She put her hand on Jeremy’s shoulder just as he was about to run off and greet his friends. “I’m sorry, honey, but I’m suddenly not feeling so well. I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to help in the classroom today.”
Jeremy’s face fell. “What about seeing Daddy? You promised.”
“We’ll do that. We will. This afternoon, just like I told you. But this morning I need to rest. You okay with that?”
With the visit to his dad still assured, Jeremy nodded, if somewhat reluctantly, and joined the throng of movement inside the classroom. Diana found the teacher and made her apologies.
“Oh, of course you don’t need to be here. I never for a minute thought to expect you today. Don’t think twice about it.” She touched Diana’s arm. “You and your family are in my prayers.”
Diana wasn’t convinced that all the prayers in the world would make a difference.
*****
Back home, Diana called Emily. Normally, they didn’t talk more than once a week at most, but life was hardly normal, and Diana, who always felt as though she walked on eggshells where Emily was concerned, was feeling especially anxious about not angering her daughter.
“I can’t talk,” Emily said, although she had answered the phone, which was unusual. “How’s Roy? Any news?”
“No real change.” As for news, Diana saw no point in telling Emily that Roy had mumbled a strange woman’s name while unconscious or that the police seemed to suspect he might somehow be implicated in the robbery in which he was shot. Those were not the sort of suspicions a good mother shared with her daughter. And Diana tried desperately to be a good mother, even when she wasn’t.
“Oh,” Emily said, sounding somewhat perplexed. “Then why’d you call?”
“I wanted to see how you were doing.” Diana was suddenly unsure why she’d thought calling Emily was a good idea.
“You know, same old stuff.” Emily’s words were muffled, either by bad cell phone reception or because she was distracted and not talking into the phone. “Roy’s going to get better, isn’t he?”
“I hope so.”
“I do, too.” Emily’s voice broke. “He’s got to.”
“How are your classes?” Diana asked, priming the conversation pump. “Are you managing to keep up?” Emily had never been a strong student, and Diana worried that the rigors of college might be too much for her, even without a family tragedy.
“Sort of. Speaking of class, I need to get going.”
“Okay, talk to you soon. Bye, honey. I love you.”
A stretch of silence and then a muffled “Bye, Mom.”
Diana sighed, made a second cup of coffee, and sat down with the morning’s paper. Since Monday, when she’d combed the paper for everything she could find about the shooting, she hadn’t done more than skim the front page headlines. She wasn’t particularly interested in what was going on outside of her own unsettled world, but sipping coffee while reading the paper was a familiar ritual and she welcomed familiar wherever she could find it.
It wasn’t until she reached the third page of the second section, the local news section, that she started reading in earnest. There she found a human interest piece about Hector Kimball, the clerk who’d been killed in the same botched robbery where Roy had been shot. Hector was the second of five children, the youngest of whom was only four years old. His father was a disabled shipyard worker and his mother worked nights for a commercial janitorial service. Hector’s older brother, the first and only person in the family to have graduated from high school, had been killed last year in Iraq. Hector hadn’t yet turned eighteen and his funeral was tomorrow.
For all her own pain, Diana was struck by the terrible losses the Kimball family had suffered. She’d pictured the clerk as some faceless entity, another cog in the blur of poverty. She was horrified now at her callousness. These were human beings whose anguish was as great as her own.
She studied the newspaper photo of Hector. It showed a serious young man, a boy really, with a thin face and deep-set eyes. Had Roy been shot helping him resist the robbery? Diana wanted to believe that was the case, but she was reminded again that she didn’t have the slightest understanding of what Roy had been up to that afternoon.
Diana dumped what was left of her coffee into the sink. She couldn’t live with so many open questions. She needed answers.
An address scribbled on a torn margin of an advertising supplement wasn’t much to go on, but at the moment it was all she had. She grabbed her purse and car keys, then decided to drive Roy’s Lexus instead of her own Volvo so she could take it to the car wash. Roy was meticulous about his car and he wouldn’t be happy with the oily coat of grime that had accumulated during the two days in the impound lot. It depressed her to think this was one of the few things she could do for him.
*****
As she pulled into a parking spot on Bayo Vista, Diana wondered if she should have asked Len to accompany her. It wasn’t that the neighborhood seemed especially dangerous—in fact, on previous blocks she’d seen occasional pedestrians, including a mother and child, and there were workmen of some sort in the block ahead. But most of the houses were small and rundown, with bars on their first-floor windows. And in the bare-dirt park across the street, two men were standing next to a smoking trash can and drinking from a container in a brown paper bag.
It didn’t look like the sort of neighborhood where Roy might find a lover.
The address in question was toward the middle of the block. Diana’s heart sank when she realized it was an apartment building with maybe twelve or fifteen units. The paper with the address hadn’t listed an apartment number. She had no idea where to start.
She studied the faded pink, three-story stucco building, then sighed. It was all she had at the moment so she’d have to make the best of it. With Roy’s photo tucked inside her purse, she got out of the car, stepped around a broken beer bottle on the sidewalk, and headed for the apartment building.
