Kill Again

by Neal Baer

  “Because,” said Claire, not backing away a millimeter, “you’d know where she might go if she wanted to drop out of sight.”

  Franco saw that he wasn’t intimidating Claire and turned away, picking up a half-empty Coke bottle off a rickety table and taking a swig. “Why do you think I’d know that?”

  Claire saw her opportunity. “You were married to her once,” she said forcefully, but not so much that she sounded like she was trying to threaten his manhood.

  “So what?” Franco retorted.

  “So you’re still a father,” Claire fired back. “Whether you want to be with her or not, she’s still the mother of your children and those kids need her. More than they need you or any of this,” she finished, gesturing around at the dumpy apartment.

  For some reason—and to Claire’s surprise—her words actually affected Franco. He looked at her, and then looked at the floor, with what Claire could tell was shame. Then he looked back at Claire and gestured toward the closed bedroom door.

  “Sometimes you make mistakes, you know what I mean? You know, like guys do, thinking with the wrong head?”

  His self-awareness almost made Claire begin to like Franco. It also gave her the opening she needed. She forced a sympathetic look and spoke in an approving tone.

  “Nobody’s perfect, Franco,” Claire said. “And it takes a big man to look at himself and realize that.”

  Franco sat down on the stained sofa. “I screwed up, Doc,” he said. “Believe me, I know it. And I miss the kids. Two days a week ain’t enough.”

  Claire was starting to feel sorry for him. “You really don’t know where Rosa might be?” she asked him.

  “I swear,” Franco said, “I don’t. But no way she just leaves the kids behind. I’ll ask around, okay? And if I hear anything, you’re my first call.”

  Claire believed him. It was the most cooperation she had ever gotten from this man, and she couldn’t let it go without saying something. “If I hear anything, Franco, I’ll call you too.”

  Franco got up and opened the front door. “You should ask her mother. She always knows what’s going on with Rosa.”

  “My next stop,” Claire assured him, walking out. “Thanks.”

  She hurried down the stairs, holding her breath until she burst outside and gulped down a lungful of humid, gritty, Bronx air. Claire looked up at the puffy white clouds looming above, their bottoms bulging with streaks of dark gray. She cursed herself for leaving her umbrella behind and walked briskly to the subway station, hoping she’d get there before the rain fell again.

  The day’s second downpour was in full force when Claire exited the subway at the Southern Boulevard stop a few minutes later. She ran for the cover of the stairs down to the street, hoping to find a cab to take her the rest of the way to Rosa’s mother’s place, which was seven long blocks away. And then she remembered where she was. Yellow cabs usually only came to the South Bronx when they had to drop off a fare picked up in Manhattan.

  She ducked under the awning of a storefront insurance agency and scanned the streets for a livery cab. There were none to be found, far from surprising in this weather. She was scouring the stores for one that might sell umbrellas when she spotted a city bus whose sign said it was heading for Hunts Point. Claire sprinted as best she could in heels across the slippery street, the rain penetrating her stockings, barely making it on board before the doors closed.

  Fortunately, it was a short walk from the bus stop to Rosa’s mother’s apartment, which couldn’t have been more different from the dilapidated building Franco lived in. Maria Lopez, as petite as her daughter, her hair still naturally dark in her late forties, embraced Claire as if she were another one of her children.

  “I’m so glad you came by,” Maria said to her, drawing her inside and closing the door. Claire gazed around at the photos of Maria with Rosa and her two grandchildren, a four-year-old boy and six-year-old girl, both with the dark eyes and complexion of their parents. In the living room, old but well-kept furniture, including an aging plush sofa, beckoned her. A crucifix hung on one wall, above a table with photos of Rosa, her mother, her grandchildren. In the center of the table was the largest picture: Rosa in her white confirmation dress.

  As Claire sank into the sofa’s soft cushions, she couldn’t help compare Maria’s clean, warm, inviting home to Franco’s disgusting rat hole.

