by Lonni Lees
She was relieved when daylight came.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
So, Who’s the Bad Guy?
“I want Iverson with me,” Maggie said to the Captain.
“He’s desk-bound. Period.”
“I’m close to giving our John Doe a name,” she said, holding the morgue shots of alias Delbert Frimel. “I’m going to question the girl again. And show her the photos. I think he’s her missing husband.”
“Why the photos? Why not just bring her in to I.D. him?”
“She’s scared. She refuses to leave her room.”
“So drag her in.”
“I can get more this way. At least for now.”
“So why do you need the rookie along?”
“A male officer gets more respect. Sad but true, but it will give her the message we mean business. He’s good backup and I trust him more than I ever trusted Jerry Montana.”
“Maggie, if you think the situation might be dangerous…”
“No, she’s just a scared little rabbit. But a good scout is always prepared.”
“The last thing we need is another headline.”
“Cop catches rabbit? I doubt it would make front page.”
The two of them went back and forth and back again. Maggie wasn’t about to give up and the Captain was weakening.
“You’re annoying,” he said. “Go ahead and take the kid with you. Now get out of here and don’t you dare make any more trouble for me than I already have.”
* * * *
The weather couldn’t make up its mind. Dark clouds were building up in the distance, again threatening rain. Once it reached Tucson it could give birth to anything from a few drops to spike the humidity or a full-blown downpour to wash pick-up trucks into ravines. Either way, it was getting ready to do something. It was just a matter of when and what.
Maggie Reardon and Aaron Iverson were parked in the lot of the Pink Flamingo Motel. Maggie wore street clothes with her badge as a necklace. Aaron sat next to her looking official with his flashy badge pinned to his uniform. She filled him in on yesterday’s encounter with Darlene. Earlier they had observed the young man from down the hall enter her room. Even if he was just for window dressing, Maggie was glad she’d brought Aaron along. Almost as glad as he was to be rescued from the computer.
“When we go in, stand there looking tough,” she said. “And watch my back. I don’t know what to expect when she sees these pictures but I’m positive, no almost positive, that she holds the key. The description was spot on.”
A taxi pulled into the space next to them. A woman with grey streaks in her hair, who looked just on the kinder side of fifty, got out and paid the driver. She wore practical shoes and her plain green house dress clashed with her bloodshot eyes. She held one small carry-on suitcase that looked like it was making its first trip. The taxi left, but instead of heading to check-in she stood looking at the building. Her eyes scanned the doors until they landed on the one she was searching for. She inhaled deeply and squared her shoulders, then headed straight for Room Twelve.
Aaron reached for the door handle and Maggie stopped him.
“Let’s sit tight,” she said.
The woman knocked on the door. It was opened by the young man. He took her suitcase, ushered her in, slammed the door shut.
“Surprise,” said Aaron. “If those two are lovers, then what’s a middle-aged woman doing in the mix? She doesn’t smell like a drug dealer, that’s for sure.”
“And an unlikely choice for a threesome. It’s getting interesting, don’t you think?”
The two sat for several more minutes, then exited the car.
Their knocks on the door of Room Twelve went unanswered.
Aaron knocked again, this time harder.
The young man opened the door. He wore Levi’s. His blue shirt pocket held a glass case and a pencil. He also wore a look of surprise mixed with suspicion.
“We don’t want any,” he said rudely, attempting to shut the door. Maggie blocked it with her foot like a Fuller Brush Man refusing to take no for an answer.
“A few questions,” said Aaron.
“You’re unwanted here.”
“You might find here more comfortable. Maybe not. Our interrogation room is better lit.”
He held the door as the two officers entered. Darlene sat in her usual spot in the middle of the bed, staring at the blank television screen. It was as if she wasn’t there, oblivious to her surroundings and the people who filled the room. She didn’t look up, just sat there staring at nothing and clutching a ragged teddy bear.
“There’s nothing we can’t handle ourselves,” said the older woman. Maggie looked into her stern eyes. They were the identical shade of blue as Darlene’s. As well as the young man’s. How had she not noticed that they shared the same features? Interchangeable noses and eyes and hair color. The family resemblance was a dead giveaway.
“My sister isn’t up to talking,” he said.
“What’s your name?” asked Maggie.
“David,” he said. “I’m David Fitzgerald.”
“Fitzgerald,” whispered Darlene (or was it Darla?) “Fitzgerald. Fitz. Fitz. Fitz.”
“And I’m Mrs. Fitzgerald. Louise. I’m their mother and this is family business. We don’t need strangers sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”
“Delbert Frimel. Does that ring a bell?” asked Maggie.
The mother and son looked confusedly at each other, then shrugged.
“Del,” said Darlene, never taking her eyes off the televison. “Del.”
They were like watching a clan of brainless, stumbling zombies.
“Darla,” said David. “Everything’s okay now.”
The mother crossed the room and sat on the bed next to her daughter, putting her arm around her shoulder and pulling her close. “I never thought I’d see you again, baby. I’m here now and you’re safe.”
