by Amy Waeschle
She took a deep breath and knocked, soft at first. Then louder.
Nothing happened. She pounded again. What would she tell Rebecca? Harder now. She tried the doorknob, and it wiggled, then clanked in an odd-sounding way. She pulled her hand back, suddenly spooked. She realized that the locking mechanism was broken; the whole knob practically fell apart in her hands. She gave the door a little push, and it popped open.
Macho’s eyes were wide. Eddie and Rico had stopped talking and the hall was silent again.
The apartment inside was dark. Should she go in? Something told her not to. She looked at Macho. He shrugged.
“Maybe people know he leave. They break in.”
Cassidy took a deep breath, and stepped inside. After a moment, she located the light, attached to a string in the middle of the ceiling. She pulled it, and a dim glow illuminated the tiny studio. But the place was a mess—the bed, a single mattress on the floor, had been upended; the drawers in a dilapidated dresser had been pulled out and emptied. One had probably been thrown against a wall because it was in pieces in the corner, the cheap plywood splinters poking out of the broken edges like needles.
Cassidy stood in shock, surveying the wreckage. What had happened here?
The bathroom, a single toilet with no seat and a tiny sink attached to the wall, was empty. No toothbrush or shaving cream, towel. Empty.
“Are you sure this is Reeve’s place?” she asked Macho.
Macho looked uneasy. “Sí,” he said.
Cassidy looked again at the room. A poster on the wall for a reggae band she had never heard of was ripped down the middle, exposing a hole in the wall’s plaster. Had Reeve put up the poster to cover the hole? Or had the raiders made the hole when they ripped the poster down? What had they been after, anyway? Reeve was not a rich person. Had he kept expensive electronics in here? He was doing video for Bruce’s guests. Maybe he owned some of the equipment himself. Had it been stolen? There was a yellowed and dinged up shortboard in the corner, surprisingly in one piece. She knew it was worthless—it probably didn’t even float anymore.
“Macho,” Rico moaned. “Vámonos,” he added with a nod of his head towards the exit. Macho shot him a stern gaze. Eddie looked subdued. He shook his head at Cassidy, and then slunk outside. Rico followed, and she could hear the two of them whispering outside.
“Happens all the time,” Macho said, indicating the mess. “Lo siento,” he added.
She stepped forward to the dresser. One drawer was still attached. Unable to stop herself, she slid it open, hoping for what she didn’t know. But it was empty. She looked around the room again. Some clothes were on the floor, presumably from the dresser drawers when they were yanked out, the contents dumped: surf brand T-shirts and a few pairs of board shorts, boxer shorts, a threadbare yellow fleece that he probably never wore in such a climate, a pair of rubber flip-flops, one of them with a broken strap.
“He ees not here,” Macho said to Cassidy.
In a daze, Cassidy nodded. They stepped back into the hallway and closed the broken door.
Eddie and Rico were already hurrying down the hallway, their excited voices echoing off the dingy walls. A man entered the hallway, leading a young woman by the hand. They slipped by Eddie and Rico. The young woman looked more like a girl, Cassidy realized, with thick, long hair braided to the side and a flower tucked behind her ear. Her skin was golden brown and flawless, and she was wearing an impossibly short skirt and a halter-top. The man was Caucasian, late twenties, with a buzz cut and a stubbly face, like he was growing a beard, but who would grow a beard in this heat? He wore long, loose basketball shorts and a wrinkled short-sleeved button-down shirt adorned with palm trees. Cassidy watched this couple approach with a growing sense of unease. Macho too, seemed tense.
The man gave her only a rushed glance when he passed, keeping his head low. The young woman did not look at them, but simply followed behind, her eyes on the ground. Cassidy watched them walk to the end of the hall, where the man pulled out a key and unlocked the door across from Reeve’s. They were about to step inside when Cassidy came out of her spell and said “wait!” but it came out like a croak, and the man didn’t hear her.
The door closed. Cassidy went to step towards it, but Macho made a kind of hissing noise.
“What?” she said to him, confused.