  “It’s always good to see you, Maria,” Claire replied, meaning it. Rosa’s mother had been a pillar of strength throughout her daughter’s ordeal. When Rosa had been arrested, Maria dipped into her savings to take care of her grandchildren. Even though she was hurt that Rosa didn’t ask her for help and money when Franco left, she also respected her daughter for trying to do it on her own. Maria always believed that Rosa had never done anything wrong, even when the justice system said otherwise and sentenced her to jail.

  Claire thought Maria, like Rosa, deserved a break after all that had happened. She dreaded having to deliver her news.

  “Have you spoken to Rosa today?” Claire asked.

  To Claire’s surprise, Maria’s face lit up. “Yes, and isn’t it wonderful?” Maria said.

  Her exuberance faded when Claire seemed confused. “Did Rosa not tell you what happened?” Maria went on.

  Claire knew she had to be careful here. “You know I’m not allowed to discuss what Rosa and I talk about.”

  “Well, she must have . . .” Maria replied—and then stopped, as if catching herself.

  “Must have what, Maria?” Claire asked.

  Maria glanced over to the table with the photos of her daughter. “It’s just that . . . well, I don’t want her to get in any trouble.”

  “If Rosa’s done something wrong,” Claire said, her voice full of empathy, “I need to know about it because I can help her, even if she committed a crime.”

  “My daughter did nothing wrong,” Maria hastened to say. “All she’s trying to do is make life better for her and her children.”

  “Then how could she possibly get in trouble?” asked Claire, her voice soothing.

  Maria looked down, seeming ashamed she’d raised her voice. “She went to Connecticut,” Maria said. Claire understood Maria’s fear. Rosa would have needed permission from her probation officer to leave New York State for any reason, and she clearly didn’t get it.

  But that’s the least of Rosa’s troubles. Rosa’s not in Connecticut. I just saw her this morning. In handcuffs. This doesn’t make sense. Wait. Think.

  Claire needed more information. “Rosa knows she’s supposed to stay in New York,” she said to Maria.

  “But it was for a job!” Maria cried out to Claire in frustration. “A good job! I was so excited when the man called.”

  Claire’s inner alarm went off. She shifted in her seat to keep her composure. “What man, Maria?” she asked.

  “The man from the cleaning company. In Hartford,” Maria answered. She stood and walked over to an aging, beaten-up, red, upright piano that Claire could only imagine would sound as bad as it looked.

  “Tell me what the man told you,” Claire urged Maria, knowing she had to be careful here.

  Maria’s words spilled over themselves, barely containing her excitement. “He said that his company wanted to offer my Rosa a job as a supervisor, cleaning the office building of a big insurance company. He was calling to make sure Rosa left to catch the train up to Hartford for the interview.”

  “Maria, did Rosa say anything about this before she left this morning?”

  “No, she said she was going to see you first. But when the man called I knew Rosa didn’t tell me so I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Or stop her from going.”

  “What else did this man say to you?”

  “That they were going to pay Rosa a lot of money. Enough for her to move to Hartford and buy a house. And for me to live with her and take care of the children.”

  It took Claire everything she had to contain her own anxiety.

  “Did you ask to speak
to Rosa?”

  “Of course,” Maria said, “but the man said she was busy filling out paperwork. And then he said they might keep Rosa in a hotel in Connecticut overnight.”

  “Did this man give you his name?”

  “Yes, and I wrote it down. Thomas Smith.”

  “So his number is in your cell phone.”

  “No, he used Rosa’s phone. He said his had run out of juice.”

  This confirmed Claire’s worst suspicions: she now knew Rosa was in terrible danger. Still, she held back, knowing that causing Maria more worry would be needlessly cruel.

  Claire rose from the couch. She moved as softly as she could, sneaking a peek at herself in an oval mirror hanging from the wall to make sure there was nothing but compassion on her face. She put her hand on Maria’s shoulder and spoke in a calm voice, though she felt anything but calm. “Maria, you need to do something very important for me. Rosa will call to check on the kids, won’t she?”

