“Here, take this.” The detective removed his fleece and draped it clumsily over her shoulders. “You’re shivering. It’s not that cold. What are you afraid of? Has somebody threatened you? Why were you over at the plant tonight? I must’ve been on the other side of the building when you went in.”
“I wanted to see the crime scene, that’s all. Like I told you, I want this killer identified and caught sooner rather than later. I figured maybe if I saw the crime scene I’d notice something..”
“I appreciate your wanting to help, but I don’t want you to put yourself at risk. If you just go about your business and keep your eyes open, that’ll be very useful.” The detective’s response sounded formulaic and patronizing. Apparently her silence proved equally unsatisfying to him. “You’re still shivering. What are you really afraid of?”
Standing there in the dark─tired and terrified─with a man she had every reason to mistrust, Miranda told him the truth. “I’m afraid of you. I don’t want anyone to know my former identity. And somehow you found it out.” She took a deep breath. “I want to know how.”
“Back in the day I was on the other side of the glass when you were interrogated.”
She felt her breath catch and forced herself to take in air.
“I was still in college and doing research for a paper. My uncle was a detective with Seattle PD, and he got me in to observe a few of their interrogations. Yours was one of them.” He paused and stroked Rusty’s head. “So that night when I saw you here, I thought you looked familiar. I mean underneath the dye job and the contacts. And of course, you, uh, filled out a little.”
Even in the dark Miranda felt his eyes on her breasts, felt her face reddening.
“You really got to me. So I came back the next morning to make sure.”
“You mean there was nothing wrong with your phone?” Miranda shuddered at how easily she’d been deceived.
“Like I said, I just wanted to scope you out, to make sure. Your voice is familiar too. But, I’m a good detective, so I checked the online videos they made of your interrogation and house arrest. You’re that girl grown up.” When she didn’t speak, he continued. “And just last year I read that you sued SPD’s asses and won some money.”
Miranda cringed. The reporters who recounted her victorious lawsuit had detailed her cuttings and suicide attempt in the wake of her release from house arrest. And they had headlined the dollar amount she won. This cop knew about how much or how little she was worth. She whispered her next question. “Are you going to blackmail me?”
“Not exactly.” He put a finger beneath her chin, tilting her head back, exposing her neck, and ran that same finger along the thin line there. Miranda jetted to her tiptoes which only made her mouth more accessible to the tall man who pulled her to him. Telling herself she had no choice, she made no protest, even considered responding to keep him quiet. But, there in the dark in his arms, she realized that she had no reason to trust this cop to keep her secret after he got what he wanted. His lips crushed hers and she felt his teeth behind them and then his tongue. She did not respond. Rusty’s low growl only seemed to encourage him. His mouth pressed harder, but she didn’t unclench her teeth. Nor did she raise her arms from her sides to push him away or cry out, even when his chin crushed her own bruised jaw. Only when Rusty actually snarled did the detective finally release her, step back, pick up his fleece, and walk away. Over his shoulder, his words were barely audible. “Good night, Meryl. I’ll be in touch.”
She stood shivering in the street wondering how long that one-sided kiss, any kiss, would be enough to insure the detective’s silence. But she also knew that she now had a weapon to keep him at bay. She could charge him with sexual harassment, maybe even assault. It would be his word against hers. Damn. With her history, who would believe her?
CHAPTER 11
Guest book: “What a comfortable and quiet refuge! The proprietor runs a tight ship with the help of her sweet pooch and an obliging assistant. We especially enjoyed the breakfasts. And we felt perfectly safe in spite of all that hoo hah about gangs and a murder across the street. We all slept like babies and we’ll be back when that new winery in Horse Heaven Hills opens.” Joy, Diane, Greta,and Mimi, Red Hat Society of Spokane
“I saved you a seat. And I brought a couple of extra packages of Kleenex.” A short, broad-shouldered thirty-something man with a dirty blond buzz cut, glasses, and wearing a prayer shawl over his gray suit, took possession of Miranda’s elbow at the door of Temple Shalom. She figured him for the fellow she’d sat next to the night before and, flustered, allowed him to usher her into the part of the sanctuary that had once been a dining room. Only after they were both seated did he speak again. “I’m glad you came back. I’m Harry Ornstein.” He turned to smile at her and held out his hand.
