Living Proof, стр. 15
Trent continued to study the rest of Arianna’s profile. Under employment, she listed her position as founder and head doctor of the Washington Square Center for Reproductive Medicine. Under the section labeled “activities,” the information was mostly too vague to help him: “dancing, painting, cooking, biking.” There was only one specific revelation. For “favorite books,” she wrote: “anything by Aaron Dakota.” Dakota was the rare mystery writer whose books were also critically esteemed, a one-two punch for popular culture.
Trent leaned forward in his chair, typing into a search engine. Dakota was on a book tour promoting his newest hardcover, The Found Link. In two nights, he would be stopping in New York City. That would give Trent time to buy and read the book, and then approach Arianna at the signing as if he were a fellow fan.
But how would she know to be there? An idea wormed into his head, and before he had fully contemplated it, he was already creating a fake profile on NYfaces.com of a bubbly, professional-looking woman in her twenties, whose picture he stole randomly from a website of personal assistants. He invented a common name and a few generic hobbies. Under the employment section, he wrote: “publicist for Aaron Dakota.” Then he quickly typed a message:
Hi there! I noticed you’re a fellow fan of Aaron Dakota and I just wanted to let you know that he will be signing copies of The Found Link this coming Wednesday at the Barnes & Noble at 66th and Broadway at 7 P.M. This special event is not to be missed, so we’re trying to spread the message to all of his New York fans. Hope to see you there and happy reading!
Without hesitating, he sent the message off into the oblivion of the web, hoping Arianna would check her profile in time. Everyone he knew checked the site at least once a day; their generation had grown up on it. Then he rushed to Dopp’s office and told him the plan, aware that he sounded more confident about her expected presence than he had reason to be: even if she did check her messages, what if she was already busy that night?
“Good,” Dopp said. He rose and opened the safe next to his desk. He withdrew his pistol, a Glock 23, and secured it in his holster. Wearing the gun, a show of police powers—and the urgency of their work—meant that Dopp was leaving to go into the field. Thank God, Trent thought, his own turn to get out was coming.
“Right now,” Dopp added, “I want you to accompany me. There’s something I want you to see. Don’t ask questions yet. Just watch and learn.”
Trent nodded, surprised. He followed Dopp into the Lincoln Town Car waiting outside.
The driver, a round-faced man, turned and smiled.
“Hi, boss. What’s doing?”
“Hey, Mark, how was Kristin’s birthday party yesterday?”
Mark grinned. “It was a blast. All the kids loved the piñata, but the water slide was the biggest hit. I can’t believe she’s already six.”
“That’s great, man,” Dopp said. “Yeah, they grow up so quickly. Just enjoy every minute of it. I was joking to my wife yesterday about when we’re going to have the next baby after this one comes.”
“Number four, eh?” Mark whistled.
“It’s really not up to us, though,” Dopp replied. “Anyway, we’re off to Sixty-eighth Street. Between Park and Lex.”
The car lurched forward. As Trent looked out the window at the slideshow of buildings, he felt a surge of goodwill toward his boss. He marveled at Dopp’s ability to establish a rapport with all his employees; no wonder he was such a popular boss. Even the cynic in Trent was impressed: Dopp could be counted on, with the consistency of an atomic clock, to make those who worked for him feel worthy of his respect.
“Here we are,” the driver said, pulling up in front of a glass door.
Trent and Dopp slid out of the backseat and walked to the door, which was almost inconspicuous between a pharmacy and a hardware store. Trent saw that white painted letters read FAMILY FERTILITY SERVICES above a smaller name, DR. BRIAN HANSON, OB-GYN. Next to the doorknob, there was a tiny block about the size of a sugar cube. Most people probably never noticed it, Trent thought.
Dopp turned to him with his lips pressed together. “Want to do the honors?”
Trent smiled nervously and reached into his suit jacket for a shiny gold badge splashed with the hologram DEP: the magnetic all-access pass to any fertility clinic in the city. He waved it in front of the cube. A pinpoint green light flashed, and the lock audibly clicked open. Dopp pushed the door, and Trent followed him inside as an alarm began to shriek. What were they doing here, anyway?
Holding their ears, they walked into the waiting room, where two pregnant women shrank back, gaping at Dopp’s gun, eyes darting around for help. The alarm was quickly silenced, and it left behind a perceptible ringing in Trent’s ears. The women leaned hard against the cheerful yellow couches. Feeling like an intruder, Trent almost blurted out an apology, but before he could speak, a worried-looking nurse rushed toward them from an inner hallway.
Dopp flashed his DEP badge at her, and she slowed as if to keep her distance.
“How can I help you?” she asked coldly.
“I think you know who we want to see,” Dopp murmured. His quiet voice was even more compelling than a barked order, Trent thought.
“The doctor is in with a patient,” the nurse retorted, though Trent could see her resolve weakening as she glanced between them.
“Tell him it’s an emergency.”
She took a step back. “One moment.”
She turned around and scurried away. Trent looked at Dopp with