"Where did you get this?" Charles demanded, his voice echoing in the alley. "I want the truth. Did someone send you here?"
William stared at the swinging gold. "I told you. I've always had it. I woke up in a hospital... a long time ago. They said I was in a fire. I didn't have a wallet. Just the watch in my pocket. But nobody wanted to buy a watch that didn't tick."
"A hospital?" Charles's jaw tightened. "If you were in a hospital, they would have run your prints."
"I burned my hands," William whispered, holding up his palms. In the dim light, Charles saw the smooth, shiny patches of severe burn scars covering the man’s fingertips. The fingerprints had been melted away in the Aston Martin.
That was how he slipped through the cracks. No ID, no prints, severe amnesia, and a face ruined by cuts and swelling. He became a permanent John Doe, eventually pushed out onto the streets when his Medicare funding ran out.
"How did you get to Chicago?" Charles pressed, his panic spiking. "Why are you at this hotel tonight?"
"I don't know!" William sobbed, curling into himself. "I just walk! I came here because... because of the clinic. The free clinic on State Street. I was sick last week. They took my blood."
Charles froze.
They took my blood.
A wave of absolute nausea washed over Charles. His father’s estate planning had been paranoid and meticulous. Twenty years ago, when the police couldn't find a body in the car wreckage to properly test for DNA, the Vanguard family trust lawyers had quietly inserted William’s genetic profile into a national missing-persons healthcare database. Charles had spent years fighting the trust to get that mandate removed, arguing it was a waste of resources, but the senior partners had refused.
If a free clinic took a blood sample from a John Doe and ran it through standard screening, the national database would flag it.
"When did they take your blood?" Charles demanded, stepping closer, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Three... three days ago," William stammered. "A nice nurse. She gave me a sandwich. She said she was going to run some tests to see why my stomach hurt."
Charles spun around, running a hand through his wet hair.
Three days. It takes two days for a lab to process that kind of profile. The flag would have gone off yesterday. The trust lawyers would have been notified. They wouldn't have told Charles—they hated Charles. They would have come straight to Chicago to find the John Doe themselves.
Charles whipped out his phone. He didn't have time for a discreet van anymore. He needed Marcus here right now, with whatever weapons were required to toss this man into the Chicago River.
Before he could dial the first digit, the heavy steel door of the alley loading dock slammed open behind him.
Charles jumped, nearly dropping his phone.
A hotel employee leaned out into the rain, holding a clipboard. "Hey! You can't be back here. Security is clearing the perimeter. VIP transport is arriving."