Out of the five apartments on the first floor, only one elderly resident answered her knock. He who gave Roy’s photo a cursory look, then shook his head.
“Never seen him,” he said before closing the door in Diana’s face.
Feeling uncomfortably out of her element, she climbed the open stairway to the second floor, where two doors opened for her. One was a young man who shot a torrent of Spanish at her without bothering to undo the security chain. The other was an overly thin, light-skinned black woman whose apartment reeked of cigarette smoke. She was probably only in her early thirties, but she had the hard, lined face of someone whom life had not treated well.
She took her time studying Roy’s photo, then shook her head.
“He doesn’t look familiar. Are you with the police? Is he dangerous?”
“No.” Diana hadn’t thought how to explain herself. “My brother,” she said, going with the first thought that came to her. “We’ve lost touch and this is last address I had for him.”
“He’s a good-looking guy.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Family is such a hassle, isn’t it?” The woman laughed without humor. “Me, I’d be only too happy to lose touch with my brother.”
“Well, sorry to have bothered you.”
She handed the photo back to Diana. “Your brother, he’s a nice guy?”
“Very.”
She gave Diana a wistful look. “You’re lucky. Mine’s a bum. Good luck. Hope you find him.” Another humorless laugh. “If you do and he’s single, tell him Brenda Harris would like to meet him.”
The third floor proved equally unhelpful. Dispirited, Diana started down the cracked cement stairs to the street. Her phone rang as she reached the second-floor landing, reverberating loudly in the narrow stairwell.
“Hi,” Allison said. “I expected voicemail. Isn’t this your day to work at Jeremy’s school?”
“I bailed, couldn’t handle it.”
“Not surprising. Where are you, anyway? You sound like you’r
e talking from the bottom of a well.”
“I am. A stairwell.” She told Allison about checking out the address she’d found in Roy’s car. “It’s a down-at-the-heels apartment building in a similar sort of neighborhood, assuming the address on the paper even refers to San Francisco. There was no city, just a street and number.”
“Shouldn’t you leave that stuff to the police?”
“Probably. At least I can be reasonably sure it’s not the address of a mistress.”
“You can’t honestly have thought it might be.”
“The name ‘Mia’ has to mean something to him,” Diana said. “And Roy’s been different this last month or so. Distracted and detached.”
“Whatever was on his mind,” Allison insisted, “it must have been about work.”
“In any case, today was a waste of time. That address has probably been sitting in his car for months.” Diana reached the ground floor and crossed the street to her car. “Oh, my God.”
“What is it?”
“My windshield. Roy’s windshield. It’s smashed.” Diana’s first reaction was one of disbelief, followed by anger. “I wasn’t gone even half an hour.”
“Is there anyone around?”
“No. There were a couple of guys hanging out in the park when I got here, but nobody now.” Diana peered through the mosaic of shattered window glass. “And my leather jacket is gone from the front seat.”
Normally, she’d have called Roy. He’d talk her through it, calm her down, and then make everything right. She wanted to cry.
“Call the police,” Allison said, “and then Triple A. Where are you?”
“On Bayo Vista, across from something called Dewey Park, although it’s not much of a park.” The bleakness of the litter-strewn bare dirt park matched her mood.
“Do you want me to come get you?”
Diana looked at her watch. She had no idea how long it would take to get the car towed and deal with whatever reports needed to be filed. “It would be a big help if you’d pick up Jeremy for me. I hate to ask but—”
“Of course, no problem. Give Len a call and he’ll come get you. I’ll tell him to expect your call.”
“What would I do without you two?”
“Luckily you don’t have to find out.”
Diana called AAA and gave them her location, reading the address from the scrap of newspaper ad she’d found in Roy’s car. As she finished the call, she noticed the paper was dated the Sunday Roy had been shot.
Diana’s pulse quickened. The scrap of paper hadn’t been in Roy’s car forever. It had to be connected in some way to what had happened.
Chapter 13
Chloe’s shift would end in half an hour and she still didn’t know what she was going to do when it was time to go home. At least Trace hadn’t stormed into the Craft Connection today, as she’d been afraid he might. There was no telling what Trace would do when he got angry. And last night he’d been as angry as she’d ever seen him.
Reflexively, Chloe touched her cheek, which made the dull throbbing sharpen with knifelike intensity. Her eye was swollen and she knew the makeup she’d layered on that morning hadn’t done a very good job of covering the bruise, even with repeated applications. She certainly hadn’t fooled her friend Velma, who’d commented on it right off.
“That boyfriend of yours hit you?” Velma asked when they were unlocking their cash registers that morning.
“I ran into the bathroom door in the dark,” Chloe told her.
“Honey, that doesn’t look like a door kind of bruise to me.”
When Chloe didn’t respond, she added, “I been hit myself. I know what it’s like. But pretending it didn’t happen won’t change anything. Abuse is abuse.”
Chloe looked her friend in the eye. “I’m a big girl, Velma. I don’t need you running my life for me.”
It was the right thing to say, because Velma only gave her a long look, then turned away, shaking her head. But Chloe felt bad, because Velma was one of the only friends she had—although “friend” was probably stretching it, since Velma was twelve years older and they never saw each other outside of work. Chloe didn’t know much about Velma’s life except that she and her little boy lived with her sister and no one was happy with the arrangement.
