Chapter 45 – February 6, 1989
When I return home, I make a half dozen phone calls, staying up most of the night. The next morning, I kiss Colin and Alex goodbye and step onto the city bus. Three hours later, I walk into Lorez, Kynder, and Lowell.
I fail to acknowledge the receptionist, and I knock on Lorez’s door as I open it.
He stands quickly. “Ms. Dawson, Now isn’t a good time.”
Placing my fingertips on his cold desk, I force his dark eyes to pay attention. “I’ve learned that no time is really a good time, but I need to talk, and you need to listen.”
He scoffs. “What do you want?”
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
Lorez coughs loudly. “Why would I possibly give you that kind of money?”
“So I don’t tell the cops that you tried to kill me,” I answer with a steady voice and gaze.
“What?! That’s preposterous! How could you even come up with that idea?”
“You showed Pete a fake letter, spiked his drink, and gave him the idea that killing me would give him closure. He may have pulled the trigger, but he was just doing your bidding.”
“I didn’t do that,” Lorez says. “I couldn’t have! How would I even find ecstasy?!”
My smile appears and grows slowly. “Who said anything about ecstasy?”
The blood drains from his face, leaving a pale, terrified man staring at me. “I don’t have 50,000 dollars right now,” he finally says.
“Of course you do. See, it took me a while to figure it out because on the surface, you did a good job of covering your tracks, but the footprint was too large to disappear in the sand,” I tell him. “Yesterday afternoon, I talked to Marc Hansen, who’s still working at Maple Ridge, and he told me an interesting story about a slippery lawyer who he knew was at the heart of an adoption scheme, but he could never prove it. He’s a persistent guy though, and after we talked, he gathered all of his notes, drove to Vancouver, and booked a flight. And you’ll never guess who he’s stayed in touch with over the last few years.”
Without breaking eye contact, I call in a crisp voice, “Deere, you want to join us?”
I smile as a young man confidently steps into the room. “Lorez, you remember little Joey Deere don’t you? You called him Joey Russell.”
Lorez’s eyes sweep over Deere’s dark, straight hair, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Deere, I think his memory is a little fuzzy. You want to help his recollection?” I ask.
Deere takes control. “You facilitated my adoption with the Russells and, I later learned, charged them an enormous sum to adopt me, at least compared to what Canada charged. You set the price for human life. In my case, that was 30,000 dollars–fifteen times the average.”
“And what happened to all that money, Deere?” I prompt.
“Lorez split it with Melissa Roy, the social worker who tore me from my home. And not only did you make nearly 15,000 dollars from the adoption, you knew that I wasn’t abused or neglected. You and Melissa were partners in the scheme.”
“Anything else?” I ask, continuing my glare at Lorez.
“Marc Hansen estimates you adopted kids out to four states, all removed by Roy. Marc thinks he can prove dozens of cases, but I suspect that’s a low number considering a timeline of nearly two decades.”
I snap my fingers at Lorez, recapturing his attention from Deere. “So, in addition to your semi-legit law practice and helping the shadiest slumlord in the state, you made hundreds of thousands by extorting and misleading people who just wanted to provide a safe shelter to a supposedly mistreated child.”
I narrow my eyes. “And you knew that if I ever connected any of the pieces, I’d be motivated to find the truth. It’s funny, in a sick way, that if Lassio hadn’t climbed those steps, I probably would have never thought to ask questions about any of this. Walking out the door in 1976 is what will lead to your downfall almost thirteen years later. Also, paying my half-sister was never a long-term solution. Once I was involved, you knew it was only a matter of time, so you sent Pete to terminate my curiosity… How could you make so many careless mistakes?”
I never take my eyes from Lorez. “Deere, you want 50,000 dollars too, right?”
He shrugs. “Sure, I could use 50,000 dollars.”
“Hear that, Lorez?” I ask. “Deere will take 50,000 dollars too. We’ll accept cash or check.”
Lorez groans. “It wasn’t my idea! It was all Roy! I told her that this wasn’t sustainable. I told her that there was an expiration date on this, but she wouldn’t walk away from the money.” He collapses into his chair and places his palm heels against his eyes. “Damnit, Ra'Shelle.”
Deere exchanges a sideways glance with me, and I nod. “When did you last talk to Roy?” Deere asks.
“Last month,” Lorez says. “I was convinced the Kimelman Report would end this, but her hubris overruled my hope.”
Deere swallows. “You have another adoption lined up?”
Lorez grumbles, “Still working out the details.”
“You can still walk away from this,” I tell him. “You can’t undo anything you’ve done, but you can at least stop causing more pain.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll never be able to walk away.” He opens his top desk drawer and removes his checkbook. “If I give you 50,000 dollars, you guarantee that you won’t go to the police and that you won’t ask me for more in the future?”
“It’ll stay between us,” I say.
Lorez clicks his tongue. “I’ll take it out of Roy’s half.” The room is silent with the exception of the tear of the checks’ perforation, and he passes them to his blackmailers.
I run my finger over the ink. “This is a beautiful check.”
As I say it, Deere and I step into the corner. Three seconds later, two police officers walk into the room.
“Gene Lorez, you are under arrest.”
His voice is a hoarse scream. “What?!”
I click my tongue. “Come on, Lorez. You didn’t really think you could walk away from this, did you?”
Deere and I hand our checks to a detective as they leave the office. In the lobby, Marc Hansen and Migel Gomez stand next to the empty receptionist’s desk.
“Well done,” Gomez assents. He looks at Deere. “To both of you.”
I remove my jacket and partially unbutton my blouse; Gomez carefully removes the microphone. “It’s not over,” he says as he places it in the case. “If Marc is right, we’ll need to involve the FBI and the RCMP, and we’ll have to find Melissa Roy. It’s likely this court case will stretch for years, and you should expect civil cases to start after that. It’ll be a logistical nightmare, and the statute of limitations will be a factor in some of these cases.”
The four of us watch the detectives lead a somber, handcuffed Lorez out of the building.
“I hate to say it,” Gomez continues, “but you all are likely to have to testify in court at least a couple of times.”
I shrug and look at Deere. “It’s worth it.”
Deere nods at me, then turns to Marc. “It seems only right that Rich’s daughter would be the one to close this, doesn’t it?”
Marc smiles. “Your father would be very proud, Ra'Shelle.”
“Thanks, but I didn’t do it for him.” I smile at Deere, then turn to Gomez. “What will happen to Eva? She provided information to help keep this thing going.”
Gomez shakes his head. “She was a minor, and Lorez manipulated her too. She’s safe.”
“Will they reduce Pete’s sentence?” I ask.
“I honestly don’t know,” Gomez says. “It’ll go through various channels, and I think everyone will have mixed feelings about letting him out early, but also about giving him twelve years for something he did after someone drugged him. I’ll keep you updated as that unfolds.” He gestures toward the door. “Let me give you a ride home.”
Deere speaks quickly. “I’ll take her,” he looks at me, “if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure. Marc, you want to come back with us?” I ask.
“Thanks, but I need to go to my hotel and type this up. I’m sure my editor is anxiously waiting by the phone.”
I turn to Deere. “When’s your flight back?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Staying with Derek and Shannon?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Stick around. I’m sure Colin will make dinner for everyone.”
He half-smiles. “Probably better than Derek’s ramen.”
I touch his arm. “You deserve good things, Deere.”
He and Marc exchange an unreadable look before he places his hand protectively close to my shoulder. “We all do.”