by Sasscer Hill
CHAPTER 14
I steered the Toyota around a minibus and slowed outside the passenger pickup zone of US Airways. Exhaust from buses, cabs and cars, choked the air.
Glancing at the automatic doors, I saw Carla. No mistaking her luminous blond hair and tall, knockout figure, as she pulled her wheel-mounted luggage behind her. She must have seen me about the same time, because she waved and broke a smile.
As I pulled up to the curb, I saw vulnerability in her expression. I hadn’t seen this before. I left the car, rushed over, and gave her a quick hug before stepping back to look at her more closely. Lines of tension etched the outside corners of her brown eyes. She was trying not to cry.
“Hey,” I said, “it’s gonna be okay.”
She nodded quickly, but remained silent. I was so not used to this behavior from Carla. She was always upbeat and in control. I popped open the trunk, grabbed her luggage and flung it inside. My car rocked in protest, the trunk slamming shut from the bounce.
Any other time I’d have joked about the trunk being snappish, but from the lost way Carla looked at me, I didn’t know what to say.
She started to speak, but a shrill whistle cut her off. An airport security guard pierced the air with his metal whistle again and motioned for me to move along.
“We’d better get going.” I climbed into the Toyota and popped the lock on Carla’s side. She’d barely closed her door before I gunned the engine and pulled into the flow of cars.
Silence ruled until I turned onto Route 1 with its traffic lights and string of mom and pop stores. By then, Carla’s gaze was so intense it unnerved me. I turned to her and set loose words I’d intended to phrase carefully.
“We have to go to the police station.”
The color drained from her face. “They found Jade?”
“No! They haven’t found Jade. But there’s another girl. There’s stuff I haven’t told you.” I wasn’t looking forward to telling her about the girl who had died on the street. But I did.
* * * *
“That’s Bailey,” I whispered, when I saw the detective step out of an office inside the police station, where Carla and I had been cooling our heels for some time.
Carla was responding to my tale about the dead girl with continued, total denial. It could not be Jade. I left it alone.
Detective Bailey, wearing her black heels, thumped softly toward us along the carpeted hallway. She must have changed out of the flats she’d worn that morning. Probably gotten horse manure on them.
I stopped pacing before the bench where Carla sat with her long legs crossed. She stood up quickly and faced Bailey. She was taller than the detective, and twice as attractive. Bailey stared right back, her face giving away nothing.
“Detective Marcia Bailey,” she said, shaking Carla’s hand. She nodded at me and led us down a corridor in the opposite direction from the interrogation room I’d in sat on my first morning in town.
We passed a doorway where uniformed officers worked at desks lined with computers, phones, and stacks of files and notebooks. Air conditioning spilled from overhead vents, and the smell of strong coffee overlay the sharp odor of cleaning fluid.
Bailey stepped into an office and pointed at two stiff and uncomfortable looking chairs.
“Why don’t you both have a seat?” She walked around her desk and settled into a leather executive chair.
A man in a well-made suit stood leaning against the back wall. He was close to forty, maybe younger. Hard lines etched a ruddy, attractive face. Beneath thick brows, his eyes were a warm brown. He watched us sit. Friendly.
A subdued interest flickered over Carla’s face. She’d always had a weakness for good-looking, sharp-dressed men. Even now.
“This is Detective Rick Harman,” Bailey said. “He’s with Vice.”
Something about the man seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Why was Vice involved, anyway?
Harman turned to Carla. “Ms. Ruben, we’re sorry your daughter is missing. We’re doing all we can to find her.” He paused. A fleeting look passed between the detectives, as if they engaged in a second, silent dialogue.
Harman continued. “There are several teenage girls we’re looking for.”
“Detective Harman,” I said, leaning forward. “Why is Vice interested in Jade Paulson?”
Instead of answering me, Harman quirked a brow at Bailey. “I see what you mean,” he muttered.
