The Prodigal Girl

by Evan Ronan

  Before I can solve the problem, my phone buzzes again. Tarika is out back. I give Bernie a little wave, so he knows I’m not to be disturbed, then head into the back. I open the rear door. This afternoon, Tarika is wearing jean shorts and a white t-shirt that says Class of ’93 on it. I can’t tell if the shirt is real or not, making me think about Carl and the stuff we’re peddling online.

  “Greg, is everything alright?” she asks.

  “Oh yeah. Just had a thought, about something else. Come in, come in.”

  I bring her to the office and shut the door. I haven’t done much work as a private investigator, but normally I’m happy to share information with a client. Today there’s a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. This is not a conversation I’ve looked forward to.

  “Can I get you anything?” I stall.

  She smiles. “No more alcohol.”

  I smile back but my face feels dead. Rather than offer her something else or open with a long, softening preamble, I just go with—

  “I think Shannon has a daughter.”

  In the span of a second, Tarika’s face displays a series of no less than eight different emotions. She settles on disbelief.

  “A daughter?”

  I nod. “There’s more.”

  “More?”

  “Marcus Tanner is home now. The girl, who looks about four years old to me, lives with him and his parents over on the other side of town.”

  “Marcus Tanner is home?” She looks ready to fly into a rage. “How did … when did he come back?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know yet. All I know is he’s home, living with his folks, and there’s a four-ish year old girl with them who looks of mixed race.”

  Tarika puts a palm over her mouth. “It can’t be hers. It can’t be Shannon’s. Why wouldn’t she say anything to me?”

  “Maybe she was embarrassed. Maybe she doesn’t want to …” I walk that last line back. If Shannon didn’t want to be a mother, why would she be scoping out Partastica and inquire about having a kid’s party there?

  “What?” Tarika says.

  I bring her up to speed. To say she’s dumbfounded is like saying the universe is big.

  “I don’t believe this. Why would she keep this from me?” Tarika opens up her purse and gets her phone out. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this right n—”

  “That’s up to you.” I hold out a palm. “But right now we don’t have a lot of information. I think she got money from that check cashing place. I assume she knows Marcus is back. I would guess she’s seen her daughter. But there’s a lot more to the story, Tarika. If you call her on it now, she’ll know she’s being followed.”

  She still has the phone out. But she hasn’t dialed yet.

  “You want to keep watching her?” Tarika asks, and I hate that she does. Because this is her decision to make. I don’t want to take ownership of that.

  “You’re the client,” I say. “I’m just presenting you with options.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  Careful here. “I would suggest we wait a couple days before you confront her. More might come to light. Then you’ll have more information.”

  Tarika still has the phone out. “I don’t know what to do, Greg. I’ve been worried ever since she came back and now I find out she’s a mother. I find out I’m a grandmother?”

  “It must be a lot to take in.”

  I am observant, if nothing else.

  “A lot?” She laughs ruefully. “It’s too much. Why didn’t she tell me? Why would she ever trust her baby to those, those, those people?”

  “I don’t know, Tarika.”

  She breaks down. “That kills me, Greg. She chose them over me to care for her daughter?”

  “I’m very sorry,” I say. “But like I said, we don’t have the whole picture yet.”

  “Fine.” She stands, thrusts her cell phone back into her purse. Swipes under her eyes. “You keep watching her.”

  And Tarika, angry and embarrassed and hurt, storms out of my office.

  Quite an effect I have on women.

  Thirteen

  The phone wakes me.

  “Shannon is up already,” Tarika says. “She’s never up this early.”

  I’m still half-asleep. “Okay.”

  “She’s getting a shower. She never gets a shower this early either.”

  I’m one-quarter asleep. “Okay.”

  “Greg, she’s going somewhere. Where would she be going?”

  Monday morning, not quite yet rush hour. “Job interview?”

  “She said she hasn’t been looking that much, just trying to get back into the flow of life around here.”

  I don’t say, What better way to get back into the flow than to get a job?

