by Julie Hyzy
Casimir returned, still wearing his brown slippers. They whished against the tile floor, signaling his re-entry to the kitchen. Taller than Mabel, he was slim enough to make the gray pants and blue shirt he wore look like they’d been hung on clothes rack, and none too carefully. A set of keys, at least thirty of them, were attached to a silver ring, with a long matching chain that dangled down. He searched for the right key with intent; there was some method to his organization, apparently, and within seconds he singled out one. Blue eyes met mine from under bushy gray brows. “You come too?”
“Sure,” I said. Like there would be any way I’d stay back.
Casimir knocked at Sophie’s door, almost as hard as I had. He called out to her in Polish, asking if she was all right. Waiting a beat, he knocked again, then announced that he would come in, unless he heard from her.
He handled it all in a polite, no-nonsense way. Dad-like, almost, and I wondered if he had any idea of Sophie’s true employment.
Casimir was not the kind of man who changed facial expression often. After he unlocked the door, he creaked it open a little, then wider to allow us into the kitchen. We both stood, looking at one another, and I realized at that point, I didn’t quite know what to do. I dipped my pinky finger into the abandoned coffee in the mug, but there was so little in the bottom that the coldness didn’t surprise me.
Casimir gestured toward the bedrooms. “You look,” he said.
I headed for Sophie’s room, noticing at once that the door was shut all the way. Chances were she was sleeping.
Wrapping my hand around the glass knob that looked like an oversized diamond, I rapped on the door and whispered Sophie’s name.
Nothing.
Casimir took a couple of steps backward, which was curious. I wondered what he was afraid of, then realized that the altercation he and Mabel overheard earlier might have been much more violent than I originally assumed.
With a sense of urgency, I twisted the diamond and pushed my way in.
The room was almost exactly as it had been when I visited Sophie the day Matthew died. She was in the bed, but had her back toward me. The shaking of her shoulders gave me instant relief. Losing a loved one, particularly when one feels responsible can often push people to the brink, and I’d been worried. I let out the breath I’d been holding, then reached out to touch her shoulder.
“Sophie,” I said, in a soft voice, “it’s Alex.”
Her silent cries transformed into a wracking moan as her body froze for a moment before beginning to shake. Casimir, who’d shuffled up to the doorway to peer in, gave a quick nod, as though he’d seen enough and everything was all right now. He waved a hand at me to indicate that he was going back upstairs. A second later, I heard Sophie’s back door shut with a click.
She resisted my attempts to turn her toward me, at first.
“Sophie, come on,” I urged.
Her words were muffled, unclear, like she was speaking to me through a mouthful of marbles. In Polish she begged me to go away and leave her alone.
I had few experiences with grief in my life, but this reaction was ringing alarm bells. Sure, everyone handled death differently, but something was wrong.
Grabbing her right shoulder, I squeezed. In warning, I supposed. An attempt to get her to turn of her own volition one last time. She fought me again, but with less resolve this time.
With effort, I turned her to face me.
It took a few seconds for the full realization to sink in.
“Sophie,” I said. And though my voice was soft, the words sounded like a scream to my own ears. “What happened?”
Despite the scant light, her injuries were obvious. Her face had purpled and was swollen around her mouth and along the entire left side of her head. Dried blood from her nose and a cut crusted her lip; she’d bled all over her pillowcase. Her left arm was discolored and she held it against herself in a way that let me know she was in pain.
Her blond hair was plastered to the side of her face, a combination of blood and tears locking the tresses, as though some four-year-old had just made a doll picture and glued the strands of yarn in the wrong places. She spoke in English.
“I go see Lisa,” she said, her voice cracking. I strained to hear every word. “I tell her I finished. I no work any more.”
Sophie licked at the open sore on her lips before continuing.
“When I come back … Rodero here. At my apartment. He wait for me.”
Chapter Fifteen
“No hospital!”
Though battered and bruised, Sophie maintained enough strength to sit up in her bed. She let me look at her arm. It didn’t appear to be broken, but I was no doctor. She swore it was merely bruised, that I shouldn’t worry, but what broke my heart most was the way she kept her face slightly askance as she spoke. As if to keep me from seeing the damage done. I wondered if she’d been beaten before.
I tried repeatedly to get her to agree to have her injuries looked at, just in case. But Sophie was adamant. With no other options, I soaked a few washcloths and brought them, dripping, from the bathroom to help her clean herself up. She patted at the blood on her lips, and the side of her face, and I winced every time she did when the terrycloth stung her raw skin.
She shook her head as she worked, speaking in Polish, so quickly and so quietly that I had trouble following her. She lamented the fact that she’d ever been lulled into this life. She mumbled between sobs, about how she should have listened to Matthew. She called herself every dirty name in the book and cried about how ashamed she was.
And now, she seemed to believe she couldn’t get away. Now, when she finally realized what a mistake she’d made, she was stuck in this life, for as long as her body and her looks held out. And she called out to Matthew, and she knew he didn’t hear her.
I listened for a long time. The pale light that brightened the room when I first got there, now nearly dissolved in the late afternoon. Shadowy, the room was dim enough to warrant turning on a lamp, but I sensed that doing so might make Sophie more self-conscious.
