Forget to Remember Read online

  Rigo was still looking for sympathy. “Not only do I have to know what Web sites to check, I also have to become an expert on comparing facial characteristics.”

  Frances didn’t appear to have any pity for him. “Do your best. We don’t have a lot to go on, so we’ve got to look at every possibility.” She turned to Carol. “What I’ll do is to put all the information we have about you on the Internet. What we’re hoping is that somebody is looking for you and will find your profile. That’s our best bet, but it may take some time. We can’t canvass the world, so we hope that the world will come to us, or at least the people who know you. You have to have patience. That’s one thing I’ve learned in this business.”

  Carol nodded. “I know. It’s hard. I suspect I’m not the patient type. I can help. I know how to surf the Internet. I’ll also check Google Earth for places I might have been. We’ve done some of that already.”

  “Anything like that can be useful. I’ll work on getting somebody interested in writing an article about you that people who know you might read. However, that will be hard to do until we have more information about you. You’re not a celebrity, and we don’t know what part of the country to concentrate on. It would be nice if we could get you on Oprah or a news show. Unfortunately, that puts you in competition with half the world. Everybody wants their fifteen minutes of fame. If you remember things you’ve done, where you might have lived, trips you’ve taken—every piece of information helps. Rigo, I’m sure you won’t mind exposing her to different activities to see if anything jogs her memory.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  ***

  This was the third evening meal Carol had eaten with Tina and Ernie. Rigo was at the restaurant. Sunday evening was one of their busiest times. Carol helped Tina prepare the food, something she enjoyed doing. She was learning about Mexican cooking. At the table, Carol asked them when they came to the United States.

  Ernie said, “We were both born in Mexico, but we met here. We came over many years ago. Our children were born here.”

  “Do you ever go back?”

  “My mother still lives there, in a little town south of the border. She won’t leave. We go there at least once a year to see her.”

  Tina had been watching Carol. “You know, dear, you eat like the English.”

  “I do?” Carol hadn’t paid any attention to the way she was eating.

  “Yes. You always keep your fork in your left hand. You don’t change hands like Americans do.”

  Carol compared the way she was holding her fork to the method used by Tina and Ernie. When cutting and eating meat, they constantly changed hands. She didn’t. She held the fork in her left hand with the tines pointed toward the plate and her index finger along the back. The knife was in her right hand with her index finger on the top.

  “I didn’t realize it.”

  “Another thing. When we were buying you underwear, you referred to panties as knickers. That’s English terminology.”

  Ernie was excited. “Those are clues. You’ve obviously spent time in Great Britain. When we went there, we were amused to watch them eat—and they were amused by us.”

  The significance dawned on Carol. “My God. That’s right. I’m sure I’ve been in London. I have a picture of the London tube system in my head.”

  Tina looked thoughtful. “You must have been there for a while, and yet you don’t have a trace of an accent.”

  “I can speak English English.” Carol was confident she could imitate Winston Churchill. She lowered her voice. “We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.”

  “Bravo.” Ernie and Tina clapped. “You’ve got to pass this information on to Frances.”

  “I’ll call her right after dinner.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Frances was doing a routine check of her e-mail on Tuesday morning when one caught her eye. The subject was “Carol Golden.” She quickly read the rest of it:

  Hi Frances,

  I am a probate attorney in Chapel Hill, NC. I first heard of you 2 years ago when the daughter of one of my clients went missing. I have been checking your website weekly since then since you are in the business of identifying dead people, hoping that if Cynthia Sakai (the missing girl) is dead that someone might have contacted you to identify her body. I believe I even emailed you information about her at one time.

  My clients are a wealthy couple in Chapel Hill—excuse me, were a wealthy couple because they were both killed in the crash of their private plane in the Atlantic about a month ago, along with their son, Michael. About a year ago they each made an addendum to their wills to the effect that I, as their executor, would have 2 years to find Cynthia. If I don’t find her the estate goes to charity. That leaves me with a year to find her.

  Your website says that you’re looking for the real identity of the girl called Carol Golden. I followed your link and studied the photo and description of Carol. Although this may be wishful thinking on my part, I have hope, however slim, that Cynthia might still be alive and that Carol might be her.

  In addition to the photo, which bears a striking resemblance to Cynthia, and her description, which is also close, the fact that Carol may have spent time in the UK is of great interest as Cynthia was working in London when she disappeared.

  If Carol is Cynthia, this would be a win-win situation, to say the least. Carol would recover her identity (not to mention the money, which is 8 figures), and her grandmother, who lives here in Chapel Hill, would be overjoyed. Not to mention my satisfaction at carrying out the wishes of my clients.

  Let me know your thoughts on this.

  Yours sincerely,

  Paul Vigiano

  Attorney at Law

  His address and phone number were also enclosed. Frances liked to strike quickly when she had a lead. She checked her watch—it was early afternoon on the East Coast—grabbed her phone and punched in the number given by the attorney. A woman answered with the generic greeting, “Law Offices.” Frances gave her name and asked to speak to Paul Vigiano. She was put on hold. She checked her watch again and was interested to note that Mr. Vigiano answered the phone within thirty seconds.