  “Of course,” Maria answered, “and to tell them good night.”

  “When she does, you must tell her to call me. Right away. She won’t want to do it, but she has to. And after she calls you—or if she doesn’t—either way, you need to call me as well. Okay?”

  “Yes. Okay. Is something wrong?”

  Claire headed for the door. “Well, I wish she had told me where she was going. I need to know everything. From her. So I can keep her out of trouble.”

  “I understand,” Maria said. “Thank you.” She threw her arms around Claire, grateful she wasn’t the only one watching out for her daughter.

  “Say hello to the kids for me,” Claire said, releasing her own embrace of Maria and walking out the door and down the hallway, until she heard it close behind her.

  She stopped, her heart heavy, and grabbed the wall for support. She knew Rosa wouldn’t call her mother or anyone else. Rosa wasn’t in Hartford, Connecticut, in any hotel or in any law enforcement facility.

  She didn’t know why she knew this. She just felt it. The fact that Rosa’s so-called employer used Rosa’s phone convinced Claire she was right.

  Rosa’s been kidnapped. And I’m terrified for her.

  A clap of thunder woke Claire from her temporary paralysis. She steadied herself as she walked to the stairs, then grabbed the splintered railing with her right hand. She’d hated thunderstorms since she was a child. Bad things seemed always to happen in her world during thunderstorms. And no doubt something bad was happening to Rosa.

  If it hasn’t happened already . . . Concentrate. Focus.

  She took a breath, slowly let it out, her thoughts shifting from raw emotion to the logic she needed right now.

  If Rosa had in fact been kidnapped by someone impersonating a law enforcement officer, Claire knew that she herself was probably the only witness who mattered. There was no way she could walk into a police station and make such an accusation.

  Claire strode out onto the sidewalk. The downpour had slowed to a trickle and there was even a patch of blue clearing in the sky.

  She was in over her head on this. She needed help. Now. From the last person she wanted to ask.

  But she knew she had to. Both she and Rosa had no choice.

  CHAPTER 4

  Claire dashed from the cab and ran through the rain toward the brownstone, a newspaper over her head replacing the umbrella that had blown apart in a gust of wind, as a man in a raincoat unlocked the building’s front door. He held it open for her and smiled as Claire ran right through and inside. She was grateful the man didn’t ask any questions about who she was and what she was doing there. She wasn’t sure that the person she came to see would have even buzzed her in.

  She stashed the soggy newspaper in a small trash bin near the door and shook the water off her hands, trying to push aside memories of the last time she was here as she trudged up two flights of stairs. By the time she reached the third-floor landing, she felt the emotions in full force. She put her hand on the brass door knocker to apartment 3A. She’d been here before, during one of the worst experiences of her life, and had spent much of the past year trying desperately to forget this place and everything that had happened on the other side of this door.

  This time is no different; only the circumstances are different. Instead of my life, it’s Rosa’s that’s in danger. And I won’t make the same mistakes again.

  A violent clap of thunder boomed, shaking the building and rattling Claire. It reminded her of her darkest day so many years ago, when, as a child, she witnessed the defining moment of her life: her best friend, Amy, being kidnapped right in front of her, stolen from her forever. Claire had the same feeling of dread right now—that she would never see Rosa again.

  But this time she would act before it was too late.

  She grabbed the knocker and rapped twice. No sooner did she let go than she heard footsteps approaching. But they weren’t the ones she expected to hear. These were softer. Lighter.

  Female.

  She heard the peephole cover slide back, then a sharp inhale from behind the door. As the locks clicked and turned, Claire expected to see the scared little girl she’d met just a year ago, maybe a little older.

  But when the door opened, Claire was shocked to see a beautiful, smiling teenager standing before her. A young woman with silken brunette hair and piercing blue eyes she’d clearly inherited from her father. Those eyes were now staring at Claire as if she were a long lost family member.