We talked in the dark. Despite her many pleas for me to go home, I knew that there was no way I could leave her here in this condition, despite my belief that Rodero wasn’t going to be coming back for a while.
“Did you tell Helena?” I asked in Polish.
“Oh, no!” Sophie said. “Rodero would go after her if I did. That’s why you shouldn’t even be here. If he finds out that I told anyone, he’ll kill me.”
“Then there won’t be a next time. Come home with me,” I said. “At least let me keep an eye on you tonight. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“If I leave here, Alex, where do you think they’ll look for me?” Sophie’s mind was still working; I took that as a good sign. “They’ll ask Helena, but she can only tell them the truth, that she doesn’t know. And then what? They’ll come to you. They’ll come to your house. No.”
* * * * *
“Alex? Twice in as many days? Should I take that to mean that the Holy Spirit has moved you in some unusual way? Or—?” Father Trip’s jovial greeting was cut short. Undoubtedly by the look on my face.
I caught him at home. His rectory, a converted red brick bungalow, was much smaller than the imposing structure Father Bruno lived in, though both had been built in the same era. Father Trip answered the doorbell moments after I rang it, which was good, because leaving Sophie alone in the car unnerved me.
She was crouched down in the passenger seat, her eyes wide and terrified, looking even bluer than normal against the angry purple bruising of her face. I’d pulled to the curb and hurried around to head up toward Father Trip’s, despite her protestations not to leave her alone. The poor girl shook, holding her hands tight together, jammed up close to her chest. I assured her that I wouldn’t let the car out of my sight.
About to swing the door wide to admit me, Father Trip halted his movement, asking, “What? What happened?”
“I need a favor,” I said.
I watched his eyes flick toward the car. “What happened?” he said again.
“Do you trust me?” I asked, hoping I knew the answer.
The two-second delay in his response didn’t seem to indicate hesitation. More like he needed to gear himself up to accept whatever information I was about to impart. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
“There’s a girl in my car. A … friend. And she’s in serious trouble. For reasons I can’t explain right now, I can’t take her home, nor to a battered women’s shelter. There can’t be any attention drawn to her.”
Except for another quick glance in the direction of my car, Father Trip kept his eyes on me, his face devoid of expression as he waited for me to continue.
“I know that you’ve helped people in the past. You must have connections. And she needs to be hidden. For a little while.” My brain took a moment to catch up with my actions. I wondered how I’d play Sophie’s disappearance to Lisa, should the subject come up. And I had no doubt that it would. Coupling that with my decision to cancel the scheduled doctor’s appointment could make me suspect in their eyes. I thought of Sophie’s poor swollen face and my stomach churned. For both of us.
All of a sudden Father Trip looked old to me. As though the smiling lines around his eyes I’d grown used to all these years had suddenly become age-telling wrinkles. He nodded, very slowly and I could almost hear him weighing my words against his need to caution me about my involvement here. He rubbed his face, and the late afternoon stubble caused a rasping sound at the movement in the quiet chill of the air.
“Bring her in,” he finally said, tilting his chin that direction. The simple imperative gave me immense relief.
I trotted back to the car, then bit my lip when I saw that I’d startled her by opening the car door. “Come on, Sophie,” I said, “A friend of mine will help.”
* * * * *
Jordan caught me by the arm as I made my way through the hub the following morning. “Bass is on the warpath.” That didn’t seem like news to me, but it obviously did to Jordan. A couple of the other administrative assistants were watching us, their able fingers poised above their keyboards, their body language telling me that they wanted in on this conversation. Okay, they got my interest now.
“What’s up?”
Jordan looked both ways, just like the criminals do in old movies, and steered me directly to my office. Her brown fingers held my arm with the sort of grip that gave me the impression that if someone, Bass perhaps, were to step out into the hub at that moment, she’d pull me under the nearest desk.
Shutting the door behind us, she tilted her head and wagged a finger at me. “You gotta do something,” she said, her brown eyes blazing. “Bass is pulling the Milla story. Says that we’re gonna be outclassed by Up Close Issues anyway. Because Fenton didn’t do squat on it. And all he’s been doing is bitching and moaning that you screwed him over.” She glanced toward the window that separated my office from the hub and peeked out through the white sheers, “And now Bass sees you gone for the past couple of days, and thinks that you’re messin’ with him …”
She let the thought hang.
Just what I needed. To have to hold Bass’s hand today. I swung my purse toward the credenza behind my desk and flung it into a corner. “Shit,” I said.
Jordan put a hand on one hip and sauntered closer to my desk. “He’s making life living hell around here, lemme tell you. Even made two of the girls cry today.” She shook her head. “Mary and Vivian.”
“There you are,” Bass said, bounding into the office without knocking. Jordan jumped at the noise as the door hit the rubber stopper at the wall and bounced back to close. Shooting me a look of compassion, she eased herself out.
“Bass.”
“Where the hell have you been?”
