She shrugged. “The Pereas didn’t seem to be anything other than what they claimed to be—longtime foster parents. But someone is hiding something, otherwise why would the girl I thought was Araceli run if she didn’t have anything to hide?”
“She obviously knows she’s not Araceli. Do you think the Pereas know why she ran? Do you think they lied to the FBI?”
“I’m not saying they’re lying, but I think they could also know more than they’re admitting.”
He gave a snort, then went back to work on the plate. “How is knowing more than they’re admitting not lying?”
Okay, so she shouldn’t sugarcoat the truth with Marc. “Agreed. So what happens after we find Judas?”
“No clue yet. Won’t know until I find him.”
He wasn’t inspiring much confidence that she would get her money’s worth, but Courtney was determined not to lose faith. “But you’re comfortable with your plan?”
He used his coffee cup to motion at the legal pad. “Got it written down. I’m good with the plan.”
They’d already covered therapy, and shopping was self-explanatory, so she went for... “What happens in the office?”
“Research. I’ve got to figure out who the major players were around this kid, then how to get at them.”
“Oh, like addresses and phone numbers. Depending on whom we want to contact, I may be able to get some of that information.”
“Through your work contacts?”
She nodded.
“Listen, Courtney. We’re going to need to keep that sort of fishing to a minimum. We can’t be obvious about what we’re doing. It will be counterproductive.”
“Then how do we get information?”
“Subtly. We can’t always knock on somebody’s door and say, ‘I’m here to ask you a few questions.’ We’re not the FBI, and unless I’m wrong, you don’t want to be flashing your DCFS badge so the FBI knows you’re investigating when you’re supposed to be on administrative leave. Do I have that right?”
She nodded, feeling stupider by the moment. Why had she gone out of her way to cook this man breakfast again? For what he charged, he could have had groceries delivered and hired someone to cook. “What if someone offers information in conversation? Is it okay as long as I don’t specifically ask?”
“As long as you’re not obvious.” Marc poured himself more coffee. “Want me to top you off?”
Another glimmer of a civilized man beneath the annoying exterior. There was still hope. “No thanks. I’m good.”
He drained the thermos into his own cup. Evidently, he needed the caffeine more than she did. “See those numbers at the bottom of the page? That’s my bank account number so you can transfer the money. A check will work, too, but then we’ll need to drop by the bank while we’re out.”
“How about you do the dishes while I transfer your money? Otherwise I’m going to deduct a fee for breakfast.”
That made him smile. Just one quick glimpse of a grin that made her realize she hadn’t seen him smile much. Not on this visit. Not on the others. But she was struck by how one grin made him seem so much more like his loud, laughing brothers.
“You want them dried, too?”
He was a comedian like his brothers, too.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HIS NAME WAS Kyle Perez. He was almost eighteen and had only been in Nashville for a month. He had come here from New York, where he had been staying with family. Not parents. I found that significant but didn’t get too nosy.
After I had given him the Camels for helping me out at the library, he had hung around and asked me how long I’d been drawing on the streets.
Drawing? Papa surely rolled his eyes up in heaven.
But Faffi had given me a thumbs-up behind Kyle’s back and shot me a Go for it! look.
So Kyle had noticed me in the District, too.
I asked him if that had been why he had helped me out. He told me that had been the only reason. And he’d said it with a smile that made a pencil-point dimple in his cheek.
If I’d have been drawing him, I’d have emphasized the dimple big-time. And the dark eyes. Eyes so, so dark they were midnight ink, or the velvet-black of the river at night. Eyes that dark might look flat or one-dimensional, but not his. They were reflective, so much so that I knew he was teasing when he’d said, “The Camels were a bonus.”
I’d had a good feeling about him that day, so when he showed up across the street from the bike path this afternoon, I wasn’t really surprised.
Maybe I should have been. I hadn’t been able to move cities since Debbie had gotten sick, so I had moved around this city until I had chosen my favorite places to work. Only two—the riverfront park and on Broadway in front of the Western wear store. But I liked to switch it up. Got a little more exposure that way and avoided drawing too much attention from the beat cops during the weekdays when they always assumed I should be in school with the rest of the people my age.
Had Kyle come across me by chance today? A happy chance? Because I was happy to see him, I wasn’t going to lie.
Peering over the easel where I had placed my sketchbook, I watched him set his guitar case on the sidewalk and kneel down to unhook the fasteners. I liked how he handled his guitar. With the same sort of respect that I handled my equipment.
The way Papa had taught me.
“You must love this empty paper for its inspiration and endless possibilities....”
Kyle loved his guitar that way. Maybe he thought of the strings as endless possibilities, too. I didn’t know, but I was kind of surprised by my curiosity.
I was very curious. He never looked my way, but I sensed that he knew I was here. Maybe I was being fanciful, too alone in my head lately.
