Baldwin thought a moment. Why would Garrett not mention to him that Kathy Pharr’s daughter was missing? He thought back to the last time he talked to him and figured he had already spoken to Tucker by then. Why didn’t he say something?
“You said she was going to Oscar’s. Is that a friend or . . . ?”
“No, store down there on Roosevelt. Thrift store.”
Baldwin nodded. “Do you mind if we talk inside?”
Tucker opened the door to let him in and said, “Sorry ’bout the mess.”
The floor was littered with clothes and old food wrappers. Several ashtrays cluttered the coffee table, and the heavy scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Tucker moved some papers, what looked like past due bills, off a couch.
“Just me and Harmony now.” He paused and looked down at his fingers, which he was rubbing together. “Since Kathy passed, ain’t no one been around to take care of the house.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Baldwin said. He glanced around the house as Tucker fished around in his pockets and found a lighter. “So you were released from prison four months ago, is that right?”
He took out a cigarette and lit it. “Yeah, did twelve years up there in Low Desert Plains. Saw my daughter grow up from behind glass. You know what that feels like? It feels like shit. You feel worthless. Rehabilitation my ass. Everyone I knew inside went in good dudes and came out criminals, and that’s the truth.”
“You were there for kidnapping a fourteen-year-old girl at knifepoint, is that right?” Baldwin said mildly.
Tucker blew smoke out through his nose and glared at him. “That was bullshit. We was hookin’ up, and I wasn’t but a young man then myself, and she got into my car that day her damn self. No one said nothin’ ’bout kidnapping till her parents found out she was with an older man. And that judge”—he scoffed—“that judge wouldn’t hear nothin’ at my sentencing. He locked me up and threw away the key like he was handin’ out candy. Our justice system ain’t got nothin’ to do with justice, tell you that much.”
Baldwin looked toward a photograph on a side table. Kathy and Harmony smiling widely. The only photograph in the room. “When was this taken?” he said, picking up the photo.
“Guess ’bout a few years ago. Harmony was the cutest damn girl you ever seen. People would tell her mama we should get her into modelin’, but I said hell no. Them models is screwed up something fierce.”
Baldwin put the photo back. “Are you certain she’s never made attempts at running away?”
He shook his head. “Kathy never told me she had. She got straight As in school, too. Not the sorta kid that runs away. Good head on her shoulders. Don’t know where she got it from, ’cause it sure as shit ain’t from me or her mama. Her mama was inside for a few years, too, for meth.”
“Who’d Harmony stay with?”
“Her grandma.” He shook his head. “Shit, probably woulda just been better she stayed there insteada comin’ home.”
“Did you make any enemies in prison? Someone who maybe was released recently and would want some payback?”
“No, can’t think of anybody. My time inside weren’t so bad, and they kept me outta gen pop since my charges involved a child. People with charges involving kids don’t last long in gen pop.”
“I’ve heard.”
He sucked in some smoke from his cigarette and then blew it out. “So what you doin’ to find who did this?”
“Can’t talk about an ongoing investigation, Mr. Pharr. Sorry.”
“Yeah, fine. Anything else, then? I gotta get to work soon.”
Baldwin glanced around again. “I’ll need a current picture of Harmony. And do you mind if I take a look at her room?”
“Nah, it’s right there. I’ll go find a picture.”
Baldwin rose and went to Harmony’s room.
A small bed with blue blankets, white sheets poking out from underneath, took up most of the space. The sheets had colorful cartoon ponies on them. Children’s sheets. On the mirror over a dresser were photographs of Harmony with friends and several boys. One of the boys, a young redheaded kid, had a heart drawn around his picture with red marker.
Her room was neat and orderly, unlike the rest of the house. Schoolbooks, some of them for advanced placement courses, sat on the dresser, and there was a folding chair in front of a small, dilapidated desk. Baldwin felt a stab of sympathy. Harmony was intelligent and driven and probably had every disadvantage in life already working against her, simply because she’d been born into poverty.
Tucker came in and handed him a school photo of Harmony in a collared shirt.
“She sometimes spends the night at her friends’ houses. You checked with them? Garrett said he would.”
“Which friends?” Baldwin asked.
“Uma’s her best friend. She don’t live too far from here.”
“I’ll need Uma’s last name and an address if you have it.”
“I don’t know the address, but I can take you over there. Ain’t far.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
12
Baldwin drove while Tucker sat in the passenger seat. “I love old Mustangs like this. Used to work on ’em all the time back at my shop.”
“Your own shop?”
Tucker shook his head. “Granddaddy’s shop. Little place. Not too many customers. Made enough for me, but wouldn’t have had enough for a wife ’n’ kid workin’ there.” He looked out the window. “It ain’t never enough then, seems like.”
Baldwin glanced at him. “So Harmony was two when you went inside, right?”
He nodded. “Wasn’t sure she was mine. Truth be told, still ain’t sure. Her mama was hookin’ up with a neighbor at the time. But I treat her like she was my own, regardless of whatever.”
