Part 17 (1/2)

Lonnie had been studying this copy of Julian's will since Phillip had given it to her. ”This will doesn't really prove that Desi Green is Julian's biological child, or that Jordan isn't. Is it worth the paper it's printed on without anything else to support it?”

”You have Jordan's birth certificate,” he responded.

”I have a copy of a doc.u.ment that could be his birth certificate,” she said, disappointed. ”Revealing it would cause some drama, sure, but the Gatewoods would eventually just make it disappear.”

”It's as worthless as you believe it is.”

Lonnie thought before answering. ”It's just ... it's not enough, Phillip. So what if I have it published in the local paper that Jordan's not a Gatewood? It's sensationalism at its best, and even though it would raise questions, the bottom line is, who cares? The man's a mastermind when it comes to running this business, and he's made too many rich people richer. If Gatewood Industries loses its golden boy, then it loses money, and if it loses money, then so do the rich b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who back it. Who really cares who his daddy is?”

”His mother.”

”She only cares because it puts a dent in an otherwise stellar, bright-and-s.h.i.+ny reputation. And more and more, Jordan could give a d.a.m.n. So, like I said, who cares?”

”One person might,” he said, and then paused. ”Desi Green? Maybe she would care if she found out that Julian was her biological father, and not Jordan's.”

Would Desi care? She was busy traipsing all over the country, pus.h.i.+ng shoes and purses and living like a celebrity. Did she care anymore about what the Gatewoods had taken from her?

”Other than Olivia Gatewood, the only other living person who would possibly know the truth is Edgar Beckman. He was Julian's personal attorney,” he explained. ”By all indications, he worked for Julian long before Gatewood Industries became what it is today. The two even went fis.h.i.+ng together, according to you.”

Phillip was reaching. ”So?” Lonnie asked irritably.

”You said it yourself, Lonnie, that day at lunch? It was obvious that when Beckman saw you, he knew you. Now, how could he possibly know who you are, unless Jordan had shared that with him, and why on earth would Jordan mention you to a man who was merely a member of the board, unless the two of them were as close friends as Edgar was with Julian? He went so far as to forge that man's will to hide his declaration of Desi being his child. He's practically Jordan's shadow. How far do you think he'd go for Gatewood Industries' superstar?”

”It's a stretch, Phillip,” she said, doubtfully.

”It is. But you're good at stretching.”

Lonnie's last conversation with Phillip had left her more frustrated than anything. In all her years of experience working as a journalist, she counted on facts to make her case for a good story, but in most cases, the best investigative reporters began the chase for those earth-shattering stories based on nothing more than curiosity or speculation. Sometimes, it was like a dog chasing its tail and Lonnie wasted a lot of time and energy only to end up with nothing, no story at all, but every once in a while, she hit pay dirt.

Beckman lived on an estate just outside of Fort Worth. She didn't know how much Jordan had told him about her, but the look on his face that day in the restaurant was a good indication that he knew more than she wanted him or anybody else to know. She was here now, to formally introduce herself, and to share with him all the fascinating things she'd found out about him too.

A buxom, young blonde answered the door. ”Edgar Beckman, please?” Lonnie asked politely.

The woman didn't smile, say h.e.l.lo, or so much as fart, before she turned and started to walk away, leaving Lonnie with the impression that she was supposed to follow her inside. She led a trail through the ma.s.sive living room, into the kitchen, and then finally out to the back of the house to the pool.

”Edgar?” she said in her Southern tw.a.n.g. ”You have a visitor.”

She brushed past Lonnie and disappeared back inside the house.

Beckman stopped in the middle of putting, pulled down his sungla.s.ses, and stared stunned at Lonnie.

The silence between the two of them was eerie. He took reluctant steps in her direction. Lonnie felt obligated to at least meet the stout, old man in the middle.

”What are you doing here?” he finally asked.

She wore three-inch heels and stood eye to eye with the man.

There was something about him, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, but there was something familiar about his face-his features?

”I came to formally introduce myself,” she said confidently.

So maybe he knew that Jordan had kicked her a.s.s, but he also needed to know that Lonnie wasn't the victim.

”Lonnie,” she said. ”Lonnie Adebayo.”

He looked unimpressed.

”What do you want?” he asked abruptly, reaching down to pick up his drink that sat on the patio table.

Some pieces of the puzzle were still missing, and Lonnie had to be careful of what she said, and how she said it. Beckman liked to fish; so did she. Only Lonnie had come here to fish for him to fill in the blanks for her. He was a lawyer, an old one, but lawyers were master wordsmiths. They talked too much, and said too little. The fact that he was old meant that he had mastered the art of talking s.h.i.+t.

Lonnie reached into her purse, and pulled out the copy of the will that Phillip had given her, and handed it to him.

He took it reluctantly, unfolded it, glanced at it, folded it back, and held it out to her.

”That supposed to mean something to me?”

He was good. Cool. Unruffled. d.a.m.n. If she ever needed a lawyer, she'd definitely want one like him.

”You and Julian Gatewood were close.”

He stood there. ”Leave my house.”

”You and Jordan just as close?”

”Get the h.e.l.l out,” he demanded again.

”Not until I tell you a story, Edgar,” she continued. ”About a beautiful Chilean woman named Dominga Rojas.” Lonnie expertly rolled her ”r.”

All that lawyer cool blew away in the wind, and dangerous color suddenly flushed across that old man's face, and that's when Lonnie realized what it was about him that she found so familiar. Edgar Beckman was a black man, or at least, he had black in him, and he was ”pa.s.sing.”

Lonnie felt the smirk creep across her lips. Without even trying, he'd just given up another secret, one that was almost better than the first.

Beckman found the chair beside the table and sat down, casting a forlorn gaze across the lawn. He looked tired, all of a sudden, like a man who'd been carrying something for far too long and wanted nothing more than to lay it down.

Lonnie sat down too, and began to relay a story to him that she was sure would be incredibly close to the one he already knew.

”She came to this country to live with her aunt,” she began calmly. ”Dominga's mother wanted her to learn English, and to go to American schools in the hopes that she would have a bright future, because she was such a bright girl.”

Brad had gone that extra mile for Lonnie. She knew he had a contact in South America, but she had no idea that that contact had been Chilean himself, and he took it upon himself to find Dominga's mother and to actually sit and talk to the woman about her daughter. He ended up getting some real personal s.h.i.+t from a heartbroken woman, desperate to know the truth about her youngest child.

Edgar sat like a statue.

”Her aunt was a housekeeper, and she agreed to take Dominga in, as long as she pulled her own weight and helped to make money to support herself,” Lonnie continued, carefully scrutinizing the man's face and his body language.

”She worked for you, Edgar, and after your wife, Annette, pa.s.sed away, you married Dominga.”

He finished what was left in his gla.s.s.