  “On my way.”

  I take a two-minute shower, throw on jeans and a t-shirt, find a baseball cap I haven’t worn in forever, and get on the road. Halfway there, Tarika calls back.

  “She just left. Where are you?”

  “En route.” Though I’m about to get snarled in rush hour traffic. “Did you ask her where she’s going?”

  “Yes,” Tarika says. “Shannon says she was headed to Medboro. She said she wanted to walk around.”

  “Hell,” I say. There’s little chance I’ll magically happen upon her. “Tarika, I need more of a direction—”

  “I followed her out,” she interrupts. “But I’ve got to turn soon for work. How close are you?”

  “Not close enough.” Damnit. I wasn’t expecting this much to happen this quickly on this case. I can’t be camped out all night at their house, waiting for Shannon to come and go. “There are a few different ways to get to Medboro from there but only one major highway. There’s a diner where the sixty-five and sixty-two intersect. I’ll park it there.”

  “Greg, I’m worried.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Shit! She just got through a traffic light. We’re on Potter Road, right near the Wegman’s.”

  “Okay, I know where you are. If she’s coming to Medboro, she’ll get on the highway.”

  “What should I do?” She’s really panicked. I can picture her squirming in her seat in the car. “Greg, this is where I turn for work. Should I—”

  “That’s a long light,” I say. “She’ll get three or four minutes ahead of you, with a lot of traffic in between. Head to work. I’ll call you back.”

  “Why is she going to Medboro?”

  Deep breath. “Next time, Tarika, you need to force the issue. Ask her where she’s going, ask for specifics. I’m a half hour away. Unless I’m staked out I—”

  “I don’t want to push her away, Greg!” She’s breathing heavily. “I can’t lose my Shannon again. I can’t!”

  “Sorry.” I rub my tired eyes. I was up much too late. A few of the regulars got into a big-draw money match. I kept the hall open after hours to accommodate. Next thing I knew, word got around and the place was packed. A lot of money changed hands, some of that money ended up in my coffers. First time in a long time that’s happened, so I couldn’t turn it away. “You’re right. Just try for me next time.”

  “Greg.” Her voice is thick. “I’m losing my mind. She has a kid and won’t tell me. Marcus is back and she won’t tell me. Her daughter is living with those people and she won’t tell me. I just can’t take this.”

  “I can’t even imagine.” I go through another light. The diner is a few minutes up the road at the next intersection. “Alright. I’m keeping an eye out for her. Call you back.”

  “Thanks, Greg.”

  I pull into the busy lot. And wait. I’m facing the street, as close to an exit as I can get and run through my poor excuse for a mental computer to come up with reasons why Shannon would come to Medboro.

  If she’s even coming here.

  Traffic snarls at this intersection. I watch the same car inch forward. The light changes three times before it gets through. Reminds me of a clogged artery.


  I really need to get back into a habit with the gym.

  Ten minutes slide by, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why Shannon would be coming to Medboro. There’s nothing here that they don’t have in Willingham. The stores are a little bit more upscale, but not incredibly so. There’s no mall. Is she visiting an old friend? If so, who? And why on a Monday morning at eight-thirty?

  More cars pass.

  My phone rings. “Hey, Lorelei.”

  “Greg,” she says. “Your daughter is having a moment.”

  She sounds exasperated. “What’s up?”

  “She wants to quit soccer. She’s throwing a fit and doesn’t want to go to camp.”

  “Don’t force her,” I say. As she’s gotten older, Tammy has begun to gravitate toward track and soccer, but with the latter, she’s reached a point where she’s playing year-round. In my humble opinion, it’s way too much and a wonder she and her teammates haven’t burned out already. Earlier this year, she said she wanted to sign up for this camp in late summer to get sharp before the school year began. At the time I thought it was a good idea.

  “She says she’s sick of it and annoyed with her teammates,” Lorelei says.

  “It’s too much …”

  “What?”