He seemed uncomfortable, and his eyes were trying to tell her something, but she didn’t know what.
“Macho!” Eddie called from the street.
“He lives across from Reeve,” Cassidy said. “What if he knows what happened?”
“Mebee come back tomorrow,” he said.
“No!” Cassidy replied, surprised at her own vehemence. She stepped to the door.
Macho sighed. “I wait on the street,” he said.
Cassidy gathered her courage and knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
A groan came from inside the apartment and the door opened. The man was shirtless. No sign of the young woman. “What?” he asked, his eyes angry.
“Do you know Reeve?” she asked. “He lives across the hall?”
The man blinked, and his look changed. “Yeah, he’s gone though.”
“I know,” Cassidy said. “I’m trying to find him.”
“Who are you, his wife?”
Cassidy had to stifle her shock at the idea. “No. He’s my stepbrother.”
The man rubbed his head back and forth, scrubbed his sandpapery cheek, and glanced to the inside of the apartment. “I’m kinda busy right now.”
“I won’t keep you much longer,” Cassidy said. “Can you tell me anything about what happened?” She indicated the doorway across the hall. “Was he in trouble?”
“Ha!” the man said, his eyes bugging out. “Not more than the rest of us,” he replied with an amused cackle.
“Was he into drugs?”
The man’s smile faded. “I don’t know,” he replied.
“Did you guys ever talk? Did he tell you why he left?”
“No,” the man said. “We partied sometimes, you know, with the girls, but he didn’t exactly share our future plans.”
Sensing the man’s impatience, she tried to think fast. “Did he have any friends that you know of? Or a girlfriend?”
The man looked thoughtful for a moment, as if sizing her up.
“Please,” Cassidy begged.
“There was one girl. He did get kinda crazy about her, you know?” He shook his head.
“Do you know her name?” Cassidy pressed.
The man thought for a moment, closed his eyes like he was concentrating. “Jade,” he said, looking as surprised as she was. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, and closed the door.
Once back at the bikes, Cassidy felt jittery, and dirty. The humidity was cranked to full, and her skin felt drenched.
“The girl in the hallway,” Cassidy said, rethinking the exchange, starting with the man’s walk down the hallway to the I’m a little busy right now comment. “Is she . . . ”
“Chica,” Eddie said, his normally cheerful face looking grave.
Clearly, there was a different translation because girl would not get this kind of response. “A prostitute?” she asked.
“Legal in Costa Rica,” Rico said with a shrug.
Cassidy remembered this same phrase from the police officer, as if it explained everything. “But she was so young,” Cassidy replied, disgusted at the thought of what she had interrupted.
Macho was looking away. Cassidy noticed a man in the shadows across the street, scrolling his phone and smoking a cigarette. He was standing next to a motorcycle that she hadn’t seen on their way into the apartment. “Sometimes there are girls who don’t have a choice,” Macho said. “Their family sells them to people who do this. Or they are kidnapped and forced into it.” He glanced back at her.
Cassidy shuddered again. She remembered the anti-trafficking poster at the police station. She had also read news stories—it happened all over the world,
even in the U.S. Pete had once worked on a story about it.
“I think I’ll walk back,” she said to Macho who was waiting astride his bike.
“You sure?” Macho said, his eyes concerned.
Did he glance at the man in the shadows, or had she imagined it? Cassidy nodded.
“Come on Cassi-dee,” Eddie said, pulling her into a little dance. She could feel his firm body’s muscles against her as she let him pull her close.
Rico whistled.
Cassidy broke away. “Another time, amigos,” she said, resisting the urge to take one of them back to her room.
The streets felt much more unfriendly without her escorts, but Cassidy almost welcomed it, daring shadows to jump out at her so she could unleash her frustration, her growing anguish. Her mind was reeling from all the pieces of Reeve rattling around in her brain. The police station and the detective. The apartment. The neighbor with his chica. She wished she could push a button, and the images would fall into a hole somewhere and never return.