Carla had flinched when I said the name “Paulson,” the name of Jade’s adoptive parents. Even though she’d told me their name, she probably thought of her daughter as Jade Ruben.
Still ignoring my question, Harman spoke to Carla.
“Some of these girls run away from home. When they find themselves on the streets, they have to survive…”
“I think Jade had a good home life,” Carla said. “She wouldn’t have been on the streets.” Her glance darted my way, as if seeking my agreement.
Harman straightened from the wall and took a step toward her. “I’m not putting your daughter into that category, but we want to cover every possibility.” He spread his hands, “Right?”
Carla nodded.
This Harman guy seemed kind, but he wasn’t answering questions, wasn’t easing the anxiety that tightened Carla’s face. She needed answers. I clamped down on an urge to launch myself from my chair, grab the guy, and demand he tell us everything he knew.
“We understand from Ms. Latrelle that you weren’t in touch with your daughter,” Bailey said. “You’ve never heard anything about who her friends are?”
Carla shook her head.
Bailey placed her elbows on her desk and leaned forward, her expression still impassive. “What about Jade’s adoptive parents. You been in touch with them?”
Carla pressed her teeth into her lip. She’d been doing that in the car, too.
“No,” Carla said. “I just don’t know anything. You must think I’m awful.”
But she had been in touch with them. Through that private detective she’d told me about.
“Not our place to judge.” Bailey stared at a point over Carla’s shoulder. “When did you give your daughter up for adoption?”
“Right after she was born.” Carla’s voice trembled and she inhaled as if to steady herself. “I—I only saw her for a moment. They took her from the hospital room.”
“And you never saw her again? Never spoke to her?”
Again the teeth into the lip. Carla closed her eyes and shook her head.
Bailey’s eyes narrowed, becoming almost predatory. “Interesting you would say that, Ms. Ruben. After we first heard about you this morning, I ran you through the computer, checked phone records against Jade Paulson’s. We know she called you, Ms. Ruben.”
Carla’s lips parted, and her eyes widened.
Bailey placed her palms on her desk and stood. “Are you still denying you’ve spoken to Jade?”
Carla appeared to tune us out as if she were searching for something inside. “Oh, my God,” she said softly, “that’s what those calls were.”
“What calls?” Bailey asked sharply.
“My voice mail,” she said, her voice quickening with excitement. “I got several calls where someone stayed with the call until it went to voice mail. But they never said anything. There were background sounds, like conversation or a TV.”
I noticed Harman’s interest pick up. He seemed to follow the two women’s conversation closely.
Carla rose from her chair, her gaze fixed on Bailey. “Are you telling me my daughter tried to reach me?”
“Did she?” Bailey asked.
“No, I just told you that. She may have been trying to call me but she never even left a voice mail message.”
The two women seemed to reach an impasse, both standing motionless.
“What about you guys,” I said, gesturing at Bailey and Harman. “Haven’t you found a picture of Jade?”
Bailey held up her hand, as if to ward off a buzzing fly. “We fi
rst heard the name from you only this morning. The schools are still closed for the holidays. We’ll have it later today, but we don’t have it now.”
I saw a tremor run through Carla. What would it be like to see your child for the first time in 13 years?
Bailey’s expression hardened. “You came down here to search for your daughter, right?”
“Yes,” Once more, Carla looked at me as if for confirmation.
“You felt guilty about giving her up? Never having a part in her life?”
“Yes, of course.”
Bailey moved from behind the desk, closer to Carla. “And when she called you, you wanted her back in your life.”
“I told you we haven’t spoken!”
By now, Bailey loomed over Carla. “It could be argued you wanted her back in your life so much you’d do anything.”
Carla’s eyes darkened as the implication of Bailey’s last words sunk in. “You think I was involved in…I was in Baltimore!”
This was ridiculous! “Carla—”
“It’s all right, Nikki,” she said, before turning angrily back to Bailey. “Are you charging me with a crime? Because if you are, I want a lawyer. If you’re not, I want to leave.”