“Miranda Breitner.” After a sleepless night reliving the events of the evening over too many glasses of merlot, she lacked the energy to make conversation. “I’m new to the Valley, so if you’re on the membership committee, yes, I plan to join.” Harry blinked and withdrew his hand abruptly, so she knew her message had registered as a rebuff. She hadn’t meant to be rude, but she was there only to say Kaddish and hear Rabbi Golden’s sermon. Then she’d rush home, eat, and go on-line to find a lawyer.
“I’m not on the membership committee, Miranda. I’m recently divorced, and I’m incredibly attracted to sobbing women…” He shook his head. “And you aren’t wearing a wedding ring, so I was hoping to get to know you.” He stared at her, taking in the bruise purpling her jawline and the matching circles beneath her eyes. When he spoke again, his smile was gone, but his voice was not unkind. “You may not want to get to know me right now, but here, take my card. You look like you could use a good lawyer.”
That’s when Miranda realized she’d forgotten to hide the bruise on her jaw. But she remembered that this was not a holiday for doing business. Glancing furtively around, she took the card he surreptitiously handed her. Then, from some long-suppressed reflex deep inside her, a girlish giggle bubbled up. Her lips stiffened in a futile effort to stifle her inappropriate merriment. This was not a holiday for giggling either. Besides, it hurt her sore ribs to laugh.
“What’s so funny? Last night you were in tears and now you’re all beat up and need a lawyer.” He sounded angry. Did he think she was laughing at him? “I’m not only a lawyer, but a damn good one who’s never lost a domestic violence case.”
“You’re right. I really do need a good lawyer.” As soon as she began to speak, her giggle-fit subsided. “Now, drumroll, here’s the funny part. I was going to go home and go online to look for an attorney, but here you are, a real live lawyer, sitting next to me. For a minute there I found that hilarious. I don’t know why. I guess I’m losing it.”
“I don’t know about that, but when this holiday is over, call my office and we’ll set up an appointment. I represent Temple Shalom and…” He scanned the faces crowding the sanctuary. “…at least four other people here. You can find me online too.” Holiday or no holiday, Harry was suddenly all business.
Miranda knew she ought to check him out with a reference or at least vet him on-line, but instead, she caved to convenience, telling herself she’d consider this lawyer a gift from God, an answer to her prayers even. “Okay, but I need to talk to you soon. Can we meet tomorrow?”
Harry nodded just as Rabbi Golden took her place on the bima and the service began. When it was time to rise and memorialize one’s dead loved ones by chanting the Mourners’ Prayer, Miranda stood with the other congregants and let her own mourner’s tears blot the pages of her prayer book. She could tell by the rippling of the paper that her salty overflow wasn’t the first to blur the Hebrew and English letters. When Harry once again placed a pack of Kleenex into her hand, she once again accepted it gratefully. She wept for her beloved mother whose absence orphaned her anew every day. And she wept for sweet little Timmy who, had he lived, would be twenty-s
omething. Maybe he’d be in grad school or teaching or, God forbid, in Iraq. Finally, she wept for poor Isaac Markowitz, for his widowed bride, and for his anguished parents.
After another inspiring sermon from Rabbi Golden, she left Temple Shalom and headed back to Sunnyvale to break her wine-compromised fast with lox and bagels, treats she and Mona had eaten together to mark the end of their fast and of the holiday. As much out of curiosity as out of loneliness she invited Darlene to share her lunch.
“Thanks, but my daughter-in-law is dropping my granddaughter Josefina off here before she goes to work. I’ll make us both something when we get home.”
The prospect of a visit from yet another one of Darlene’s grandkids was not appealing. “How old is your granddaughter?”
“Fourteen.” Darlene had a question of her own. “But before she gets here, tell me, please, have you decided whether or not you’re going to report Javi? Your face looks really bad today. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” She lowered her head.