She bought a flask of rum from a shop at the edge of town and meandered through a gap in the shops to the beach. A breeze was blowing from the land, teasing strands of hair off her hot face. The sound of the waves combing the shoreline blocked out the noise and music of the town, and she started walking, away from it all, sipping from the flask now and then. Walking on the beach while watching the moon glow on the water and enjoying the rum’s smooth bite had the calming effect she was looking for, and soon she was back at the beach fronting Crazy Mike’s. She sat in the sand for a while and tried to piece together what she knew.
The conversation with the police officer felt like it was full of holes. Why hadn’t she asked for more information about the overdoses, or the name of the taxi driver whom Reeve had assaulted, or more about the clinic where Reeve may have been taken? She thought about the neighbor and Reeve’s girl, Jade. Was she a chica? Did prostitutes have boyfriends? That seemed weird—but she supposed it was possible. Prostitution was a job like any other, so that didn’t mean a girl couldn’t be in a relationship. The big question was if Reeve had stolen something and then run away, and someone had come looking for it. What would he have stolen? Drugs? Money? Or was the break-in just a run-of-the-mill burglary in an abandoned flat?
By the time she left the beach, it was well past midnight. She wondered if Mel was still at the bar. Would he know about the chica named Jade? Walking back from the beach, she missed the path that took her to the restaurant and found herself in the alley between the hotel and jungle buzzing with insect activity. She was trying to decide if she should continue out to the street and then loop back to Crazy Mike’s front entrance, or retrace her steps when a figure emerged from a path cutting through the jungle. It was a woman, and she was smoothing down her skirt before turning toward the street. Cassidy stepped fast, pulled forward by reckless curiosity. Hadn’t the man across from Reeve used the word “girls”—said that they sometimes “partied with the girls”? Had he meant chicas?
The woman turned sharply before Cassidy could say anything, and looked her up and down, her eyes blank.
“Uh, hey, I’m looking for someone,” she blurted, knowing the woman might just run away.
Sure enough, the woman turned and began walking.
Cassidy switched to Spanish. “Mi hermano. Él ha desaparecido.”
The woman stopped, turned back. “You got money?” she asked in English, her accent more Caribbean than the surfer Ticos.
“Yes,” Cassidy said, feeling in her pockets. She pulled out a wad of bills while calculating how much was left: about ten dollars.
The woman sauntered back and took the money, stuffing it into her bustier-like top. The woman’s eyes were steely black and expressive, and her full lips were a soft, petal pink. She had once been very pretty, Cassidy determined.
“Who is your brother?” she said, crossing her arms.
“His name is Reeve,” she said. “He disappeared two weeks ago. He was living in Tamarindo.” She pulled up the picture of him on her phone and flashed it at the woman.
The woman took a one-second glance at the photo and frowned. “Mebee I see him around,” she said.
“He might have hired . . . er . . . ” she didn’t know how to say it. Was chica a slur?
The woman shrugged again.
“His apartment has been broken into—I was just there—and everything is torn up.”
“Mebee he make bad enemies.”
“He had a chica girlfriend, Jade,” Cassidy said, searching the woman’s face for any sort of recognition, fearing she had offended by using the word.
“I work alone,” the woman said with a hint of pride. “I don’t know this Jade.”
In the time it took Cassidy to lament the fact that she had no picture of Jade, the woman disappeared into the night. Where did these chicas hang out? So they were independent, which meant no pimp, no brothel. How did they find clients? In the bars? Clubs? Cassidy had no clue how such a system functioned—it seemed so repulsive yet the practice was as old as time.
Had Reeve paid a girl to be his girlfriend? Cassidy had a sinking dread that Jade was linked to finding Reeve. But if that was so, then Reeve would never be found. Cassidy wasn’t an investigator. She didn’t know how to slip into the underbelly of society, hunting for people like Jade, searching for clues in Reeve’s trashed apartment. I’m over my head, she thought.
Mel was pouring beers from the tap when Cassidy arrived. The bar crowd had thinned out considerably: a couple was finishing their drinks, a group of rowdy surfers were still going strong, and a big table of kids apparently on a gap year were paying their bill. The lights were low and the candles on the tables flickered softly.
