Dead Soon Enough: A Juniper Song Mystery

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To Peter

“Who still talks nowadays of the extermination of the Armenians?”

—
Adolf Hitler, 1939

“I do, bitch. Hope it’s a hot day in hell.”

—
Nora Mkrtchian, 2012

One

When I was twenty-two, I sold three sets of eggs for a total of $48,000. I was broke, bored, and quietly depressed, and had no strength to fight the call of easy money. It was a questionable decision, but I’ve made enough of those that this one doesn’t keep me up at night.

I’d seen advertisements for egg donors in the Yale paper, but back then I was still on the payroll of a hardworking immigrant mom who saw no better way to spend money than to push her shitty kid through the Ivy League. The ads made a bit of a splash in cafeteria conversations, but as far as I knew, no one really responded. We had a whole campus full of prestigious eggs and, in aggregate at least, a brash imperviousness to financial pressure.

That changed for many of us soon enough. I left Yale with an attractive diploma, an unattractive transcript, and zero to negligible job prospects. I moved to L.A., not because I had dreams, or even family anymore, but because it was a city I knew, one that I liked better than others.

One day, after pinning tutoring fliers in coffee shops full of dead-eyed college graduates just as unemployed as I was, I came across a
New York Times
article about Asian-American egg donors. Apparently, our eggs commanded high premiums for rarity on the market—Asian-American women waited longer than average to have babies, chasing those professional dreams with their biological clocks ticking softly in the background.

It was like a help wanted ad singing my name.

There was another reason, too, an enabling reason if not an actual impetus—despite my sadness and weakness of spirit I felt, in a way, invincible. It wasn’t that I relished the idea of my spawn running the earth. The truth is, I didn’t think about that much at all. I was young and cavalier, with a disregard for consequences that had almost nothing to do with reality, mine or anyone else’s. Consequences were things that happened to other people. What happened to me was bad luck.

So I did some research and sold my eggs to the highest bidder. They went out into the world, and maybe some of them became people.

I hadn’t thought about them in a long time, and then I met Rubina Gasparian.

*   *   *

It was a warm Tuesday in early March, one of those pre-spring Los Angeles days that knocked an unnecessary nail into winter’s coffin. I’d had my private investigator license for almost a year, and during that time I’d made a steady, honest living, as free of mishap as any period in my adult life.

When I got to the office that morning, there was a woman waiting outside the locked door. She was standing straight, facing the hall, and when I looked up from my phone she was already watching me, waiting for me to acknowledge her. I nearly jumped.

She was a slim woman wearing a gray wrap dress and short, professional heels. I was almost a head taller, even in flip-flops, but there was something commanding in her presence that negated the impression of smallness. She was pretty in a brutal way, with a high forehead, straight black hair, and an immaculate gloss to her pale skin. Her eyes were sharp and dark, and by the time I got around to greeting her, they’d run their way right through me.

“Hi,” I said. “Are you looking for Lindley and Flores?”

“Yes. I hope you don’t mind my coming in so early. I don’t have an appointment.” She spoke quickly, but with a tentative, deferential tone of voice.

“Not at all. I’m Juniper Song,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m an investigator.”

“Rubina Gasparian.” She shook my hand with a firm grip, and I felt the press of a ring on my palm. Wrong hand for a wedding band, but I saw that she had one of those on, too. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I opened up the office and Rubina followed me inside. I sat down at my desk and, before I was able to offer, she took a chair across from me.

“So, Ms. Gasparian. What can I do for you today?”

“It’s Doctor,” she said, then added, “Though that doesn’t matter.”

“Sorry.” I smiled, feeling mildly caught off guard. “
Dr.
Gasparian, what can I do for you today?”

She crossed her legs and folded her hands over the top knee. “I’d like to hire someone to follow my cousin.”

“We can certainly do that,” I said. “All three of us are seasoned tails. That’s kind of the bread and butter of this job. What can you tell me about her?”

She produced a 4 x 6 photograph and pushed it delicately across the desk. It was a professional photo of Rubina in a wedding dress, with one arm around a younger woman in a lavender dress, unmistakably a bridesmaid. I took a long look at the cousin. She had the same pale skin and round eyes as Rubina, but she gave off a rugged impression, even in pastel chiffon. Her bare arms showed a colorful splash of tattoos, and her shoulders were broad and well honed. She wasn’t as traditionally attractive as Rubina, but she would never fade standing next to her.

