In Search of Valor

by Gary Corbin

  Matthison removed her glasses to clean them and glanced at Val. “Could it have been later? Say, 10:23?”

  Val held her breath a moment. “Maybe,” she said. “What difference do those three minutes make? The kidnappers took Jada at 9:50, a full half-hour before.”

  “Did Ms. LeMieux share with you what time she was due at the center to pick up Jada?” Matthison said in a condescending tone.

  Val’s stomach churned. Matthison’s question was intended as a trap! “She didn’t,” Val said, “but if I do the math, I’d guess it was 10:15?”

  “Correct. Thank you for confirming that she was late...again.” She put her glasses back on and typed on her keyboard.

  Val watched her work, dumbstruck at her bureaucratic demeanor. “So, that’s it?” she said. “All that matters is closing the case? Not how it affects people?”

  “How it affects the child is my top concern,” Matthison said, her eyes glued to her screen. “All else is secondary.”

  “Really?” Val shook her head in wonder. So clinical. “The only measure of success is whether you’re satisfied with who gets custody of the baby?”

  “Not just who, but the overall care that person can provide,” Matthison said, still typing.

  “Isn’t the child’s mother the best person to provide that care?” Val asked.

  “Most often, but not always.” Tap, tap, tap.

  “That all sounds so...I don’t know, impersonal,” Val said. “What about the child’s happiness? Or Rhonda’s?”

  Matthison pushed her laptop aside and squared off to face Val. “How would I measure happiness, Miss Dawes?” She smiled and folded her hands on the table. “In my line of work, success and failure are difficult, sometimes impossible, to measure. Often we don’t know if we’ve made the right decision for a child for decades—maybe never. Does he or she grow up to be a well-functioning, successful adult? And how would I measure that? Would a different choice have yielded a more satisfactory result? We can’t say for sure. All we have are studies and case histories of what people have tried in the past, and their results. Even those data are incomplete and imperfect. No two children, and no two families, are alike. It’s conjecture, Miss Dawes. Unfortunate, but true.”

  Val took a moment to digest Matthison’s speech. The words all seemed logical and well-supported, but it depressed her. “So, that’s the life of a social worker?” she said. “Uncertain guesswork, with no way of knowing if you’ve made the right choice?”

  Matthison’s lips curled upward into a sad smile. “It’s not all negative,” she said. “We do affect lives, I hope in a positive way. We don’t always get to see it personally. Clients don’t return to our offices to tell us they’ve stayed out of jail or kicked their drug habits, for example. But we learn to observe successes in other ways. Names stop appearing in the system. A family gets by without public assistance. A foster child finds a permanent home. These are our ‘wins’, Miss Dawes. They don’t happen often enough, but when they do, we celebrate them.”

  Val sank back into her chair, a lump rising in her throat. She’d considered social work as an alternative career path, thinking it would give her the chance to better the lives of those who most needed support. In her idealized vision, she’d delight in watching her clients escape their difficult situations and prosper. She’d envisioned that as a more positive approach versus policing, which focused on punishing those who did wrong.

  But Adonna Matthison painted a picture of social work that appeared just as bleak, with even fewer opportunities to witness the beneficial impact of her efforts.

  Now, neither career path offered her hope of achieving the personal and professional satisfaction she sought.

  With that realization, a heavy weight settled over her, and the world became a much darker place.

  Chapter Six

  Val found Rhonda outside, pacing in the parking lot. “No cops and no government are gonna take away my baby,” she shouted over and over. No matter how soothing Val’s tone and words, Rhonda refused to believe that anyone inside the station—especially Adonna Matthison—had her best interests at heart. Nor Jada’s.

  After her meeting with Matthison, Val couldn’t blame her.

  “Your government’s no better than Jamaica’s,” Rhonda said once she stopped yelling. “They do what’s good for them, and nobody else.”

  “What do you want to do, then?” Val said. “How will you find her if you don’t trust the police to help?”

  “I’ll go find Rizzo myself,” Rhonda said. “It can’t be that hard. He isn’t smart enough to hide from me.”

  “But what if it wasn’t Rizzo that took her?” Val said. “You said yourself, he doesn’t even know you’re in Mansfield.”