There was no reaction from her daughter.
“You’re breaking my heart, Darla. You’re just breaking your mother’s heart.”
Maggie slid the morgue photos from their envelope and handed them to the brother. She was afraid if Darla saw them first the room might explode. He looked, then tossed them onto the floor.
“Does he look familiar?”
“Yea, I know him,” he sneered.
“Well?”
The mother looked at one of the upturned photos that had landed on the floor near the bed, let out a derisive snort, then interrupted.
“As soon as he was old enough to get a driver’s license, David left in search of his sister. He never gave up. His heart told him she was alive. That she was out there somewhere and he was determined to find her. David loves his little Darla. It damn near broke our hearts when she went missing.”
“She didn’t go missing Mama, she was stolen. Go ahead, tell them.”
“Some things are too shameful to put words to.”
“It’s time,” said Maggie.
“I opened her bedroom door and I caught him dead to rights.”
“Go on.”
“I ran out of the room. I was dialing the police when he hit me over the head with something. By the time I came to he was gone. And he’d taken Darla with him.”
“The police never found them, but I suspect they didn’t look very hard.” David started pacing the small room. “It was her father that took her, not a stranger. And women make those accusations sometimes, just to get the upper hand, you know? I don’t think they took it seriously. He was her father and you can’t really steal your own flesh and blood.”
“His real name?” asked Aaron.
“Don. Don Fitzgerald.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I’ve been searching for years, but they were always one step ahead. Dear
old dad talked about California sunshine a lot, so I figured they headed west. He always hated Vermont winters, but I don’t know anybody that likes snow, do you? At least here you don’t have to shovel the sunshine. You’re lucky.” He paused to take a breath. “Do you know the first thing she said to me once I convinced her I was her brother? She’d forgotten she even had one. She said that I must be married to Mama now. Can you imagine? How freakin’ twisted is that? My father had told her that when little girls grew up they married their daddies and little boys grew up to marry their mommies. Hell, she was only seven when he took her. God only knows how long things had been going on before that. He painted her with his own ugly filth. He brainwashed her until she didn’t know anything except what he told her.
“My husband is missing,” said Darla.
“Just stop it, Darla,” said David. “He’s not your husband!”
Darla looked over at the photos that were strewn across the floor. She sat upward, dropping her teddy bear as she jumped over her mother and fell to the floor. She grasped one of the photos and stared at it, then held it closer to her heart than she’d been holding the teddy bear.
“Del? Is that my Del?”
“He’s better off gone,” said the mother.
“You’re lying,” she said, crawling back onto the center of the bed. Her mother reached for her. “Don’t touch me! Del told me the world is full of danger and liars and I should only trust him. He protected me. He loved me, he said so.”
“He was the liar, Darla. He filled your head with lies. I love you the real way.”
“My husband loves me!” she said to her mother. Then looking up at her brother, “Are you the monster? Are you the one who did this to him?”
“I love you. I set you free.” H glanced at the cops then took a self-protective step backwards. There wasn’t far to go in that small room without hitting a wall.
“Liars, you’re both liars,” she screamed. Then something flipped a switch behind her eyes and they went dark. She reached over and picked up the remote from the night stand and pressed the button. “It’s time for cartoons now,” she said, as if the events of the past several minutes had never happened.
“David, we need to go downtown,” said Maggie.
He took another backwards step.
“No,” he said. “I have to stay with Darla.”
He reached into the pocketed glass case and pulled something out. Quicker than a flash he charged Maggie, his arm held over his head like Tony Perkins in the shower scene from Psycho. She tried to block him as he stabbed downward with the ice pick. It missed it’s mark but not before it tore across her shoulder, ripping through her blouse and drawing blood. She lunged forward, throwing him off balance and knocking him to the ground. Aaron flew across the room and joined the tackle. He knelt next to her, cuffing a struggling David as Maggie held him down full weight.
“Looks like we found our killer,” she said. “And the murder weapon is our bonus.” She and Aaron hoisted David to a standing position. Aaron pushed him against the wall and Maggie pulled a clear plastic bag out of her pocket, using a tissue to lift the ice pick and drop it into the bag. “And I’ll bet that traces of Daddy Fitzgerald’s blood are still on it.”
“You can’t tell me he didn’t deserve what he got,” said David.
Maggie Reardon was hard put to disagree with him.
“You’re bleeding, Maggie,” said Aaron.
“I’ll put a band-aid on it later.”
“You’re gonna need more than a band-aid.”
By now the mother had risen from the bed and stood before them, feet planted firmly on the dingy carpet.
“You can’t take him,” she said. “You can’t take my baby.”
Aaron Iverson was reading David his Miranda Rights as he led him towards the door.
“Do you understand your right to remain silent?” asked Aaron.