So Velma had been hit in the past. Well, so had Chloe.
But abuse? That was pushing it. Trace had been angry was all, and short-tempered because he was in pain. No one was on their best behavior when they were hurting. He’d also been scared by the three guys who’d forced their way into the apartment. Scared and afraid to admit it.
She still didn’t know what the men wanted and had been afraid to ask. After Trace hit her, she’d expected an apology. That’s what usually happened. She’d do something to push him over the edge and he’d react. But he usually apologized right away and begged her to forgive him. So last night when he hit her a second time, Chloe hadn’t seen it coming. When she tried to get away, he grabbed her by the hair until she twisted free, ran into the bedroom, and locked the door. Thankfully Trace hadn’t tried to kick it in, because he easily could have. The whole building was so poorly constructed, it was a miracle it was still standing.
Chloe had been frightened. She might not admit it to Velma, but at the time, she’d been really scared of what Trace might do. She’d heard him in the living room swearing and kicking the wall, but he hadn’t come after her. When she left for work this morning, he’d been sound asleep on the couch, and she felt guilty for having been afraid. Trace loved her. She should never think the worst of him.
She had tossed the DA’s gun in a dumpster on her way to work. There’d been a moment last night when it had crossed her mind she might have to use it against Trace, and that frightened her most of all.
She wasn’t eager to go home just yet. But what other options did she have? She’d have to go back sooner or later. Besides, Trace never stayed angry for very long.
She’d be really good to him. She’d stop by the store and buy one of those rotisserie chickens he liked. And the expensive brand of French fries. He had to be feeling bad about hitting her. If she was careful not to make a big deal out of it, they could put the whole thing behind them. Couples had arguments. That was normal. The important thing was not to hold a grudge. She had read that more than once in those women’s magazines by the checkout stand.
When her shift ended, she gathered her jacket and her purse. Velma was working the cash register by the door, waiting on a customer. When Chloe walked by, Velma said, “You take care, honey. Remember, you got a baby to think about now.”
Chloe wanted to give another sharp retort, but knew Velma meant well. Velma had a big heart and you couldn’t fault someone for that. “I am thinking about the baby,” Chloe told her. “And everything’s going to be fine.”
And as she headed for the bus stop, she put a hand on her belly. “It is, Jenny,” she told the baby. “I promise. Daddy was just having a bad night, that’s all.”
*****
Chloe entered the apartment carrying a bag of groceries and shaking with trepidation. She wasn’t sure what to expect. Usually after a fight Trace was really sweet, but sometimes he was cool and distant. What she didn’t expect was that Trace would simply not be there.
“Trace?” She put the groceries on the kitchen counter and peered into the small living-dining area. She checked the bedroom and bathroom. All empty. The apartment was still a mess of overturned furniture and broken glass, and there was no sign of Trace. Not even a note.
Chloe’s heart sank. What if he’d walked out and left her for good? What would she do? She’d be all alone. Trace was her whole life. Good memories flooded her mind and brought tears to her eyes. She’d screwed up again. Driven him away. Why did she always make a mess of everything?
She raced back to the bedroom to the closet and was relieved to find it wasn’t empty. Trace’s pants and shirts were still there. His underwear and socks were in his drawer, his toothbrush in the ba
throom. Wherever he was, he hadn’t left her.
So where was he? And why hadn’t he scribbled a note? He was wounded and weak. He wouldn’t go out for no reason. Was he still mad at her?
She put away the groceries and debated what to do about dinner. She didn’t want to heat the fries too early or they’d be cold by the time Trace came home. And the roasted chicken couldn’t sit out forever. You could get sick that way. Chloe had had that lesson drummed into her at the group home.
Then another thought hit her. What if Weasel-face and his friends from last night had returned? The apartment was messed up—overturned tables and lamps, broken glass, and a big dent in the plaster where it looked like Trace had kicked it in anger. But was it any worse than when she’d left for work this morning? Hard to tell.
By now she’d worked herself into a state of panic. Trace might be in trouble. What if the thugs had beaten Trace and taken him captive? She couldn’t very well call the police, could she? She walked around the apartment, growing more and more agitated. Finally she put the chicken in the fridge—better cold than deadly—and took the garbage downstairs to the dumpster.
Coming back into the lobby, she ran into the short-haired woman with the black Lab who’d moved in about a month earlier.
“Hi,” the woman said, holding the door for Chloe. “I’m Ellie. I’ve seen you around.”
Ellie looked to be a few years older than Chloe, and though they’d nodded to each other in passing, this was the first time they’d spoken.
“Hi.” Chloe didn’t offer up her own name. Her mind was consumed with worry about Trace.
“You live on the third floor, with a guy, right?” Ellie signaled to the Lab to sit. “Roommate or boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend,” Chloe replied, noting that Ellie hadn’t thought to include “husband” as an option.
Trace hadn’t offered up that option either, even though she said with the baby coming they ought to get married. Not that being married would change the mess they were in now.
Lying With Strangers Page 8