  “If he doesn’t have her, he’ll help me find her,” Rhonda said. “And God save the bastards when Rizzo finds them. He gets mean when he’s mad.”

  “Let the police and the state help you,” Val said. “They’ve done this before, and—”

  “You know what else they’ve done before?” Rhonda said, shouting again. “Take poor babies from their mothers. Put black people in jail for ‘losing’ their kids. You think the Man is looking out for you? Maybe so, for a white girl. Not for a girl like me!” She jumped in her car and started the engine. Before Val could react, Rhonda’s Ford Focus zoomed out of the parking lot and into traffic.

  Val stared after her for a long moment, then sighed and trudged inside. She knocked on Tanisha Jordan’s office door moments later.

  “Things didn’t go well with Child Services, I hear,” Jordan said. “Where’s Rhonda?”

  “Gone,” Val said. “Apparently, she thinks she can find Jada better on her own.”

  “Oh, hell,” Jordan said, picking up her desk phone. “That’s such a bad idea. Where’s she headed?”

  “To find Rizzo,” Val said. “I’m guessing New Haven.”

  Jordan cursed and punched a few buttons into her phone’s keypad. After a moment, she said into the receiver, “Stork’s left the nest. Yeah, the missing baby case. Did you get her vehicle data, plates, all that? Good. Yeah, put the word out. No, don’t bring her in. Just monitor her and keep me posted. Thanks.” She slammed the phone into its cradle. “That makes things harder. Hey, why didn’t she bring you with her?”

  “I guess she doesn’t trust me, either,” Val said.

  Jordan shot her a rueful smile. “Get used to it,” she said. “If you’re serious about becoming a cop someday, that is.”

  “I had a whole different experience with law enforcement growing up, thanks to my uncle,” she said. “When I think of the police, I picture him. Kind, strong, principled, helpful. No cop ever gave me reason to mistrust them.”

  “Yeah, well,” Jordan said, “your experience is a lot different than most people of color. I get Rhonda’s paranoia, to some extent. Growing up, I felt it too.”

  “But you got over it, right?” Val said. “I mean, look at you now.”

  Jordan snorted. “Yeah, I got over that paranoia, only to replace it with a different kind.” She shook her head. “Think long and hard about this profession, Ms. Dawes. It’s often not friendly to women.”

  “In what way?” Val sunk into Jordan’s guest chair. “If you don’t mind sharing.”

  Jordan narrowed her eyes and pointed to her office door. Val closed it and waited.

  “Police work is a man’s game,” Jordan said. “At least, that’s how the men feel, and in some ways, they’re right. It’s grueling, physical, and tough. Have you ever been in a fight?”

  Val shrugged. “Not per se. But I trained in jiu jitsu, black belt. So I’ve taken a few punches.”

  “But not from someone who meant you actual harm.” Jordan’s computer beeped, and she turned back to read the screen.

  “Well...” Val’s voice quivered and dropped to a whisper. “I have been...assaulted before.”

  The large man stood over her, his heavy breathing filling the room over the distorted sounds of
the TV blaring downstairs. He reached out and grabbed the covers of her bed. She tried to scream, but no sound would come—and nobody was home to hear her. The man’s face contorted into a cruel, sickening smile as he ripped the blankets off of her—

  Val shuddered at the memory. She had no intention of sharing that story with the detective—or anyone.

  Jordan, however, seemed not to have heard Val’s response or noticed her shutdown reaction. “Sooner or later,” she said, “you’ll get into it with a guy twice your size whose momma never taught him not to hit girls. Trust me, punches hurt, Dawes. They hurt a lot.”

  Val shuddered again. It hurt to get assaulted, too, in that unique way that men assault women to assert their power, the dominance of their gender—

  “But that’s not the worst part,” Jordan continued. “To me, the worst is how the male cops treat you. Not all, but enough of them.”

  Val cleared her throat and shook off the awful memory. “That’s mostly the senior guys, though, right?” Val said. “The old guard?”

  “Hah!” Jordan said. “I suppose, in general, the old coots are more traditional in that regard. But I’m shocked every day by what even the younger guys get away with.”