This was the Carla I knew and loved. The one who’d taken an instant liking to me when we’d met and taught me how to get around and act like a grownup instead of a resentful child.
Harman gave Bailey a warning frown. “Take it easy, Marcia. We have nothing to charge Ms. Ruben with.”
Bailey eased back from Carla, her expression like a dog forcefully jerked off a bone. She returned to her desk, sat in her upholstered leather chair, and tried not to glare at Harman.
“Ms. Ruben,” he said gently. “May I call you Carla?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then, Carla. The department has a task force working on this. We have a lot of contacts working the street, looking for Jade, and we’ve already put out an Amber Alert on her.”
They hadn’t had Amber Alerts when I’d run to the streets. But then I hadn’t wanted to be found. Jade, though.…
I stood up. “But what about these parents whose daughter went missing? Wasn’t their name Booker? They were supposed to ID the murdered girl? It’s way past noon. Did they do it?”
Bailey turned on me, her lips pursed tight with disapproval. “Ms. Latrelle, you need to back off. This is a police investigation, not a Pony Club meeting.”
Carla was staring at me. I wished she wasn’t so pale. Was she reconsidering, thinking that the murdered girl could be Jade?
Bailey exhaled, blinked, then nodded at Harman.
He moved closer to Carla, raised his hand like he would touch her, but dropped his arm to his side.
A little spider of trepidation crawled up my spine.
“The murder victim on Hallandale Beach Boulevard…it was a negative ID. She’s not the Booker’s daughter. We don’t know who she is.”
CHAPTER 15
Carla and I sat at a table in the Westin Diplomat’s restaurant. The hotel was way out of my league, snazzy and expensive, like Carla. The dining room had soft teal carpeting, matching velvet upholstery on the chairs, and sparkling wine glasses and cutlery laid out on white table cloths.
Our waiter appeared in a starched shirt with a black bow tie, and his shoes gleamed with polish. His greeting was formal. None of that hi-I’m-John-and-I’ll-be-your-server stuff for this hotel.
We ordered drinks and shrimp salad. Our iced vodkas with cranberry juice and splashes of tonic arrived quickly. Our immediate, deep plunge into wishful drinking saw the glasses emptied twice as fast.
Carla looked dazed. She stared out the plate-glass window where white sand faded in the gathering dusk.
Turning to me, she said, “I can’t believe they don’t have a picture of Jade because the high school is closed.”
“Did you ever look for her on Facebook or any of those social networks?”
She gave me a withering look. “Of course I did. I couldn’t access her photos and her profile picture was a pop star.”
How had Carla’s private detective found the girl? I upended my glass and rolled a melted ice cube into my mouth, a dozen questions rattling in my head. Did the police consider the murdered parents a higher priority than the missing teenager? Could they think Jade had murdered her adoptive parents?
I kept that last thought to myself, and said, “Why didn’t you tell Bailey about the private detective?”
Carla picked up her glass, realized it was empty, and set it down. “Why should I? He’s my detective.”
“But if they find out about him, it will show you have had a form of contact with Jade and her parents. You told them you knew nothing.”
“I don’t know anything. The detective, George Turner, only found out about the family two weeks ago. I was going to fly down and meet them. George had arranged it, but then he called two days ago and told me Jade’s adoptive parents were dead and Jade was missing. He knows what the police know, and they seemed short on information, to say the least.”
Again, she reached for her empty glass. “Where is that waiter?”
“The cops are probably doing the best they can, Carla,” I said. “That Harman guy seemed pretty cool. Sharp, and he acts like he wants to help.” Carla so needed to find out about her daughter. One way or the other.
Our waiter arrived with a tray of shrimp salad. The tang of lemon and a whiff of garlic almost made me faint. He set down a basket of breads.
Carla stared at the bread with an offended expression. “We don’t need the rolls.”
