Everything to Lose

by JP Ratto

  ***

  Vilari woke to the strong smell of dokha tobacco, with a massive headache and the need to urinate. With one hand over his eyes to block the light streaming into the room, he slid his legs over the side of the bed. He sat up and jerked, startled by the olive-skinned stranger relaxed in a chair, staring at him as he inhaled from a carved medwakh. First surprised and then angry, he was too weak to mount a verbal attack. Vilari vaguely remembered him from the night before. He moved to stand, as the man looked on, seemingly assessing his condition. Vilari shook off the penetrating stare and stepped toward the bathroom, losing his equilibrium. He attempted to straighten but fell backwards onto the bed.

  The stranger, tall and thin, rose to pick up a glass from a room service cart. He turned back to Vilari. “I am Amari Abboud,” he said, handing Vilari a milky beverage. “Drink it slowly. We have a lot to talk about.”

  Vilari swallowed and cleared his throat. “What do you want?”

  Settling back into the chair, Abboud pulled an envelope from his pocket. He began shuffling through several photographs then glanced at Vilari, who winced at the taste of the drink and rubbed his stomach. “Despite how you feel now, you had a good night.” Abboud held up a photo of a woman straddled atop Vilari, her smooth, bronzed back to the camera. “Yes, a very good night.”

  He threw the photos on the bed. With a shaky hand, Vilari spread them apart and gasped. In one, the woman had her face buried in his groin. Another showed Vilari returning the favor. He gagged and fell to his knees, grabbing a small wastebasket. He retched violently. Exhausted, he remained on the floor and leaned against the bed. Abboud tossed Vilari a hand towel to wipe the vomit from his mouth.

  “Feel better?” Abboud asked.

  With tears sliding down his blanched face, Vilari blinked.

  “Good.” Amari Abboud said. “Let’s begin…”

  ***

  Standing in the foyer of my Gramercy Park brownstone, I stared at the envelope addressed to me, Lucas Holt PI, which had held a photo sent by a previous client.

  After receiving the photograph from Janet Maxwell’s attorneys, my initial shock had turned to guarded optimism. My first inclination was to call my ex-wife, Susan, and share the hope that the girl in the photo was Marnie.

  Fifteen years before, during the investigation of a sensitive case, my six-month-old daughter was abducted from a daycare center. At the time, I was an NYPD detective looking into the murder of a call girl with ties to a New York state senator. I always believed the two incidents were connected.

  The idea Marnie was still alive and we could be a family again rushed through my mind and made my heart pump faster. However, Susan’s remarriage to Jim O’Brien was a major obstacle.

  I procrastinated with the excuse that I didn’t want to offer Susan any false hope. Truth be told, I was afraid to raise any within myself. Once I spoke aloud to anyone about the photo—about finding Marnie, I would have the expectation of her recovery. With no new cases on my plate, I wouldn’t let anything distract me from searching for my daughter. I only had to decide when to tell Susan.

  The decision was taken out of my hands when I received a phone call from Susan’s husband telling me she was in hospice.

  ***

  I’d spent my fair share of time in hospitals before my parents died. They both had suffered terminal illnesses, two years apart, and when they were near their end, I’d gone back home to be with them. The only occasion where I didn’t dread entering a medical facility was when my daughter Marnie was born. Her birth was one of the happiest moments of my life, her disappearance the worst.

  I drove to Middletown, N.Y. to visit Susan. More like hotel than hospital, her room was large and comfortably furnished for guests. The hospital bed, though, was a bleak reminder of her illness. No lights were on, and half-closed shades blocked the late afternoon sun. Shadows of low-hanging tree branches outside the windows danced on the floor like dark, tentacled marionettes.

  As I drew up to the side of the bed, Susan shifted her head toward me. Her eyes eased open, halfway and then wide with recognition. She lifted a gaunt, pale hand. I enclosed it in mine and she smiled.

  “Lucas,” she whispered, “so glad to see you.”

  I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t pass the lump in my throat. I sat in the chair beside the bed, holding her hand. Gently. Then I brought it to my lips and kissed it. The disease had drained Susan’s body of its warmth. I held on, wishing I could transmit some of my own health and energy through her iced skin.

  Oh God, seeing her this way is so hard.

  “I just found out,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  She summoned enough strength to squeeze my hand. “It’s okay. You’re a busy man.” She licked her parched lips and swallowed. “You’ve helped a lot of people.”

  It was a compliment, but all I could hear were the words she neglected to say. Why couldn’t you help us?

  “Susan, I have something to show you. I’ve struggled the last few weeks with whether or not I should. I don’t want to upset you. Not that it will be upsetting. I’m just not sure.”