“Must’ve been hard on Kathy. Single mom with a husband inside.”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. I guess. Her daddy helped her when he could.”
They stopped at a light. “So you grew up in Fruit Heights, right?”
Tucker nodded. “Yeah. You been? Shit little town.”
“No, haven’t been there. Is that why you left? Not much to do?”
“Something like that.” Tucker pointed. “That house right there.”
The home was redbrick with a half-dead, yellowed lawn. Baldwin took the porch steps first and knocked. A man in a checkered button-up answered.
“Hey, Chuck,” Tucker said. “Harmony over here?”
He stared at Baldwin. “Nah, ain’t seen her. Who’s this?”
Baldwin said, “I’m Cason Baldwin. I’m with the FBI. When was the last time you saw Harmony?”
He opened the screen door and put one hand on the frame. “Shit. Few days ago, I think. What’s goin’ on?”
“Is your daughter here?” Baldwin asked. “Can I speak to her?”
“Yeah, hang on. I’ll get her.”
When he left, Tucker said, “He’s good people. Fought over there in Iraq for six years. Didn’t come back right, but he’s doin’ good, considering.”
“He live here with just Uma?”
He nodded. “Had a wife. Ran out on him some years back.” He took out a package of cigarettes. “You mind?”
“No.”
A young teen in a pink shirt came to the door. She didn’t have the look of shock or fear that adults had when Baldwin surprised people at their homes. Youth, he thought, always expected the best rather than the worst.
“Uma, hi, I’m Cason. I’m with the FBI. Do you know what the FBI is?”
She glanced at her dad. “Like a cop?”
“Exactly. Like a cop. So I’m trying to help find your friend Harmony. Do you mind if we talk?”
“I guess.”
“I was wondering when the last time you saw her was?”
“Like, Wednesday. I think.”
“Where at?”
“We sometimes go down to Oscar’s. We went there for some new shorts or something.”
Baldwin
nodded. “So you guys were there Wednesday together?”
“Yeah, and then we walked home.”
“Have you heard from her since?”
She shook her head. “I texted her day before yesterday but she didn’t text me back.”
“Did you see her get all the way home?”
She shook her head again. “My house is on the way. I said bye to her here.”
Baldwin glanced at her father. “Uma, did she ever mention a man who’d started talking to her? Maybe he was showing up places, following her around? She might have said this was a really nice man. One who would buy her things and take her places.”
She shrugged. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Did she ever tell you she was scared of anyone? Like a teacher or neighbor? A relative?”
Baldwin suddenly realized his mistake: he should have interviewed her out of earshot of both her father and Tucker.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“If she decided to run away from home, can you think of anywhere she would go? Anywhere I should be looking?”
Uma thought a moment. “We have a tree house we go to sometimes.”
“Where’s the tree house?”
“It’s in that field behind her house. We didn’t build it or nothing, it was already there when we were kids, but sometimes we go there and play around.”
Baldwin looked at Tucker, who nodded, letting him know what she said was right. “Okay,” he said, turning back to Uma. “If you hear from Harmony, will you call me?” He handed her a card. “Day or night. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Baldwin turned to leave, and she said, “Hey. Is she . . . I mean, do you think the man that did that to her mom is . . .”
Baldwin glanced at Tucker, who was smoking and watching them. “I don’t know yet, Uma.”
“Oh,” she said, flicking his card nervously across her palm and staring at her shoes. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find her. I bet it’s nothing. Right?”
Baldwin was silent a moment and then said, “I hope so.”
13
Yardley went home after meeting up with River. Tara was studying at the dining room table with headphones on. Yardley kissed her daughter on the head and went to the fridge. She was too tired to make dinner, so frozen leftovers would have to do.
As she took out the food, she got a text. It was a picture of a bracelet.
Look what I found online, River wrote.
I like it, Yardley replied.
I do too. Should I get it?
You should. That color will look great with your skin.
There was a long pause in the conversation. Yardley put the frozen food in the microwave while she waited.
I know this is crazy and I’m part of your work, and if this is creepy just tell me, but what are you doing tonight?
Why? Yardley replied.
Zachary’s out of town and isn’t coming back until tomorrow night. I wouldn’t mind some company tonight. Want to come over and drink wine and watch trash reality tv?
Yardley’s fingers hesitated over the phone. She wasn’t used to having friends, and what did she really know about River? Her instincts told her to keep it professional, but something else said that she wanted someone to talk to. That maybe she even needed it.
Why don’t you come here? she wrote.
Night had fallen by the time dinner was through. Tara worked equations while they ate and barely spoke.
“How was your day?” Yardley said.
“Fine.”
The entire meal had been like that, one-word responses. She understood why; when Tara had a goal in front of her, like solving those equations, everything else dropped away. Yardley had been that way at her age as well. But she couldn’t help thinking of the little girl she would take to the movies and push on swings at the park. The little girl who was glued to her mother all day. It was just them against the rest of the world, and Yardley remembered it as both the hardest and happiest time of her life.