“Wait,” I said, as the guy began to whisk them away. “I’ll take them.”
As I reached for a roll, Carla told the waiter she wanted more vodka.
“No, thank you,” I said when he asked if I wanted another drink. I had to get up and ride Diablo in the morning and needed a clear head. I got busy buttering a roll instead and watched the man transfer salads with grilled shrimp, chunks of avocado, and other goodies from his serving tray to our table.
Across from me, Carla traced the carved wood on the arm of her dining chair with one finger. The vodka had put a little color back in her face, but shadows still bruised the skin beneath her brown eyes.
When the waiter left our table, she glanced at me.
“I feel so guilty. She must hate me.”
I took me a moment to catch up mentally. “Jade won’t hate you. You did what was right at the time. You provided her with a home and two parents.”
Carla continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Stupid, getting pregnant like that. My father was so embarrassed. He started up with that woman, Tiffany, after Jade was born. My mother got sick and…you know the rest.”
“Carla, stop it. You were young. You did not cause your mother to get cancer! It runs in your family.”
“Thank you for reminding me.”
Brisk movement near the dining room entrance caught my attention. The maitre d’ was rushing toward two men standing in the entryway. The one in the foreground appeared to be Asian. He was tall and partially blocked my view of the second man. The maitre d’ looked so eager to please, I expected him to salute and click his heels.
Carla glanced over at them, and as the second man stepped forward, I heard her breath suck in.
“Look at his face!” she whispered.
I tried not to stare at the hideous red-and-white marks scarring the right side of Currito’s face. “That’s my new owner,” I said.
“You’re joking.”
“Nope, his name’s Currito Maldonista. He’s the main reason I’m here.”
“He looks like he was in a knife fight.”
“I know, but he’s okay,” I said. “At least he loves his horses.”
As the Maitre d’ led the two men past us, several tables over, I checked out the profile of Currito’s companion. Tall, he was clean shaven with a small, smiling mouth and long, flat nose. Except for the smile, his face seemed almost immobile, the skin stiff. So
mething about his eyes seemed odd, but I didn’t get a good enough look.
I’d swallowed the last bit of buttered roll when Currito’s head turned and his gaze flicked over us. His stride seemed to falter a moment, then the men disappeared past a fountain into another dining area.
After spearing a hot shrimp, I closed my eyes as the taste of shellfish, butter, and garlic hit my tongue. We were both quiet while we dug in, and I was pleased Carla had an appetite. The food seemed to revive her, and when her second drink arrived, instead of diving into it, she continued working on her salad.
Somewhere, a cell phone began playing a Sheryl Crow tune.
“That’s mine.” Carla reached for her black leather bag that featured a lot of silver zippers.
She found her phone immediately; she’d always been way more organized than me.
“Carla Ruben,” she said in her business voice, then listened for a moment.
“Oh, George. I was just thinking about you. You do?” She closed her palm over the receiver and leaned toward me. “He’s got a picture of Jade! No, I’m here, George. At the Westin Diplomat. You can? That’s wonderful. I’m in the dining room with my friend Nikki. I’m the blonde in black. Nikki has spiky dark hair. Yes. That’s great, George! See you in ten.”
I felt sick inside. Suppose the girl in George’s photo was the girl who died on the street?
I squeezed my eyes shut a moment and when I opened them, I saw Currito Maldonista walking toward us. He came directly to our table, skirting halfway around, turning so the handsome side of his face was in full view—the ruined side partially hidden.
“Nikki, you must introduce me to your lovely friend.” He smiled, flashing white teeth as he held out his left hand to Carla instead of the customary right. It kept the good side of his face to her.
I made the introductions, noticing how Currito couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was a beautiful woman, but his stare seemed intense beyond that of a man admiring a woman. But I’m not a man, so what did I know?
“Have we met before, Miss Ruben?” he asked, finally dragging his attention from Carla and turning to include me, too.