  My mind has drifted to Shannon. No, I haven’t seen her car. But that wonderful thing called my brain is firing a warning signal at me.

  “Remind me, Lor, her grades were fine at the end of the year, right?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Still all A’s?”

  “Yes. Greg, why do you ask?”

  “It’s probably nothing.” Just because Tammy lost interest in soccer summer camp doesn’t mean anything. “I’m worrying for no reason. It’s just camp.”

  “No, Greg,” Lorelei says. “She’s ready to quit soccer.”

  “She is?”

  “Yeah! That’s what I’m saying. She’s done. She’s throwing a complete fit. I was wondering if you could talk to her later.”

  Tammy has always excelled at the sport. She’s not necessarily the best player on the team, but she’s always been number two or number three. If she pushes herself, she could play for Apache, maybe walk-on at a college …

  I’m getting way ahead of myself when I see Shannon’s car stop dead in front of me on the highway. I slither down ever so slowly in my seat. Shannon is keeping her eyes forward, waiting patiently for the light to change.

  “I’ll give her a call later tonight,” I say.

  “Is everything okay?” Lorelei asks.

  “Yeah, sorry, just right in the middle of something. Talk to you later.”

  We hang up. It takes me nearly three minutes just to get out of the lot. I’m lucky to get through the light when I do. Shannon is already far ahead of me.

  As discreetly and legally as possible, I weave in and out of traffic till there’s a comfortable distance between Shannon and me. She slows and turns onto Main Street. It’s a weird time for someone who doesn’t work to be out. I wonder if she really does have an interview somewhere and, in keeping with her cryptic attitude about everything else she’s done since she came home, if she just doesn’t want her long-suffering mother to know what she’s doing.

  A moment later, I make the same turn. I’m surprised to see her pulling over to park. There are businesses along both sides of the street, a workout studio, a dance studio, one of those paint-it-yourself places, a coffee shop, a diner, a Philly soft pretzel shop, and a bunch of lawyer’s offices. Medboro is the county seat, and the courthouse is only a few blocks away.

  And, of course, she goes the last place I think of. Shannon, dressed a bit more nicely than last night, feeds the meter next to her car, then struts up the sidewalk. I park a few spots away and sit very still, watching her in my mirrors. Shannon walks into the Law Offices of James Stanek, Esq.

  Ah, Jimmy. I know him because everybody knows everybody. But I also had dealings with him on another case.

  Once Shannon is inside, I get out of the car and feed the meter. Three quarters for three hours, that should do it. Then I cut across the street and duck into a coffee shop.

  “Whoa, is that Greg Owen?”

  I smile at the owner. I’ve known Little Richard since eighth grade. His name, Little Richard, is an incredibly ironic title which I can, unfortunately, attest to. Not long after his family moved in and he joined our class, did Richard begin to constantly brag about the size of a certain part of his anatomy, till someone else shamed him into proving it, which he did, most proudly and most inappropriately, on the playground outside of school.

  These day, I just call him Rich.

  “Rich, buddy, what’s the good word?” I lean across the counter and we do the man-hug. “How’s business?”

  “It’s coffee.” He shrugs. “Everybody drinks it. Warren Buffett is right about a lot of things, but he’s wrong about a few too. You don’t always need a moat as a business owner. You just need something everybody wants.”

  “Gotta good location too,” I point out.

  “That too.” He smiles. “So location and something everybody wants.”

  “If it were that simple, we’d all be millionaires like you.”

  He snorts. “Fuck you too, Greg. What can I get for you?”

  “Something big and heavily caffeinated.”

  “You got it.” He smiles as he pours a dark roast for me. After giving it some thought, I realize I haven’t been in here for three years. “How’s Tammy?”

  “So far I haven’t screwed up her yet.”

  “I do believe in miracles.”

  “I aim to inspire.”

  Rich finishes pouring me a gargantuan coffee. I go to pay for it, but he won’t take my money. “Fellow small business owner discount.”

  “There’s nothing small about my business,” I chide.