  “They harass you?” Val asked, surprised. Despite her surprise, she was glad to focus on anything other than her childhood trauma.

  Jordan scoffed. “If only they were that overt. Sure, sometimes they’ll pinch your butt or crack a crude joke, but those are the exceptions. Usually it’s more subtle than that. They don’t trust that you’re big or tough enough, that you can do the job as well as they can. You won’t be ‘one of the guys,’ ever. They’ll pass you over for opportunities, for promotions. After a while, you wonder if it’s all worth it.”

  Val sat up straighter in her chair. “Well?” she said. “Is it?”

  Jordan smiled at her. “For me, it has been,” she said. “But I’ll tell you the truth. I came into it with a chip on my shoulder, wanting to prove I was every bit as good as they were. I worked twice as hard and took twice as much crap as they ever would. Maybe four times as much, to make up for me not being white and male. But I also had...let’s just say, I was extra motivated to get out of my situation, compared to most people.”

  Val exhaled, for the first time realizing she’d been holding her breath during Jordan’s speech. “If you had to do it over again,” she said, “would you?”

  Jordan stared at her for several seconds. “I don’t know, Dawes,” she said. “I’m glad I did, because I’ve learned a lot. We need women in the police ranks to educate these fools. But would I want to repeat all that I’ve been through?” She shook her head. “Not on your life.”

  Val left Jordan’s office in a deep funk, and not only about the sadness she felt for Rhonda and the strain in their nascent friendship. Adonna Matthison had soured her impression of social work, and now Tanisha Jordan had done the same for law enforcement. Val’s career options seemed cloudier than ever—and so far, she’d done nothing to help Rhonda get her daughter back.

  MINUTES AFTER VALORIE Dawes left the detective’s office, a knock interrupted Jordan’s quiet concentration at her keyboard. A tall, white-haired uniformed male cop pushed the door open a moment later. “Detective,” he said, “A Mr. Mulholland is here to speak with you.”

  “Show him in.” Jordan’s pulse quickened. Finally, someone might offer significant information about LeMieux’s past other than Rhonda herself. Asher Mulholland could help fill in key details and verify others. And while his showing up at a police station voluntarily reduced the odds of his being the perpetrator, she couldn’t rule it out just yet.

  Rhonda had described him as tall and athletic, but that didn’t prepare Jordan for the fine specimen of manhood that strolled into her office moments later. Jordan estimated Mulholland at six-five, 220 or 230, with a muscular build and a confident grace in his movements. “Have a seat,” she said after introducing herself and shaking his hand. He held on with a firm but not crushing grip and graced her with a shy, boyish smile.

  “I expected Rhonda would be here,” he said. “Is there any word about Jada?”

  “We’re making progress,” Jordan said, her standard phrase no matter what state her case was in. “Mr. Mulholland, where were you between nine and eleven o’clock this morning?”

  “At my office in Hartford—Constitution Finance and Equity—meeting with clients,” Mulholland said. “The firm’s receptionist can provide confirmation. But you don’t think I’m responsible, do you?”

  Jordan shrugged. “You’ve seen a bit of trouble in your time, Mr. Mulholland. Care to explain?”

  He took the seat she’d offered and expelled a loud breath of air. “I was a fighter as a kid,” he said. “Competitive boxer, but also, outside of the ring. Dudes in the ’hood often challenged guys like me, see if we’re as tough on the street as in the gym.” He shook his head. “Once I got carried away and hurt a guy. I did my time and cleaned myself up. My record should show that.” His eyes glowed with a fiery intensity.

  She looked away before he did, a little ashamed of her assumptions. Keep an open mind, she reminded herself. “We can’t rule anything out yet,” she said. “What is your current relationship with Rhonda LeMieux?”

  “We have no current relationship to describe.” Sadness etched the corners of his voice. “We dated a few times, but I guess the chemistry never happened...at least for her. I like Rhonda very much.”

  Jordan nodded. Besides his handsome face and impressive build, his soft-spoken manner and soothing baritone put her right at ease. She had difficulty understanding why Rhonda wouldn’t have kept dating him. “And Jada?”

