He whistled low. “That’s a pretty tangled web. Your dad knows about this?”
“Yes. At least he knows Sito worked for West Corp. I don’t think he knows the settlement possibly funded everything Sito did later, as the Destructor.”
“Brilliant. And now you want into Vital Statistics. What are you looking for?”
This part, she wasn’t sure she wanted to get out. It had the potential of opening an even bigger can of worms than the West Corp connection. “I’d rather not say until I figure out if what I’m looking for is even there.”
“And you want me to get you a court order. I can’t do that unless you tell me what you want to look at.”
“Couldn’t you just … let me into the records office? Give me a key and no one would ever have to know I’d been there.”
“That’s crazy. I can’t let you do that.”
“I didn’t say it was an easy favor.”
“You think being a hero gives you carte blanche? You think you can run all over town bending all the rules, like your parents and their pals?”
“I’m not anything like my parents.”
“I hate to break it to you, but we all turn into our parents.”
That pronouncement held a tone of finality that Celia didn’t much like.
She said, “And if I could fly or shoot lasers out of my eyes, that might be true for me. This could be important, this could be nothing. I just need a half hour in the records office, no questions asked.”
She had other ideas, like developing an ill-advised scheme to break into the office, or forge a court order—that was how badly she wanted this.
She honestly didn’t expect Bronson to say, “Can you be at City Hall in an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
* * *
She asked Michael to drive her in a West Corp sedan, to save time. He seemed happy to do so—like he was pleased that she was finally taking advantage of her birthright. She saw it as giving up freedom; maybe not so much giving up as trading.
Dressed in a skirt and jacket, looking as official as possible with a bandaged forehead, Celia consulted City Hall’s building directory and took the elevator to the basement. There, plastic signs with arrows directed her to her destination. She pushed open the door with frosted glass marked with black lettering: VITAL STATISTICS.
The Department of Vital Statistics occupied a corner of the basement of City Hall. The records themselves were processed in any number of departments and offices in the more accessible regions of the building and city government: marriage certificates, birth certificates, divorce settlements, death certificates. Once finalized, they came to live here, in the depths. Most would never see the light of day again.
She entered yet another room with stark fluorescent lighting filled with rows and rows of filing cabinets, shelves with banker’s boxes, and file folders, smelling of ripe dust and old paper. It felt like her element. She was at home here and knew what she was looking for.
Before she could get to the files, she had to pass through a reception area and set of desks. Four people worked here, it looked like; there were four desks with nameplates and the usual family photos, sickly houseplants, and odd figurines and detritus that usually occupied office workspaces. The farthest one over stood in front of a closed door labeled with a sign: RESTRICTED. The sealed records section.
No one was here. On the first desk, the receptionist’s desk, one of those signs printed with a clock and moveable plastic hands read: OUT TO LUNCH, BACK AT 1:30. She had half an hour. She went to the restricted door and tried the knob—unlocked.
She owed Bronson big time for this.
Inside the room, she turned on the light. Here, folders crammed the shelves. This was a smaller collection than the main part of the department, but still daunting. And old. Dust covered most of the files, and she could mark the difference between various styles and materials used in file folders over the years.
She went to the shelves marked “Adoption Records,” then went to the shelves labeled “P.”
When the court finalized an adoption, it issued a new birth certificate with the adoptive parents’ names in the appropriate boxes. But the original certificate completed at the child’s birth remained on file. Anthony Paulson’s birth certificate, and independent verification of the identity of his birth parents, should be here.
She muttered, “P … p … Paneski … Parker … Pastern … Paulson.”
There it was, a stiff and aged folder, fifty years old. She opened it; the paper was slick under her fingers. Faded pink cover sheets announced that the material within was sealed by court order, access restricted.
She started searching. They were right on top, the amended birth certificate showing that Anthony Paulson’s parents were Claire and Richard Paulson, and under it a birth certificate stamped “Original.” Baby Anthony. Father—unknown. The space was left blank. Mother—