“I have an attorney lined up. But the more I think about it, the less I feel like doing it. I’ll have to see what my lawyer advises.”
“You must be mad at Javi. Like I told my son, he… he assaulted you.” Darlene’s lip trembled at the memory.
“I know. Believe me, I know.” Miranda’s curiosity overcame her discretion. “Before you go, there’s something I don’t understand. “What made Javi’s brother, the one who got killed, join a gang? I can’t imagine any relative of yours joining a gang.”
Darlene sighed. “Luis, my son, had two years of college and he got a job in the office of the meat processing plant in Toppenish. His wife Mira works downstairs there on the plant floor. They had five kids, good kids. But Josefina, the one born before Javi…” Darlene took a call on her cell, and before she finished speaking, there was a loud banging at the door. “That’s Josefina. I’ll get it.” Darlene rushed to the door and flung it open.
A teenaged girl with café-au-lait skin, long black hair, round cheeks, round brown eyes, and prominent breasts hurled herself into Darlene’s outstretched arms. She embraced her grandmother with only one arm because the other clutched a large doll. “Kiss Josefina,” Josefina demanded holding out the doll, a replica of her namesake and owner, except for the breasts. Darlene obliged, planting a resounding smack on the doll’s forehead.
As Josefina approached Miranda with the doll, Miranda realized two things. First, this friendly effervescent girl in the body of a woman would remain forever four in her pretty head. Second, she expected Miranda to kiss the doll, so Miranda did. Only then did Josefina begin to give her doll a tour of the room, stopping to gape at the enormous spider plant.
“You can see she’s… young for her age.” Darlene’s voice dropped to a whisper. Miranda nodded. “She’s so pretty and friendly.”
“Yes, but she cannot be left alone for a minute. My son and his wife, they found a boarding school for her in Spokane where the staff members are kind and watchful. She comes home sometimes to visit, but she’s happier at school.” Darlene blew her nose. “The Government pays a little, but Mira and my son, they work overtime to pay the rest. They sleep only a few hours each night. Geraldo raised Javier and Josefina. When they found the school, he wanted to help out more.” Darlene rubbed her thumb and fingers together to indicate Geraldo’s wish to earn more money. “He got a job downstairs in the meat plant, too, but he knew he could make more selling drugs.” She shrugged at this sad fact of Valley life and then looked up. “Geraldo didn’t use drugs himself or dress fancy or go to clubs or even drive a nice car. He was a good son, a good grandson, and a good brother. After he began dealing, he bought Josefina that pricey doll. She wanted it because on TV she saw it and it had her same name. Soon after, by mistake Geraldo went to meet a customer on the wrong street and…” Darlene snapped her fingers. “Next day he was shot dead.”
Miranda surprised herself by enfolding the smaller woman in a hug. When she spoke she tried to return the conversation to the present. “I saw your car outside. Javier returned it?”
“Of course. It was already in front of my house last night when I got home. My cell and my keys were in my planter like always, but not my gun.” She sighed. “He wrote “gracias abuela te amo” inside a candy wrapper and left it on the front seat like he always does. Here.” She pulled out a colorful slip of crumbled paper from the pocket of her sweater and smoothed it out on the counter. Darlene’s tears streaked her face and she excused herself to go to the bathroom.
While she was out of the room, Miranda photographed the note with her phone while Josefina sat cross-legged on the floor pulling out the guidebooks stored on the makeshift bookcases and showing them to her doll.
When Darlene returned, she finished her story. “Javi didn’t go home last night. And his girl hasn’t seen him.” She looked over at her granddaughter. “Come on Josefina. It’s time to go home and have lunch.” Darlene began picking up the scattered books. “And then I’ll wash and iron Josefina’s dress, okay?”
The Red Hat ladies checked out, and Miranda readied their rooms for future guests while pondering Darlene’s version of Javier’s backstory. His family’s predicament was wrenching, but the boy’s disappearance made him a more likely suspect.