But Kyle inspired me today. I stopped working on a street scene—bikers riding on the path along the river with the stadium in the distance. I had been working on atmospheric perspective lately, teaching myself to create interesting effects that didn’t jar the eye. I flipped my sketchbook to an empty page, and as the sounds of Kyle’s guitar drifted across the busy street to reach my ears, I reached for my best pencil.
I closed my eyes. I had to listen hard to hear his music over the noise of the street—the cars whizzing by with a rush of wind and the grinding of tires, the blast of a horn from down the block, someone’s bass making the ground reverberate like an unsteady heartbeat. But beyond all that, the honeyed sounds of Kyle and those strings making music.
When I opened my eyes again, I had my inspiration. I pressed the pencil to paper. He made a handsome subject, standing with his foot braced against the wall behind him, dark head bent low as he coaxed music from those strings.
But I was drawn to his hands, so I sketched the way he cradled that guitar as if it were a part of him. And I sketched for real today. My art. Not my living.
Even from this distance, I could make out his fingers, strong, squared, a little rough around the edges. I didn’t know anything at all about guitars, but this one seemed to be a nice one. Not new, I didn’t think, but one that fit him comfortably. He seemed to bow around it, the sleek curves of the guitar fitting neatly into the hollows of his body.
I tried to shadow his fingers enough to catch the caramel color of his skin. Perez was obviously Hispanic, but there was something more in his features. His cheekbones were sharp, his jawline cut. His hair was black silk. It looked as if it would be soft to the touch. Whatever it was made me think he was a little different, special even.
I hoped he’d come back another day because I wanted to do a few more sketches of him and work them into my portfolio.
He had a much better afternoon than I did. People passed by his corner, slowing their steps to enjoy the music. Not many stopped, but quite a few tossed money into his open guitar case.
I
didn’t make out nearly so well. All the long hours of the day, and I’d only sketched two paying customers. Some days were just that way. And I wasn’t sorry for the time I had spent sketching my music man across the street.
And I did have twenty bucks to show for my efforts.
I was considering when to start breaking down my pitch when Kyle finally stopped playing. He collected the money from inside his case and tucked his guitar away carefully. He still hadn’t looked my way. I hadn’t caught him at it, if he had. But he slung his case over his shoulder. Then he lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and crossed the street.
He was coming to see me. I knew it the instant he hit the crosswalk, sensed it in the way my nerve endings sparked to life. If he had kept walking, I would have felt disappointed. Maybe even stupid.
But he looked all casual, as if he had only just noticed me sitting here, and I quickly flipped a page on my sketchbook, so he wouldn’t see what had inspired me all afternoon.
He stopped short at the edge of my pitch—my gallery. I had chalked on the sidewalk a whimsical underwater scene complete with sea life. Fish, sea horses and dolphins. There was also a mermaid gliding through coral, and very cartoonlike anemones in yellows, oranges and pinks that contrasted wildly with the turquoise and green background.
My nod to the river.
“Wow,” was all he said, the toes of his scrubby gray Converse sneakers edging the whitecaps I’d drawn as a border. He flicked the ash from his cigarette in the direction opposite my sidewalk art.
Respect. I liked that.
“Looked like you had a profitable afternoon.” I smiled. No sense pretending I hadn’t noticed him when I’d spent hours glancing his way.
“You do this everywhere you work?”
“Wherever I set up my pitch,” I explained. “Marks my turf.”
“Does it draw them in?”
I knew who them was. Anyone and everyone who would appreciate my art enough to be generous. “It does—the ones who want to be drawn in, anyway. Not everyone does.”
He pulled a face like one I might sketch in a caricature. “You get decent business over here. Everyone’s riding a bike.”
“Not quite everyone.” I laughed a little. I’m not sure why, but I was surprised at the way I sounded, somehow more alive. Like when I sketched with a pencil with the exact perfect edge. Not freshly sharpened, but after a bit of use, when I coaxed the graphite to perfection. Of course, a perfect edge only lasted for a few strokes before the point was dull and the whole process started over. Such was life.
“Business is a little slower over here compared to Broadway,” I admitted.
“Then why do you come here?”
I shrugged. “So people see my work. Some people walk Broadway so fast they don’t see anything when they look down.”
“Not the tourists, though, right?”
“No, not the tourists.” I gave him that point. “But I don’t want to become a fixture.”
He considered me for a moment while dragging off his cigarette. A Camel. One of mine, probably.
“I need free Wi-Fi. Can’t go over my data plan.” He held up his phone. One with a touch screen that appeared to have been dropped a few times, if the cracked display was any indication. “Do you like coffee? There’s a place over on Fourth.”
For one crazy moment, I stared—it took me that long to figure out whether he had just asked me out.
I didn’t want to seem too eager. But I also wasn’t stupid. I didn’t know Kyle Perez. He could be a trafficker for all I knew, and I had no interest in drugs or sex or getting into any sort of situation that might get out of my control. I have a very good head on my shoulders, Debbie always said.
Still, I didn’t feel a threat. I usually trusted my insides, but I couldn’t let new people into my life so easily. Not even for coffee.