“I have a friend coming over,” Yardley said.
Tara looked up from her papers. “Who?”
“Her name’s Angie. You haven’t met her.”
Tara grinned. “Where’d you meet her?”
“Work.”
“I can go to the coffee shop and study if you want.”
Yardley rose and collected the dishes off the table. “No, not at all. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t be surprised.”
“I am surprised. I don’t think I’ve ever met one of your friends. Except that one lady we went to lunch with a few times. Ida. I liked her. What happened to her?”
“She got married and had kids. When you’re at different stages in life, it’s sometimes hard to maintain friendships.”
“So is Angie a prosecutor, too?”
“No.”
“Lawyer?”
Yardley took the dishes to the sink and began washing them off. “No . . . she’s the victim in a case I have.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s perfectly fine. There’re no rules against having friendships with people you’re also helping.”
“Yeah, but just seems weird. You’re usually so careful about stuff like that.”
There was a knock at the door. Tara answered.
“Hi, you must be Tara.”
“Yup. And you’re Angie? Come in.”
“It’s so nice to finally meet you. Your mom talks about you all the time.”
“Good stuff?”
“Oh, of course.”
River had a bottle of wine in one hand and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in the other.
“Sorry, couldn’t decide between wine or ice cream. Not sure which is worse for you.”
Yardley said, “Definitely ice cream. But I think we’ll be having both.”
“Me too,” Tara said. Yardley raised her eyebrows, and she said, “Just kidding. I’ll be in my room studying if you need me.” She hesitated before leaving, her eyes scanning the bruising on River’s face and the gash on her forehead before moving to the rune tattoo on River’s shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Angie.”
“You too.” River placed the wine and ice cream on the counter in the kitchen. “I love her. She’s adorable.”
“She is,” Yardley said, getting down two wineglasses from a cupboard. “Fortunately she’s calmed some from her early teenage years. I’ve been helping her get through some issues stemming from her childhood.”
“How?”
She poured the wine and said, “Cognitive behavioral therapy. I have training in clinical psychology. Though I never imagined I’d be using it on my own child.”
“Life’s a crazy trip, isn’t it?” They tapped glasses. “But at least we can have fun during the craziness, right?”
After a few glasses of wine, half the ice cream, and several episodes of a show about a woman offering to marry whoever did everything she asked—like rolling in a vat filled with snakes or sifting through the sewer for a ring—Yardley and River sat out on the balcony and watched the night sky. They sipped the last of the wine and listened to soft new age music.
“I love it up here,” River said. “You can never get silence like this in the city. It’s always noisy, even at two or three in the morning. You think that can cause people to be unhappy? Like we’re not meant to always have noise?”
“I don’t know. The levels of anxiety and depression in society are unprecedented. Maybe that’s a factor.”
River watched her a second. “It’s not there anymore.”
“What isn’t?”
“You have this small crease between your eyebrows like you’re just always concentrating. Like, flexing a muscle or something. It’s not there right now. Your face is much more radiant without it.”
Yardley blushed and looked away.
“You have to wear a mask, don’t you?” River said. “My uncle was a cop. I know what that’s like. Those are men’s men. Gotta be tough all the time, not show emotions. Are prosecuto
rs like that, too?”
“Some are. There’s this belief among some male prosecutors that women are too emotional to be good prosecutors. As if men can set their emotions aside like robots.”
“I think a million years of war would discredit that little theory.” She took a sip of the wine. “You don’t have to tell me, but I’ve been dying to ask . . . what was he like?”
Yardley knew who she was talking about.
At first, it upset her that River would ask about the most horrific thing she had gone through, especially considering they hadn’t known each other long, but then she thought that maybe it was normal. Forming friendships wasn’t something Yardley had done much of, or knew how to do well, and maybe this was what friendship was: talking about things you didn’t talk about with anyone else.
“To me, he was gentle and sweet. A few times a week, he would leave me notes on the kitchen counter or on the nightstand in the bedroom. Not poems or anything, but just notes letting me know he was thinking about me.”
River shook her head. “I can’t even imagine what you felt when you found out. What a shit storm. I’m seriously amazed you’re even standing, much less helping everyone else.”
Yardley leaned her head back against the deck chair and looked at the stars. “Can I ask you something now?”
“Ask away.”
“You said I had a shattered heart the first time we met. What did you mean by that?”
River finished her wine with one large gulp, as though it were water. “Clearly it meant something to you if you remember I said it. What do you think it means?”
Yardley stared at her glass and the way the moonlight reflected off it. “I think it applies to someone who can never love someone again. That they’re so broken they can never piece their heart together enough to give it to someone else.”
River smiled. “Do you know there’s a word in Sanskrit for the cracks that plates and cups get over time? It translates to ‘unique beauty.’ It means instead of fixing them, we should celebrate them, because it’s the cracks that make the dish unique. Maybe a shattered heart is something unique to each person, and we need to go through it so we appreciate a healed heart later.”
Crimson Lake Road (Desert Plains) Page 5
