by Roger Hayden
***
Miriam was trying to cut down on her energy drinks, but it was afternoon, and like clockwork, she needed one to make it through the rest of the day. She cracked open a Monster and took a sip while rocking back in her office chair. Things got especially busy later in the afternoon at the moving company in Sarasota, Florida, where she worked as an assistant operations manager.
Her job mainly involved dispatching, where her bilingualism and experience using a radio proved to be an asset. From her single office, she could see the shop floor, where a line of trucks was parked—some with trailers as long as forty feet.
She checked her email, expecting the usual slew of spam, truck requests, and customer complaints. Some of everything awaited her. A mustached associate named Ed passed by and knocked on her window.
“Got that dispatch ready yet?”
“Which one?” she asked through the window.
“The twenty footer. Moving a two-bedroom in one hour.”
She grabbed a clipboard on her desk, the paperwork already complete, and pushed it through a slot for the man to take.
“You’re on it, as always,” he said with a grin.
She nodded back and resumed dealing with her email. Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail. She wore a dark-red short-sleeved polo shirt with the company logo on it and blue jeans—a distinct change from her old police uniform. Still slim and attractive, Miriam often found herself on the receiving end of date requests from her largely male staff. She had given it a shot from time to time, but something in her told her she wasn’t ready, even though the ink on her divorce papers was two years old.
Maybe it was her. She couldn’t figure it out. All that mattered at the end of the day was her daughter. But at twelve, Ana was getting older. “Mommy” had long morphed into “Mom.” Ana was also starting to talk about boys. She was the spitting image of her mom—with a little of her father’s wild streak in her personality. Miriam had an idea of what she was in for. It was inevitable.
She took another sip of her energy drink just when her office phone rang, a single red button flashing on the line, indicating an outside call.
“East Coast Trucking,” she said, taking the call.
A man’s voice greeted her. “Is this Miriam Castillo?”
“Yes…” she answered, holding the phone against her ear with her shoulder while opening some mail.
“Miriam Castillo?”
She paused. “Who is this?”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Ms. Castillo. This is Detective Dwight O’Leary.”
She dropped the envelopes and then grabbed the phone. “Detective O’Leary?” She could feel her heart beating faster. The past raced back to her at the mention of his name.
“Yes. Lee County Crime Investigation Division.”
“Yes, what can I help you with?” Part of her was ready to hang up the phone then and there, but curiosity kept her on the line. “And how did you get this number?”
She heard the sound of mild laughter on the other end. “Well, I am a detective after all.”
“That’s funny, but I’m very busy, so please…”
“Yes, yes. Of course. I apologize. I heard you’re living in Sarasota now?”
Miriam hesitated but answered out of respect for O’Leary. She recalled him as being a good, honest detective. “That’s correct.”
She could sense his own hesitation on the other end. He wasn’t about to offer her a million bucks. He had a motive, and she was curious as to what it was. “Do you think you could give me an hour? Two hours tops?”
“For what?” she asked warily.
“I’m about two hours away now. I could be in your area a little after five. I’d love to catch up, maybe go out for a drink.”
“Detective O’Leary, I don’t know what to say. This is very short notice, and I have plans. Maybe some other time?” She didn’t have plans beyond making dinner for Ana, but she wasn’t up for it nonetheless.
“Listen, Sergeant. I need your help. I’m back in the game, and you’re the only one who can bring the Dawson case across the finish line.”
She felt infuriated by his tone. “I’m no longer a police officer, understand? That’s all behind me now. Good day, Detective…”
“No, no, wait!”
She paused, holding the phone.
“I understand how you feel,” he said. I know what the department did to you. They burned you, and it wasn’t right. But this isn’t about them. Hell, it’s certainly not about me. This is about Jenny Dawson and her family.”
“What are you talking about?” she snapped.
“I’m talking about meeting up. A brief chat and nothing more.”
She looked at her wall clock and then to the computer screen. Employees passed by her window. One of the trucks in the distance roared to life. Another knock at her window, a driver standing there waiting for a dispatch. His name was Brent, a quiet man with a slight paunch and bored composure.
“Think you could help me out?” O’Leary asked.
She handed Brent a clipboard. He turned and walked away, saying nothing. It was the same thing day in and day out. She had pushed all thoughts of her time on the police force so far back into her mind that she had just begun to realize how boring her new life truly was. Maybe O’Leary could use her help.
“Okay,” she said. “One hour. I live at 2047 Weatherford Lane—”
“Oh, I have your address. Thanks,” he said.
Miriam said nothing. She wasn’t surprised that he had already looked it up.
“How’s your place, five thirty? Or we could just meet up somewhere else.”
“My place is fine,” she said. “I have to be there when Ana gets home.”
“Sounds great. Thanks, and I’ll see you then.”
She hung up the phone and stared at her computer screen. She felt overcome with mixed emotions, simmering just below the surface. All she could do in response was sigh.