“That was taken on my wedding day, almost six years ago. The girl on my left is my cousin Lusig. I can e-mail you a more recent photograph—her hair’s much shorter now, and she has a piercing in her nose, which I made her take out for the wedding.” She paused and nodded, making a note to herself. “I’ve known her since she was in my late aunt’s womb. She’s a wonderful girl. I love her like a sister and daughter, and now, she’s carrying my baby.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“For a few reasons, chief among them that I am thirty-seven years old, my husband and I are unable to conceive. Since we want children, and adoption is out of the question, we decided on a gestational surrogate.”

I wondered briefly why adoption was out of the question, and something in Rubina’s eyes dared me to ask. It didn’t seem like my business—not that that always stopped me—but I bit.

“Why was adoption out of the question?”

“Here are two clues,” she said, holding one hand up in a V. “My married name is Gasparian. My maiden name is Balakian.”

“You’re Armenian,” I said. Armenian surnames were almost as easy to spot as Korean ones.

“Very much so. And as an Armenian couple, Van and I would like to continue our bloodline. There are only so many of us left.”

“Forgive me if I’m off track here. Been a long time since World History. But you’re referring to a genocide?”

She nodded. “Of course. It’s telling that you’re uncertain. Not—” she added hastily—“telling of your ignorance, but of the Armenian genocide’s status in history. But that is a long conversation, and we were already in the middle of another one.”

“Right,” I said. “You were telling me about a gestational surrogate. That means what, your egg, her womb?”

“Yes.”

“And that surrogate is your cousin Lusig.”

“Exactly.” She smiled, lending a little warmth to her features. “Lusig wasn’t ideal in every way. The perfect surrogate is a woman who’s been pregnant before, who won’t form an undue attachment to the baby. We think Lusig will be fine with giving him up, but this is her first pregnancy, and she had no familiarity with the process before she agreed to sign on.”

“So why her?”

“First, she offered. She knew we needed help, and she said she was more than happy to. Second, Lusig and I are very close. She would be in the baby’s life, as more than an aunt, if a little less than a mother. Third, Lusig has no desire to have children of her own.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Early to make that call, wouldn’t you say?”

Rubina shrugged, a small, mechanical motion. “She’s maintained this position for many years. Lusig is a headstrong, stubborn girl, and she is not known to change her mind. On top of which, she’s unmoved by children, and thinks she would make a poor mother. Between you and me, I agree with her.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, practically speaking, Lusig has never been employed for more than a year at a time. She has very little interest in figuring out her life, and I can’t imagine she’d have room for a child anytime soon. And I know she’s young, but twenty-six is not twenty-two.”

I suppressed a smile. Rubina could have been describing me before I started working for Chaz. I’d spent my post-college years tutoring around the city for bursts of cash, just enough to pay rent and maintain my pantry and one shelf of my fridge. Pregnancy would have been a nightmare.

“What’s she do?”

“This and that. Temp work, mostly. Sometimes she participates in psych studies and focus groups. She lives at home, with her father, so her living expenses are very low. We’ve been paying her a stipend while she carries the baby, so she isn’t working now.”

“None of this sounds particularly permanent,” I said. “You think she’ll always be unfit for kids?”

“I love her, but she’s a selfish girl. She’s a classic only child, not conceited but very self-centered. She’s always surprised to recall that the world doesn’t revolve around her.”

“I don’t think I’m especially selfish, but I would run far away if anyone wanted to borrow my body for nine months.”

“Of course she’s often generous. Maybe this is getting lost, but I think Lusig is wonderful. She’s only fundamentally selfish.”

I nodded, wondering how damning this was supposed to be. “Is that why you’re here?”

She gave me a thoughtful stare before speaking again. “I suppose it is,” she said. “I’m worried that she’s putting herself before the welfare of my child.”

“How so?”

“She’s almost eight months pregnant, well past the initial touch and go. Not that this pregnancy could ever have been less than a deliberate, serious affair, with all the money and energy poured into it from the beginning, but my son is more baby than fetus now. He will be born. I’m going to be a mother.” She looked pointedly at my left hand. “You don’t have children, Miss Song?”

“I have not been so blessed,” I said. “You can call me Song, by the way. Though ‘Miss’ is correct.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a mother. I waited longer than I ever thought I would, but I went to medical school, then did my residency, then a fellowship, and before I knew it I was looking at limited options. If you’re open to some friendly advice, I’d suggest you not wait too long.”