But David Fitzgerald kept right on talking. He told them he was justified in shoving that ice pick into his father’s ear and tossing his body into the javelina enclosure. He said he’d have done worse if he could have. His little sister was hurt and the punishment fit the crime. He offered no regrets and no apologies and Maggie didn’t blame him, not one bit. Once again she found herself drifting into that grey area that lived somewhere between right and wrong. But this time she refused to get involved. This time she’d listen to the Captain’s advice. She was a cop, not a social worker. Her job was to apprehend him and book him. The rest was up to judge and jury. The victim was more of a bad guy than the one she was hauling off to jail. Next time she wanted to collar a guy who was bad to the bone. Erasing those grey areas would make her job easier.
Darla sat in bed, her focus on the cartoons, oblivious to the drama unfolding before her.
“I just found my one baby. I can’t lose the other one,” the mother begged. “Please, please don’t take him. Don’t do this to us. Haven’t we been through enough?”
Darla looked up at the detective.
“My husband is missing,” she said. “Will you help me find him?” She picked up the remote, turned her attention to the cartoons and jacked up the volume.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Fitzgerald, but right now there’s a seven-year-old girl who’s in desperate need of your help.” Maggie handed Mrs. Fitzgerald her card. “You can find us here.”
The woman stood silent as Maggie Reardon and Aaron Iverson walked through the door with her only son. She watched through the motel room window as they shoved him into the back seat of their car and drove away. A few drops of rain made a crooked pattern as they hit the glass and slid down the motel room window. The pattern repeated itself as salty tears quietly fell from Mrs. Fitzgerald’s eyes and down her aging face. Woody Woodpecker was laughing. Then a commercial came on. An ad for sugar coated breakfast cereal with a happy cartoon face on the box. She walked over to the dresser and picked up the fresh bag of animal cookies that David had brought for his sister. She sat down on the bed next to her little girl and tore it open, holding it in front of her as if it were a peace offering.
“I should have known, but I didn’t. And I’m sorry,” she said. “Here sweetheart, why don’t you have a few of these? You must be getting hungry.”
Darla reached into the bag, removed a handful of pink and white cookies and ate them one by one, saving the white ones for last, just as she’d always done. She picked up Mr. Muggles, holding the teddy bear close as she turned off the television and inched her body down the mattress. She hesitated, then lay her head on her mother’s lap.
“It’s time for my nap now,” she said.
And she fell asleep.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Haven
It had taken some coaxing, but Maggie Reardon convinced Carlos to join her for a night out. He’d spent his life in the mini-mart long enough and his nephew was more than willing to hold down the fort in his absence. Gentleman that he was, Carlos had insisted on picking her up at her front door. They arrived at The Mosaic Gallery arm in arm. What better place for the public debut of her friend Carlos and his shiny new teeth? It was reception night.
And it was Barbara Atwell’s welcome home.
The gallery rooms were packed with familiar faces as well as new ones. Some came out of loyalty, others out of curiosity, but the results were the same. Sales were flying off the walls and an air of excitement filled the rooms. The first thing that caught her eye was a large abstract in shades of white on white. There was no mistaking that the artist was Misty Waters, the rape victim to whom she’d suggested contacting The Center Against Sexual Assault. But there was something different about her painting this time. In the upper right corner was a splash of color. A washed out soft blue, but it was color. Standing next to it, the normally introverted Misty was smiling and talking, wrapped in her usual monochromatic whites but with a pale blue flower in her hair and a touch of bl
ue eye shadow. She had taken Maggie’s advice and the counseling already showed results. She was healing, one cautious color at a time. Their eyes met and Misty mouthed the words thank you. Maggie nodded, then ushered Carlos deeper into the room, introducing him to the artists and pointing out their works. He immediately focused on a bold collage. Calypso, the belly-dancing artist, shimmied her way across the room towards them smelling a potential sale. She wiggled up to them, standing out from the crowd in her usual gypsy costume of brightly clashing colors and clanking jewelry.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“Yes, they are the happy colors of Mexico at fiesta time,” said Carlos.
The compliment made her shine. But as usual, her attention quickly faltered.
“Misty gave me the bird,” she said to Maggie.
“Well, that was certainly impolite,” said a voice from behind them.
“No, she didn’t flip me the bird. She gave me the bird. Baretta.”
“That foul-mouthed cockatoo?”
Maggie smelled the aroma of Blue Waltz perfume mixed with the faintest hint of stale marijuana smoke and knew who’d be standing there when she turned around.
“We really need to get together for another cup of tea,” said the elderly and beautiful Mary Rose, “but first you must introduce me to your friend.”
Carlos and Mary Rose couldn’t take their eyes off each other. The old romance magnets were pulling full force. She’d never thought of Carlos that way before. Never considered him in any light other than father and friend. It was looking as if the life his nephew had so subtly suggested was ready to burst into bloom.
“I thought you and Rocco were an item,” said Mary Rose.
“We are. Carlos and I are friends.”
“Good news in more ways than one.”
Carlos flashed his best smile.
“Where have you been hiding him, my dear? My God, he’s as handsome and dashing as the actor Gilbert Roland.”