  “Claire,” she said, throwing her arms around her.

  Nick Lawler heard the name through the closed door of his bedroom and raised himself up on the bed in which he knew he was spending way too much time. He turned his head to check the clock on his bedside table but couldn’t see it, and he realized he had to turn his head further now. The tunnel comprising what remained of his vision had closed even more in the last year, an abyss at the bottom of which he knew was no light at all.

  His hearing, however, had never been better. When he first heard the name, he thought he was dreaming. But the continuing conversation convinced him that he was very much awake. And completely unpresentable.

  He sprang out of bed and headed for his closet to put on some real clothes for the first time in days.

  “My God, Jill, you’re all grown up,” was all Claire could get out as she returned the embrace, feeling her nervousness melt away.

  “Last time I saw you we were running for our lives,” Jill said.

  Her childhood was stolen from her, Claire thought. Just like mine.

  “Come in,” Jill said, “before the dog gets out.”

  Claire walked in and looked around. Her visit the previous year had been short and frightening, and Claire had barely had time to even notice the place, except that it was unkempt and if not dirty, messy. Now she looked around and saw the fresh coat of ice blue paint, an entry wall from which hung family photos. A new, pristine-looking brown leather sofa/recliner in the living room, seats aimed at a flat-screen TV Claire estimated to be at least sixty inches.

  But there was a woman’s touch here as well. A vase with excellent quality fake forsythias sat on a round cherrywood table. It took a moment to realize the woman who’d done this was not a new addition to the family but the smiling teenager standing before her.

  “How have you been?” Jill asked her. “Or should I ask, where have you been?”

  Claire was surprised by this question and decided right then she would tell Jill nothing but the truth. “I took some time off,” she admitted. And then she wondered why Jill had asked. “Why? Did you try to contact me?”

  “Once. About six months ago,” Jill replied. “I called the hospital but they said you weren’t there anymore.”

  Claire felt bad she hadn’t been there to get Jill’s call.

  “It was nothing, really. I just had a question to ask you,” Jill continued, as if reading Claire’s mind.

  The jingle of a dog collar turned her attention to a friendly German shepherd approaching her for an introd
uctory sniff.

  “I don’t remember you having a dog,” Claire said.

  “His name’s Cisco,” Jill told her. “He helps Dad get around.”

  Claire had feared this was coming. “So your father . . .”

  “Pretty much completely blind at night,” Jill confirmed.

  “And during the day?” Claire asked.

  “Not quite as bad,” Jill said, “but not great. He can still read the paper, thank God. And it was his excuse for getting this monster of a TV.”

  “It’s a big one,” Claire agreed, thinking Jill neither talked like a teenager nor acted like one. “How’s Katie?” she asked, referring to Jill’s younger sister.

  “Getting better. She took Nanna’s death real hard—” Jill said, stopping when a slight shock crossed Claire’s face.

  “When did that happen?” asked Claire, beating herself up even more for not keeping in touch.

  “You didn’t know,” Jill said, registering that her father and Claire hadn’t spoken in months.

  “I should have,” Claire stammered. “Your father and I . . . we haven’t talked in a while. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks,” Jill said, a bit too much like the adult she shouldn’t have to be yet. “It happened about a month after ... everything.” She looked into Claire’s eyes, the two of them knowing Jill meant the insanity of last year. “Nanna felt some pain in her stomach and she was starting to lose it mentally. By the time Dad convinced her to go to the doctor it was too late. She had stage five pancreatic cancer.”

  “Three weeks later she was gone,” came a familiar male voice from the hallway, as Nick Lawler emerged, comfortably dressed in a pair of jeans and a Mets T-shirt. His somber expression softened and he took Claire’s hands in his.

  “Detective Lawler,” Claire said, smiling.

  “Doctor Waters,” he replied, clearly glad to see her—or perhaps glad he can still see me, Claire thought. “To what do we owe this pleasantly surprising visit?” he asked.