  He stared at her with a blank expression, then recognition dawned. “Her daughter? Sad to say, I’ve never met her,” he said. “Our relationship never progressed to where Rhonda felt it appropriate.”

  Jordan nodded. So far, it all lined up with Rhonda’s version of the story. “What can you tell me about Marty Rizzo?”

  Mulholland’s eyes darkened. “Rizzo crashed our first date and demanded visitation rights to their child. He was rude and obnoxious, and I don’t see what Rhonda saw in him.”

  Jordan laughed. “I meet a lot of those guys in my line of work,” she said.

  He smiled and seemed to relax. Good. “I bet you do,” he said. “Not so much in mine.”

  “And what do you do for Constitution Finance?” Jordan blushed, hoping her question didn’t come across as too personal. Dammit, she had a boyfriend, a nice guy who put up with all the crap that a policewoman brought home. She resolved to put up a stronger fight to resist Mulholland’s looks and charm.

  “I help people manage individual investment accounts,” he said. “I met Rhonda as a client, when she inherited a little money after her mother died.”

  “So you know her net worth,” Jordan said, in a tone that came off more accusatory than she intended.

  He surrendered a wry smile. “Her bank balance wouldn’t justify risking life in prison over. Mr. Rizzo, however, seems to have a different impression.”

  “How so?” Jordan took a few notes. This was getting interesting.

  Mulholland frowned. “When he showed up at our dinner date, he accused Rhonda of stealing Jada’s inheritance, which he claimed was his, as the baby’s father,” he said. “Never mind how ridiculous that sounds. The sum of money we’re talking wouldn’t buy a house in the suburbs, much less the wealth he imagined. I don’t know where he came up with this crazy idea that her mother left her millions. The woman taught fourth grade, for heaven’s sake. What little remained after her battle with cancer went into a trust for Jada and a small stipend for Rhonda and her brother. And when I say small, I mean a few thousand dollars.”

  “Was that your only interaction with Mr. Rizzo?” Jordan asked, feeling like the interview might wrap up too soon. But eye candy or not, she couldn’t afford to waste time—hers, or Asher’s.

  “No,” Mulholland said, his voice dropping in pitch. “
I never told Rhonda this, but Rizzo stalked me for a while. One night, he jumped me and threatened to kick the hell out of me if I didn’t stay away from her.”

  “Did you?”

  He grimaced. “It was all moot. Rhonda had already broken things off by then. He called me a liar, started pushing me around a little.”

  “How did that work out for him?” Jordan asked, grinning. “Let me guess. Unlike you, Rizzo never boxed competitively.”

  He laughed. “Mr. Rizzo has a glass jaw. But I won’t be sharing the details of how I found that out, Detective.”

  She grew serious again. “You wouldn’t have current contact information for Mr. Rizzo, do you?” she asked.

  Mulholland reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Number one on my Blocked Caller list. I’d only be too happy to share his contact information with you.”

  Writing down the details, Detective Jordan celebrated inside. Finally, something broke her way.

  Chapter Seven

  Val made it to the last hour of soccer practice and ran twice as hard as usual—even for her—to make up for what she’d missed. Coach Hillebrand waved off Val’s explanation but assigned her to scrimmage with the second team. Afterwards, the coach ordered Val to take an extra dozen laps after practice, which she did without complaint. After Val showered, the coach smacked her butt with a towel and jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

  “Hurry, Dawes,” she said. Hyperactive as always, Hillebrand’s 5’8” athletic frame appeared to bounce in place while she stood. “I’ve got dinner plans. And some woman by the name of Rhonda is outside.”

  “Did she say anything about her daughter being found?” Val asked, heart racing. She kept her breathing even, not wanting to inhale too much of the locker room’s sweaty, fungal aromas.

  Hillebrand scowled and ran her fingers through her spiky, blue-and-white hair. “I’m not your social secretary, Dawes,” she said with a growl. “Is this the one who made you late today?”

  Val nodded. “Sorry, coach, I—”

  “Save it.” Hillebrand fluttered her hands toward the lockers. “Come on, get going. I don’t have all night.”