Later, while breaking her semi-fast alone, she allowed herself to recall her first kiss, technically a sexual assault by a cop. She wished it had been Steve Galen or maybe even Harry Ornstein, who had given her that first kiss. How would she handle the detective’s next move? Soon he’d tire of her avoidance of his kisses and demand other favors. Even if she obliged, he’d eventually tire of her, discard her, and then blackmail her for money. And what about that wife he’d said he wanted to give the recipe for rhubarb pie to? Or had she been a convenient fabrication like his dead cellphone battery?
It was time to check out Detective Ladin online. What she found was not very revealing. He’d worked gang units in Tacoma and, more recently, Seattle. He’d left The Emerald City shortly after the arrival of the new police chief, a tough female cop, hired to bring the SPD into compliance with the Department of Justice’s mandates for change. Miranda didn’t have access to Ladin’s personnel file where, she suspected, she’d find additional information.
Next she logged onto the B & B’s website. There were two more cancellations and one new booking. She tried not to exaggerate the significance of either. Even though she had no love for journalists, she was glad the two reporters, whom she’d spotted in the back row when she left Temple Shalom, were still in residence.
The guest who’d booked a room that morning arrived. Rusty’s ears stood up at the knocking and folded once Miranda unlocked the door. She could only gawk. This woman looked like a model in an Eileen Fisher ad. Tall and shapely with luminous honey-colored skin, she wore black leggings, a black turtleneck tunic, and sleek black boots. A barrette crafted of amber, gold, and onyx gleamed from atop her head where it kept her long black mane from obscuring her perfectly-proportioned facial features. Pulling a rolling duffel bag behind her, and with a black leather tote slung over one shoulder, she breezed in and addressed Miranda. “Hi. I’m C.S. Nikaimak. I’ve booked a room for the next few nights.” Her voice was mellow, her diction precise. She was probably an actress. “And you must be Miranda Breitner.”
“Yes.” Inhaling the guest’s spicy perfume, Miranda took the credit card as soon as this citrus-scented apparition handed it over. Her nails glistened with colorless polish and the diamond on her ring finger was impressive without being showy. The newcomer looked around. “Lovely what you’ve done with this old place. I hope business is good.”
“Thanks. It’s okay.” Miranda tried not to sound grim. “Tell me, how did you learn about Breitner’s?” She usually didn’t ask this question until her guests had settled in, but this woman did not appear to be the budget-conscious business traveler she targeted in her promotional efforts, so Miranda was curious about what had brought her to Breitner’s.
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“My brother works here. He said it’s a really nice place and that you’re a kind person.”
“You’re Michael Wright’s sister?” Miranda tried to keep her incredulity from somehow disparaging Michael. But how could this poised fashionista be related to the soft-spoken and scruffy handyman? And how could she be the granddaughter of that smelly old man Miranda and Rusty encountered at the river’s edge?
“I am.” The smile she flashed was, indeed, Michael’s. In that smile’s glow, Miranda could see Michael’s chiseled features mirrored in his sister’s face, his straight black ponytail in the glossy mane streaming from her barrette, and his scrawny physique echoing her lithe frame.
“Michael mentioned you. You helped raise him.”
The stylish woman rolled her dark eyes. “I tried. That boy was wild, practically feral, and he acted like my condo in Seattle was a cage. Eventually I let him come back here and stay on the rez with our grandfather. They’re two of a kind.”
“Well, Michael’s not wild any more. He works hard and his work is good and, as you know, he’s enrolled in college. And now he looks after his grandfather too.”
“Yes.” C.S. Nikaimak twisted a tress of her hair. “And a great job he’s doing of that. Now they’re both missing.”
“What? Michael was here just the other day.”
“Well, he’s not here now, is he?”
Miranda shook her head in case that had been a serious question.
“An old boyfriend of mine on the tribal police force called me. Jim usually plugs me into the loop when grandfather gets in trouble or either one of them gets sick. According to him, they’ve both disappeared and they’re both murder suspects.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest and widened her eyes.
If Miranda had better-honed social skills, she would have understood that the conversation was over and showed C.S. Nikaimak to her room. But she didn’t. Instead she felt an urge to defend Michael from the harsh judgment of this beauty-queen big sister.
Murder in the Melting Pot Page 11