“Buenas tardes, muñeca,” Mel said, his serene eyes flicking her way when she slid onto a stool.
Cassidy’s hot skin did a little shiver. She remembered Eddie’s body dancing close to hers and regretted her lonely room. “Buenas tardes,” she replied.
Mel served up a tray of beers. “Tell them last call,” he told the waitress, who nodded and left with the tray.
“Una bebida?” he asked her, his hands on his hips. He was wearing a black linen shirt and had tucked a pencil behind his ear.
Cassidy shook her head and the motion caused her head to swim. “No, I . . . ” She took a deep breath.
Mel’s eyes had changed to concerned. “Rough day?” he asked.
Cassidy swallowed. She thought about her morning session at La Casita and her evening surf with the Ticos. She remembered Eddie’s hands on her waist and riding high over the water with the view of the mountains in the distance. Then she remembered the police station, the apartment, and the skanky neighbor.
Mel mixed something and placed it in front of her. It was cold and fizzy, with a bleed of something red melting through it.
“Non-alcoholic,” he said, and nodded for her to try it.
She took a tentative sip. “Wow,” she said, taking another. “What’s in it?”
His blue eyes twinkled. “My special rescue recipe.”
“Pomegranate?” she asked. She wanted to jump into her glass. It was that good.
He nodded. “And soda, with a little extra vitamins.”
“Gracias,” she said, enjoying the cold, tangy taste. She sighed. “I went to Reeve’s apartment,” she said.
The waitress from the table of surfers arrived with the bill, and Mel cashed them out.
“Find anything?” Mel asked her when the waitress left with their change.
Cassidy shook her head. “It’s been broken into. The whole place trashed.”
Mel grimaced.
“I met Reeve’s neighbor,” she said, unsure how to ask what she needed to ask. She looked at him, as if for reassurance. He crossed his arms, the twinkle in his eye replaced by a worried, focused gaze. “And he said that he and Reeve sometimes partied with ‘the girls.’ ”
Mel frowned. “Did the neighbor know where he’d gone?”
Cas
sidy shook her head. She was starting to feel tired. “So how . . . ” She gazed into her drink. “These girls, these . . . chicas,” she finished in a quiet voice. “How do people contact them? Where do they hang out?”
“Nowhere you’d want to be. That’s for sure,” Mel replied sternly.
Cassidy remembered the man standing outside of the apartment, smoking. Had he been waiting for the girl who went into the neighbor’s room? She remembered the poster in the police station: Stop Selling Our Children. Had the man been the girl’s father? The thought made her feel sick.
“Whoa, there,” Mel said, and quick as a flash, came around the bar. He was holding something in his hand. “Smell this,” he said.
Cassidy inhaled the strong scent of ginger, and her mind cleared instantly. After another breath, she felt better. She realized that Mel’s hand was on her back.
“Okay?” he said, his body steady and his expression calm.
The gesture washed over her, and she realized that this was what she missed: kindness, compassion, someone who was there to catch her fall. She shoved these thoughts away before they took root, and nodded.
Mel stepped away. He pulled up a stool, and she realized that the bar had closed for the night.
“Reeve had a girlfriend—Jade,” she said. “I think she was a prostitute. Apparently he was really into her.” She looked at Mel. “Do you know how I could find her?” Even as she said it, the task seemed not only impossible but also dreadful.
“Listen,” he said. “Prostitution is legal here, but you don’t want to go around looking for this girl. There’s still a lot of crossover with illegal activity. It’s an industry that makes a lot of money, and anytime you have that in a town like this, you’ll find trouble.” He paused, and seeing the anguish in Cassidy’s eyes, added, “Let me ask instead. I might be able to find out something.”
Cassidy nodded, feeling relieved. She stood, and her legs felt wobbly, but a deep breath helped. A wave broke in the distance, and Cassidy looked out across the bar, which was dark and empty, the candles extinguished.
Mel was still sitting, and he was watching her carefully. She thought of her empty room and its empty bed, her empty heart.