  “There’s nothing small about me,” he comes back.

  “Still bragging about that?”

  He shrugs. “A man should take pride in his body.”

  “Yeah, because you worked so hard for that.”

  He laughs. “Do I detect a bit of jealousy?”

  “You detect a lot of ennui.”

  “En-who?”

  “Google it. You’ve been making the same joke for forty years. It’s tired.”

  “I heard humor gets better with repetition.”

  “Yeah, I heard that too. Because that’s the other joke you’ve been making for forty years.”

  “That coffee will be three-fifty.”

  I smile and take a seat close to the window. Rich waits on several men who can’t be anything but lawyers. They have the expensive suits, they love to talk, and they want everybody in the joint to know they’re very important.

  I can’t even be bothered to yawn in their general direction.

  The coffee is good, though it’s high octane. If I finish this I’ll be up all night. I can just see the Law Offices of James Stanek, situated across the busy street, from where I sit. And a bit farther up the road, Shannon Lahill’s car is still parked. If I know anything, it’s this: she’ll be waiting to speak to attorney James Stanek for a while. Attorneys are worse than doctors when it comes to being on time.

  I see no less than five people I know while I wait. Making small talk is an art, one which I’ve had to learn over the years. Doesn’t come naturally. I chat them up. Fortunately they’re all on their way to work so we hi-and-bye and then I settle in and wait.

  The last time I paid a visit to James Stanek, it had been to discuss a criminal matter. Lawyers these days tend to specialize, or at least find a few niches. Criminal defense is Stanek’s. So why is Shannon speaking to him?

  On my phone, I check out his website. It looks slick, like it’s been redone recently by a talented designer. Across the banner of Stanek’s home page are the areas he practices in. Criminal is the last thing listed. He also handles contract law and civil matters, including auto accident and premises liability, a.k.a. slip and fal
ls. I wonder if the focus of his practice has shifted, and if so, why.

  On a lark, I call an old friend. Miles is an ex-con who reaches out every so often with a new business idea. I love his energy and we have a strange rapport, but I’d never go into business with him. Miles is just a touch shady for my tastes. He got busted for running moonshine of all things.

  Moon—

  Shine.

  “My man, Greg Owen. What’s up?”

  “Hey, Miles.” I keep an eye on Stanek’s office. “How the heck are you?”

  “You ain’t heard?”

  Miles always has something going on. He’s never lived a life of quiet desperation, as they say.

  “I am increasingly out of the loop. Must be getting old.”

  “Shit, man, the state came in and raided me.”

  “Raided you?”

  “Yeah, man, it was illegal. They didn’t have proper cause. My lawyer’s going to shred them.”

  I’m not sure what the etiquette is. Polite society probably does not ask a man why the cops busted down his door.

  Then again, Miles opened the proverbial door for me.

  “What were they looking for?”

  “Oh hell, man, you know,” he says not bothering to elaborate. “My lawyer’s going to shred them.”

  “Good luck with that,” I say. “Would your lawyer happen to be James Stanek?”

  He has a good laugh at this.

  “Did I miss the joke?” I ask.

  “You serious, bro?” he asks. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Nobody hires Stanek for criminal charges anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  Miles says slyly, “You fishing for a compliment or something?”

  I really have no idea what he’s talking about. “Miles, I’m out of the loop here.”

  “Aw, shit, man. When you got Nick Carlisle freed, it made Stanek look like a fool. He defended the kid and the best he could do was get his innocent client a deal for what, twenty-five years? Then you come along, a few years later, and get Nick out inside of a week of snooping around? I heard half his clients dropped him almost overnight.”

  “You serious?”

  “As an audit.”

  As a small business owner myself, I don’t do anything to negatively impact somebody else’s book. If Rich’s coffee were shit, I might let him know on the sly but I wouldn’t go blabbing about it to somebody else and kill word of mouth. It’s hard enough to make a living. Plenty of other people will trash your product or service, often for no good or honest reason.