His fury broadcast itself through the twin tendons that stood out, bright red, on his neck, and from the vein that popped out right in the center of his forehead. Flustered, and spewing complaints at me that ranged from my recent absence, to Fenton’s inept handling of the Milla story, which made me gleeful though I kept my face straight, he got so excited talking, that little bubbles of spit gathered at the corners of his mouth.
I knew better than to interrupt. And I knew better than to sit down.
His short body nearly danced with barely contained frustration. “I should never have told you about the week off for the political story. You just thought it was free ride time, didn’t you? Taking advantage of the station’s money to go get your hair done at some fancy salon. Skipping out on the work. Fenton could’ve used some help here, but did you give him any? No.”
Bass held a manila folder stuffed with papers in his hand. He waved it up toward my face for a moment, then dropped his arm as he began to pace. The rug in my office had been there since the fifties, short-napped and a non-descript gray-brown. It never wore out, although Bass was giving it his best shot right now. He’d left his suitcoat elsewhere, and his shirt had puffed out, as though he’d been doing lots of overhead work and had forgotten to tuck it back in. It bloused at the waistline, like a rumpled balloon, making him look much wider than he was.
As he paced, his voice quieted. Just a bit.
I still waited.
“What am I going to do?” he asked. Rhetorical, I waited for my moment. “They give me this idiot kid who can’t find his own asshole with two hands and a map, and they want me to babysit. They let all the veterans go, the people who knew what they were doing …”
He had his back to me at this point, but I raised an eyebrow at his comment. Almost as if I’d called out, he looked over. “Okay, okay. Not all the veterans. You and David know what you’re doing. I don’t know about this Armstrong fellow yet.”
At the far point of his pacing he turned, set his hands on his hips, still holding the manila folder, now nearly bent in half at his waist. He looked out the window and I watched a forced calm come over his features. He shook his head—frowned at me. “What am I going to do?”
“Have a seat,” I said.
As though all the life had drained out of him, he sat. The look on his face was a combination of anger and tentative hope. I knew he expected me to solve all his problems on the very story he’d taken me off of none too ceremoniously. And I knew I could do it, too.
But not without a price. I was going to get full cooperation, whether Bass realized it at the moment or not.
He scratched the top of his head with the tips of his fingers. More of a stalling move, than an answer to an itch, I’d wager.
“Okay,” I said. “I have some leads on a story. But let me call William in here,” I said, lifting the phone. “I think maybe the three of us need to discuss this one anyway.”
“Is it a good story?” he asked as I hung up. The tone of his voice was pitiful. Hopeful and wary at the same time.
I didn’t answer, choosing instead to ask Jordan to hold all calls except for any from Father Trip or Sophie. Bass raised his eyebrows at the mention of the priest’s name. “Patience,” I said.
“Remain faithful to your regulation,” he whispered. Barely moving his lips, he spoke so quietly, I almost didn’t hear.
“What?”
His eyes, having wandered away along with his mind, apparently, snapped back to meet mine with apprehension. “What?”
“What did you just say about regulations?”
Bass tried to shrug the sheepish look off his face. “Nothing. Just something I need to remember when things get tense.”
I repeated the phrase to myself in my head. Remain faithful to your regulation. Sounded like an ad for a laxative. “And that helps you?” I asked.
“Just drop it.”
William knocked, then came in, easing into the unoccupied seat across from me.
Bass’s lips moved, though no words came out. It occurred to me that he performed some sort of daily affirmation, or repetition of a mantra to help calm himself. Interesting. He didn’t strike me as a new-age touchy-feely
sort of fellow.
I glanced over at William, who seemed to be catching the same vibes from Bass that I was, based on the guarded look on his face. “All right,” I said to Bass, “remember that story I mentioned to you the other day?”
He nodded, fractionally. Tension emanated from him like heat. Sitting at the edge of his seat, his feet were firmly planted on the ground, but his one leg kept bouncing, and his eyes shot back and forth between me and William, like a wary animal’s, waiting for a strike.
I took a deep breath. “The hair care story—”
“This is about the friggin’ hair story? For crying out loud, Alex, you knew we agreed to that to shut Gabriela up. It’s filler, for crissake.”
Both my hands shot up, index fingers pointed skyward. “Didn’t I tell you to have patience?” Bass nodded. He was angry, I could tell, but at least he was silent.
In periphery I saw William’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Here’s where we are,” I began.
I told him about my ulterior motive in visiting Hair to Dye For, about Matthew’s disappearance and subsequent murder. I cautioned him that I was basing much on speculation and conjecture, but that things were beginning to add up and that I had a gut level feel that I was following the Milla story, after all. That I’d bring a whole new angle to the exposé and I told him, in detail, about my undercover antics with Lisa and the alleged prostitution ring. And I told them about Sophie, safe, at least for now.
He sat back when I was finished, his face and body relaxing for the first time since he’d come in. “How soon?”
“Bass …”
William cut in. “There’s a lot here, and Alex and I haven’t even had a chance to work through the next steps.”
Just then my cell phone rang out from the depths of my purse. I pulled it out, and glanced at the Caller ID. Lisa Knowles. “Quiet,” I said in a terse enough voice that they both silenced at once.