  She squeezed my hand again so I would stop fumbling over my words. She knew me well and had always scolded me for beating around the bush when I had something to tell her. Good or bad.

  “What is it, Lucas? You can see…I don’t have all day.” She smiled at the joke, but neither of us laughed, and I watched a tear slide down her cheek. My stomach clenched.

  I can’t bear this.

  I released her hand, inhaled deeply, and coughed to clear my throat. Then I pulled out the photo of the girl with the cleft chin, just like mine, who also had Susan’s small, patrician nose and soft brown eyes.

  Susan stared at the picture of the young girl I held in front of her. I watched her face and swore I could see the emotions that had surged through me pass over her as well.

  She took the photo from me into her shaking hand. “Turn on the light,” she said. “Oh my God, Lucas. I need to see her in the light.”

  No longer in shadows, some of the gloom left me. Susan lay transfixed on the face in the photo.

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” she finally asked.

  “I believe it is. By the way, you were right about her eyes. They did turn brown.”

  Susan raised her brow and pursed her lips, giving me the familiar, “Of course I was right” look. Then she turned serious. “Where is she?”

  I had to tell her, “I don’t know.”

  I briefly relayed the circumstances of how I came to possess the photo. Susan let it slip from her hands to rest over her heart, closed her eyes, and wept. I wept too.

  ***

  Not wanting to be anywhere else, the time passed more easily than I’d thought. The sun had set, and the room grew chilly. Slouched with my legs stretched and my head rested on the back of a chair, an odd peacefulness warmed me. After a while, Susan drifted off to sleep. I moved to take back the picture when she woke.

  “Can you leave it here?” she asked.

  I hadn’t even thought about it. It was the only one I had. I asked an attendant if there was somewhere to make a copy for Susan. It wouldn’t be great, but it would do.

  We looked again at the image of who we both accepted was our daughter. Susan’s breathing became labored. My visit had been too much for her. I leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

  “I love you, Susan.” I wouldn’t say goodbye.

  She didn’t return the sentiment although her eyes held the look I’d seen long ago that told me so. It was enough. I turned to leave when she grabbed my hand with such force it startled me.

  “Find her, Lucas,” she said, her voice strong and commanding. “Find her.”

  Acknowledgements

  We wish to thank all who, with their knowledge and encouragement, contributed to the writing of this book. Thank you to our children, family, and friends, who are our built-in fan base and cheerleaders. Thanks to the members of Abacoa Writers and C
reative Writers of Abacoa for their critical feedback and their friendship. Thank you to Rob L. Bacon of The Perfect Write for his invaluable manuscript critique. Our gratitude goes to the Limitless Publishing team for their technical expertise and creative talent.

  I would like to acknowledge Hofstra University’s Continuing Education Writing Program, where I began honing my craft. Thank you to children’s author Brian Heinz, whose “noun rich, verb rich” mantra helped me to become a better writer. Warm thanks to Gina Shaw, Lois Kipnis, Barbara Senenman, and Shanna Silva: writers, editors, and friends, who have shared my journey from the beginning. Thanks to my mom Muriel Stapleton for her love and strength. A most special thank you to my husband Pete, who always took the time to read and edit my work and provide sound advice and unyielding love and support.

  ~J.R.

  In writing this story, I drew upon the sum of many experiences. Thanks to my parents and my sister, all who have passed, who shaped, molded, and nurtured my personal credo, “Attitude is rule one.” Thanks go to the US Navy and US Marine Corps who taught me strength of character, independence, and to focus on goals and achieve them. Loving thanks to my wife Judy, who has always been there for me.

  ~P.R.

  About the authors

  JP Ratto is a husband and wife collaborative writing team. Everything To Lose is the first of a three-book series featuring private investigator Lucas Holt.

  Judy began writing full time six years ago. She attended Hofstra University’s Writing Intensive in the summer of 2010, and participated in a Hofstra-sponsored writing and critique group from 2009 to 2012. She has written an upper middle-grade fantasy adventure and a children’s mystery chapter book. Judy also does free-lance editing.

  Pete Ratto, a former member of the U.S. Navy serving half his enlistment with the U.S. Marine Corp, is a retired corporate accountant and is now writing full time.

  Both are avid readers of mysteries, thrillers and suspense. Active in a critique group made up of local authors, they enjoy discussions on all aspects of the craft of writing. Pete enjoys photography, writing and going to the beach. In her spare time, Judy paints watercolors and to her husband’s delight, cooks an occasional dinner. They have a son and a daughter, both grown and living in New York. Pete and Judy live in southern Florida with their cat, Gillian.

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