“What about Mike’s?” I offered a compromise. “It’s around the corner, and they have free Wi-Fi.”
If he was disappointed, he didn’t let me see. He flicked the cigarette butt into the street and nodded at my gear. “Sure. Want some help packing up?”
I nodded. And while I folded up my easel, I knew my next sketch of Kyle would be capturing his look of thoughtful approval as he slid my sketches into my portfolio case.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“SEE YOU MONDAY,” the physical therapist said.
Marc grunted at the guy, who made a few notations in a chart before taking off.
Fridays were always the worst. Marc tried to work harder to make up for the two-day weekend, even though the therapists claimed the effort was wasted. He kept up with the exercises at home, but they didn’t pack the same punch. And none of this effort was moving him closer to regaining control of his life. He had to fight every step of the way. And keep fighting.
Working his way around the table, Marc shifted his leg in increments, unwilling to sacrifice a few pain-free seconds after the massage. As soon as he placed his two-hundred-pound self on this leg, the pain would be back.
He hadn’t yet gotten off the table when he saw her. Just a glimpse in his periphery, but he couldn’t have missed that heart-shaped face even from a distance.
Her gaze widened in surprise. She had been busted watching him and knew it. To her credit she didn’t hide, but stepped into the doorway and approached.
He’d told her from the first that she needed to entertain herself during his therapy sessions. He didn’t care what she did, didn’t even mind waiting for her to pick him up, but she sure as hell wasn’t welcome here. Not when he spent two hours torturing his muscles until the rest of him was trembling and sweating. Not pretty.
Marc wasn’t sure why he didn’t want Courtney to see him like this. Why did he care what she thought?
“I’m sorry to intrude.” She eyed him as if he didn’t look much better than he felt.
“What?”
She stood her ground. “My boss called, and we’ve got some new information. The FBI has a lead on our missing girl. Her foster parents suspected one of the boys she had been seeing was involved with a gang, so they forbade her to see him. They thought she had complied, but now it seems she has been sneaking around behind their backs.”
Just what did Courtney consider groundbreaking about this news that couldn’t have waited until he got in the car?
“Your boss volunteered all that?” He sounded more doubtful than he intended, but he couldn’t seem to let her off the hook. Not when he was still sweaty from exertion, still resentful that she was here before he’d pulled himself together.
“That’s why she called.”
Marc swung his legs around a lot faster than he should have. Reprieve over. Pain shot up half his body with the effort, and he exhaled hard against the sensation, telling himself he didn’t care about Courtney. He dangled his legs over the side of the table, stopping before he lowered to his feet. That show of bravado would have been stupidity.
“A gang,” he said. “Am I supposed to be surprised?”
“Guess not.” She sounded hurt.
“Shouldn’t take Agent Weston too long to track down this kid.” He reached for his cane and slid off the table.
This time he braced himself against the pain. And avoided looking at Courtney.
“Listen, Marc,” she said. “My boss has had the Pereas in her office a few times. They’re trying to get information about the investigation, too. They really seem to care about what happens to this girl. My boss thinks they might be telling the truth—that they may not have known the girl wasn’t Araceli.”
What was he supposed to do with her boss’s opinion?
“I’ve got to shower.” He didn’t look back as he worked his way through the obstacle course of the physical therapy center.
The shower didn’t do much but clean him
up. Every fiber of his being wanted to head home for a nap. He’d been weaning himself off the painkillers so he could think clearly. As a result, he hadn’t been sleeping well. But by the time he got to the car, he couldn’t bring himself to admit he needed a nap.
Courtney was the variable. Big difference from his brothers running errands or making cracks about how he fell asleep sitting upright. Throw a beautiful woman with dark hair and creamy skin into the equation...
He met her gaze. “Let’s go try to catch up with the kids who stayed with the Pereas and Araceli.”
“Rosario or Tayshaun?”
“Girls talk more.”
Courtney obviously thought better of trying to engage him in conversation as she maneuvered through Friday traffic toward the community center, where a girl who’d once lived with the Pereas assisted in an after-school program as part of her high school work experience classes.
The silence left Marc plenty of time to notice Courtney. The way she studiously avoided looking at him. The way she tried to act comfortable.
He knew better. There was something about sitting together in the quiet that made being alone more intimate.
He noticed everything about her, and could admit to some relief that the physical need for sex was returning. Need signaled healing. But while his body might want sex, his body also made logistics a real problem. And Courtney underfoot reminded him of this double-edged sword.
And he wondered why he was in a crappy mood.
They arrived at the community center to find the playground packed with kids. On swings. Basketball courts. Around picnic tables. Crawling through play yards. Marc reached inside his laptop case for a notebook and press pass that contained his head shot and name of a fake media group.
“I talk,” he instructed Courtney as they made their way inside the facility. More slowly than usual, which was saying something. “You smile and look trustworthy.”
She rolled her eyes.
Love In Plain Sight Page 9