  “Frances—hi. Paul Vigiano. I’ve been looking at your Web site so long, I feel I know you.”

  “Hello, Mr. Vigiano. I have a vague memory of receiving an e-mail from you before, but that was quite a while ago.”

  “Almost two years. But now we’ve really got something to talk about. Is Carol, as you call her, recovered from her injuries?”

  “She’s doing very well. She still has some scars on her face and head, but they’ll heal.”

  “Good. How would you describe her personality?”

  “Outgoing, warm. To my surprise, she doesn’t seem particularly depressed by the loss of her memory and identity, but she is determined to recover them again. She’s active rather than passive. She won’t sit around waiting for someone else to help her.”

  “That sounds like Cynthia, or at least what I remember about her and know about her from her parents. She was involved in everything.”

  “What about her coloring?”

  “Her father’s Japanese. I would say her coloring matches the picture of Carol.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

  “I haven’t seen her since she was in high school. She was away most of the time when she attended college in Massachusetts. She went off to London two years ago, as I mentioned in the e-mail, and disappeared almost immediately. Her parents went over to look for her, and I hired a detective to help them, but we turned up nothing.”

  “Do you have a fairly recent photo of her you could e-mail me, so I can compare it on this end?”

  “I’m looking for one. There’s a photo we used when we were first looking for her. I’ve misplaced my copy, but it’s on a missing persons Web site on the Internet. Her parents had the original. I haven’t had a chance to get their house cleaned out yet. That photo and others must be there.”

  “How about her grandmother? Does she have any?”

  “I’ll check with her and see what she has.”

  “What are the names of her parents?”

  “Helen and Richard Sakai.”

  “Your e-mail says Cynthia’s last name is Sakai. Has she ever been married?”

  “No…not that I know of.”

  Frances wrote quickly on her lined pad. “And her grandmother?”

  “I’d like to speak to Carol on the phone. Can you arrange that?”

  “Yes; I’ll talk to her and get back to you.”

  “Where is she staying?”

  “With a friend.”

  “What’s the number where she’s staying?”

  “Let me talk to her first. This is going to come as a shock to her. I’ll set it up so she calls you. What did you say the name of Cynthia’s grandmother is?”

  “Listen, I’ve got to take another call. I’ll be here all day tomorrow. I’d like to talk to Carol then.”

  The line went dead. It took Frances four minutes to find the story of the plane crash in the Web site run by the Raleigh newspaper, the News & Observer. Helen and Richard Sakai and their son, Michael, had died on August 14, 2009. Judging by the length of the article, they must have been prominent citizens. An eight-figure estate—something in excess of ten million dollars—was certainly a possibility.

  Elizabeth Horton was listed in the article as being the mother of Helen. Cynthia’s name was also mentioned as their daughter with the statement that she had been missing for two years. Frances decided to look for stories about Cynthia and photos of her later on the Internet.

  Frances found the phone number and address of Elizabeth Horton in nine minutes. She punched the number into her phone. After three rings, the phone was answered with a firm voice.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, is this Elizabeth Horton?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t know me. My name is Frances Moran. I was just talking to Paul Vigiano. I believe you know him.”

  “Of course. He’s the lawyer who’s handling the estate of my daughter and son-in-law.” She spoke with a slight southern drawl.

  “Yes. He’s also trying to locate your granddaughter, Cynthia.”

  “Poor Cynthia. I don’t hold out much hope for her. First my husband died, then Cynthia disappeared, and now my daughter died. I don’t know if I can take any more tragedies.”

  Frances decided to downplay what she was going to say. “You have my sincere condolences, Mrs. Horton. There may be nothing to this, but Mr. Vigiano called me because I’m working with a young woman who has amnesia. Mr. Vigiano saw her picture and thinks she looks something like Cynthia.”

  “Oh.”

  When Mrs. Horton didn’t say anything more, Frances continued. “There’s a way we can definitely prove this woman isn’t your granddaughter, if that’s the case. It’s called a DNA test. She’s already taken the test. If you take the same test we’ll compare results. If you don’t match, she’s not your granddaughter.”

  “And if we match?”

  “That doesn’t prove she’s your granddaughter, but it’s strong evidence that would be taken into consideration along with other things. Of course, you’d want to meet her if you match.”

  “Does it hurt to take the test?”

  Frances gave her a description of the DNA test. Mrs. Horton agreed to take it. Frances told her a little about Carol, but in such a way that she wouldn’t get her hopes up. When they were about to end the call, Frances asked her a question.

  “Do you think you’ll tell Paul Vigiano you’re taking the test?”

  Mrs. Horton paused before answering. “You know, now that you’ve put a bug in my ear, I don’t believe I will. He’s got a vested interest in finding Cynthia. The terms of the wills provide that if he locates her, he’ll receive several million dollars as a finder’s fee, over and above his fee for handling the estate. I don’t want him…tampering with the evidence.”

