I said. “Or knew him. He left when I was seven years old.”