Page 32 of 2nd Strike
“Mrs. Caldren,” I say, “Matt hasn’t given you the whole story. Our client’s son was kidnapped and found seven years later. He’s been living with who we thought were his biological parents ever since. He’s now fifteen and through DNA analysis, the family discovered the boy is not their son after all.”
Ramona’s mouth drops open. “Oh my God. They’ve been raising the wrong child? That’shorrible.”
“Yes, ma’am. Which is why we’re looking into the boy’s genetic profile. To see if anyone knows anything.”
We spend a few seconds eyeing each other before she steps back, widening the door. “Come in. I’m not sure there’s anything I can tell you, but I’m happy to try.”
Matt waves me inside to the narrow foyer. Just ahead of me is a large elegant staircase with polished wood that gleams under a crystal chandelier.
Lord, what are we doing? About to ask this woman if her son is the real Ethan Havers? We may be reaching here, but crazier things have happened.
Ramona leads us through a set of oversized sliding doors separating the hallway from a large living room. Like the rest of the house, the walls are a pale gray. Ramona points to the sitting area where four deep blue chairs are situated in front of the fireplace.
We take the two on the left and Ramona sits across from us. On the mantle are an array of photos. Ramona and a young boy. A man with the same boy. Ramona and the man. None of the three of them together, but someone, I assume, had to take the picture.
“My son,” she says when she sees my attention has wandered. “And husband.”
I look over at her and nod. “Nice family.”
“Thank you. They’re my world. Now, about your client. Can you tell me anything about him?”
Her gaze pops between Matt and I until I hold my hand to Matt. He’s the expert here so I’ll let him answer the hard questions.
He nods and faces Mrs. Caldren. “Nothing more than what we’ve already said. Privacy reasons.”
Matt and I stay silent while Ramona peers at the photos of her son. “Poor kid. He’s the same age as my son.”
Yep. Sure is.
She snaps back to us. “Wait. Do you… Are you here because you think…?” She stops. “Oh, my God.”
“We don’t think anything, ma’am.”
“Oh, bullshit. I’m tight with most of my cousins. If you’d been to see a few already, I’d have heard about it. You saw I have a son the same age as your client and you came to me first. Youcannotthink your client is mine. That, what? We switched them? Why would I do that?”
Matt holds up his hands. “Whoa, we didn’t say that. We’re investigating any leads. And, sure, the fact that your son is the same age is an interesting starting place. That’s all we’re doing, gathering information.”
“Well, gather all you like. My son ismychild. I have no doubt. You want a DNA test, I’ll give you one. We have nothing to hide.”
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “Thank you. I don’t know that it’s necessary, but if it comes to that, we’d appreciate it.”
Ramona studies me for a second. “I feel bad for your client, but you’re way off here. I can prove he’s my son right now.”
Matt and I exchange a what-the-fudge? look as she rises and walks to a drum table near the front window. She opens the drawer, shuffles through the contents and extracts a photo.
Returning to us, she holds out the photo and Matt latches on to it as I lean over to peek. The photo is of a little boy, maybe three or four years old. He has light brown hair and a wide smile with baby teeth that have yet to fall out. On his left cheek is a large mole.
One that would be impossible to miss.
“That’s my son,” Ramona says. “He was three.” She lifts one of the framed photos from the mantle. “This is him last summer. See the mole? It’s in all his baby pictures. It was removed when he was nine.” She points to the framed picture, an extreme close-up that looks like it might be a school photo. “You can see the scar in this picture. Did your client have a mole?”
Matt’s face remains neutral. His cop face, Charlie calls it.
“No, ma’am,” he says. “No mole.”
Ramona Caldren, it seems, is a dead end.
15