  “Interesting. Do you have a recent picture of Cynthia you could send me?”

  “Nothing in the past two years since she’s been missing. When she disappeared, I gave some of my pictures of her to Helen and Richard to use in trying to find her. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  As soon as the call ended, Frances ordered a DNA test kit to be sent to Mrs. Horton. Then she called a friend of hers in Raleigh who owed her a favor. He agreed to check the terms of the wills left by Richard and Helen Sakai.

  Frances found a picture of Cynthia Sakai on a Web site for missing persons, but it wasn’t a good shot. Cynthia’s hair was longer than Carol’s. Their features and coloring were similar, but shadows on the Web picture made it difficult to compare their eyes. It wasn’t conclusive one way or another whether Cynthia and Carol were the same person.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Everything checks out so far. The provisions of the will are what Paul Vigiano described. The preliminary value of the estate is estimated at about twenty million dollars, of which Paul Vigiano receives twenty-five percent if he finds Cynthia Sakai. Her parents and brother died in the crash of their small plane in the Atlantic Ocean. The bodies of the parents have been recovered, but not that of Michael, the brother. The grandmother’s name is Elizabeth Horton. She’s agreed to take a DNA test, but it will be several weeks before we get the results. I don’t think she’s mentioned it to Vigiano.”

  Frances paused to give Carol a chance to respond. Rigo had driven Carol to Frances’ house where they were preparing for Carol to call Vigiano.

  Carol shook her head. “The name Elizabeth Horton doesn’t register. Just as the name of the girl doesn’t. Cynthia Sakai. Could I be Cynthia Sakai?”

  “It starts with ‘C’ just like ‘Carol,’ the name you chose for yourself.” Rigo shrugged, realizing how far-fetched that was.

  “A hard ‘C’ and a soft ‘C.’ Not exactly a match. You’re trying to reach the roof without a ladder. Anyway, I probably pulled ‘Carol’ out of thin air.”

  “Don’t worry about not remembering names. After all, you’ve got amnesia.” Frances handed Carol the phone. “Do you mind if I listen in?”

  “Please do. I’m nervous about this, because I don’t know what to say. I can’t remember anything about my parents or my grandmother. Or about having a lot of money.”

  “Tell the truth. Don’t pretend to remember anything you don’t. If you do, Vigiano will see through it and think you’re a fortune hunter. Just be your charming self.”

  Carol had a surprised look. “You know, I hadn’t even thought about the money until you said that, at least as other than some abstract concept. But it would be nice to be able to pay back everything I owe you and Rigo’s parents. And help the children at the shelter.”

  “Don’t worry about that now. It’s ten thirty—one thirty in North Carolina. Go ahead and make the call.” Frances went into her bedroom and brought back a wireless receiver so she could listen.

  Carol realized her nervousness was fear of the unknown—or fear of the forgotten. She didn’t want to get her hopes up too high, but she had to find out whether there was any possibility she might be Cynthia Sakai. She punched in Paul Vigiano’s number. The woman who answered the phone put the call through to his office.

  “Hi, Carol, this is Paul Vigiano.”

  “Hello, Mr. Vigiano.”

  “Please call me Paul. I was very close to Cynthia’s parents. I’m hoping you are Cynthia.”

  “I’m sorry; I don’t know. I can’t remember anything about being Cynthia.”

  “At least you’re honest. Your voice sounds like I remember Cynthia’s.”

  “The voice expert said I didn’t have any trace of a southern accent.”

  “You wouldn’t. This part of North Carolina has become quite cosmopolitan. The kids you—or Cynthia—went to school with often came from somewhere else and didn’t have southern accents. Tell me, do you remember anything about your past life?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. I think I’ve been in the northeastern United States, and we think I’ve been in England.”

  “You know Cynthia went to college in New England and disappeared while she was working in London.”

  “What kind of work was she doing?”

  “Actually, we think she was writing. A novel or something.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever she wrote seems to have disappeared along with her.”

  “How did she live?”

  “Her parents sent her money at first, but she disappeared almost immediately. I suspect from what they’ve said she may have done some modeling for an artist.”

  “You mean like nude modeling?” Carol was surprised this idea didn’t shock her.

  “She apparently wasn’t very forthcoming with her parents on that point. We never found the artist, assuming he existed. When I hired someone to look for Cynthia, he heard a story about an artist who had died in an auto accident and could have been the one, but nobody seemed to know much about him. The trail was already cold.”

  “Tell me more about her parents.”

  Vigiano told about a girl from North Carolina who had fallen in love with a brilliant Japanese boy; he had gone through M.I.T. on a scholarship and then worked in the Research Triangle bordered by Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill; his patents on high-tech inventions had made them a lot of money that they used for, among other things, learning to fly and buying their own airplane; they had a boy named Michael and a girl named Cynthia; she grew up and attended a college in Massachusetts and then went to London to write; one morning, a month ago, the parents’ plane crashed in the ocean soon after takeoff while they, and their son, were flying home from a business conference in New England.