Face Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “But, damn it. In the best of circumstances, remembering what someone looked like is not easy,” Will says. He leans across the table and picks up the photo of Dorinda. I twist around to watch him. He’s staring at the photo as he continues. “Especially if it’s in a dark place. And the suspect is a stranger.”

  “I mean, this was a bar, near closing time, people had been drinking,” Franklin says. “It just all seems so—”

  I look back at the photos, trying to imagine whether I could pick out Dorinda after seeing her once, as a random stranger. The Ralph Lauren preppie, bobbed hair and bangs, doesn’t look like her at all. The Red Sox woman has freckles. The one in the sweatshirt—I pull my reading glasses from their perch on top of my head and look closer.

  “Hang on a second,” I say. It’s still too dark in here to see close-up details. Frowning, I search for better light. Finally I take the photo to the coffee station at the end of the room. I flip on the light over the sink, and hold the photo underneath.

  I must have made some sort of sound, because Franklin comes to stand beside me, pulling the photo closer to him. “What do you see? There’s nothing but a woman who’s not Dorinda wearing a black sweatshirt.”

  I’m trying to contain my excitement. I’m almost afraid to say anything. I could be wrong, of course. But with growing certainty, I know I’m not. A breath of life creeps back into our story. It may not be the story we started with, but if I’m right …

  I ease the photo out of Franklin’s hand and carry it back to the conference table. I offer the picture to Rankin and Will. Will takes it first.

  “The logo on her sweatshirt,” I say, pointing. “How would you describe it?”

  Will looks at me, then Rankin, baffled. “Uh, okay…” He brings the picture closer to his face, then away again. “It’s a shield,” he begins. “Some kind of a crest? It has letters—S then J. Then it says 1969.” He shrugs and hands the photo to Rankin. “Some clothing company founded in 1969. Right?”

  “Wrong,” I say. I take the photo back, and this time, give it to Franklin.

  “Puff Daddy,” I say. “I mean, P. Diddy.”

  Franklin grins and starts to nod. “You rock, Charlotte,” he says. “You’re right. It’s the logo of Sean John, Diddy’s clothing line. You know, the music mogul. The rapper.”

  Rankin and Will exchange a bewildered glance. Will gestures the floor to Rankin. “So?” the attorney says.

  “Well,” Franklin says, his smile beginning to match my own, “Charlotte and I are researching counterfeit clothing. It could be our next story. Anyway, as a result, we’re familiar with all the logos. All the designer logos, the ones that get copied and resold. Even the outdated ones.”

  “So?” Rankin repeats. “You two have lost me here.”

  “So,” I reply, “we know the ‘founded in 1969’ thing was a gimmick. But Sean John’s clothing company—the women’s part—was founded in 2005. Nobody was wearing a sweatshirt like this in 2004. They didn’t exist.” I know I’m talking too fast, but this is what we’d been hoping for. Some glitch in the police procedure. Some flaw in the technique they used to put Dorinda away.

  I take the picture back, then point to the logo. “You see? This had to be taken after 2005. At least a year after the murder. No one was shown this photo in the summer of 2004. Couldn’t happen. Someone who didn’t know fashion fell for the 1969 date, but no question—this array is fake.”

  “Designed to make all of us go away, you think?” Franklin takes the photo back and looks at it again. “It’s as if they’re trying to…” He looks at me, searching for words.

  “Change history.” I finish his sentence.

  “And there’s no one who could have designed this corruption of justice but Mr. Oscar Ortega,” Rankin says. His chair creaks in protest as he swivels, back and forth. I can almost watch his mind calculating.

  “Or Tek Mattheissen,” I put in. “And what if it’s not the only time? What if they’re cleaning up a series of fraudulent witness identifications?”

  “This is a cover-up of the worst kind,” Rankin continues, accelerating into performance mode. “Planting false evidence.” He smacks his fist on the table. “Three years after the fact.” Smack. “Police and prosecutorial misconduct.” Smack. “Obstruction. Yes.” He shoots the fist in triumph. “Ortega is going down.”

  “And Dorinda could be freed,” Will says. He’s picked up her photo again, holding it with both hands, looking at it, not at us. “When a judge hears about this.”

  The guys’ voices tumble over each other, the volume rising as they share ideas and strategies. But an unpleasant reality insists on ruining my discovery. I sit down at the far end of the table, by myself, trying to think.

  We can prove this photo array was not the one shown to the witnesses after the murder. And that certainly proves there’s some outrageous police misconduct. But as for Dorinda? That’s what’s annoying the hell out of me. It could be a knockout blow to Oscar Ortega and the D.A.’s office. But it doesn’t for a moment prove Dorinda is innocent.

  I cross my arms over my chest, bummed that my Perry Mason moment of detection triumph doesn’t insure Dorinda’s freedom. I calculate the impending losses. Dorinda’s freedom. Rankin’s reputation. Our story. My job.

  But on the other hand, I realize, slowly unwinding from my defensive posture, it doesn’t prove she’s guilty, either. Even if Dorinda actually was in the bar, it doesn’t mean she killed anyone. It doesn’t.

  It must all go back to my adventure in the archives. That must have been Tek, trying to scare me off the trail. And when he couldn’t, I’m guessing his slimeball Plan B was to bring out the phony photos. But I’m not going to let some half-assed attempt to frighten me send me cowering back to covering cat shows, no offense to Botox. There are people who know the real story. What really happened that night. We just have to find them.

  * * *

  “Tommy who? Bennigan?” I keep my eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel while I scrabble in my purse for a pencil. Franklin’s on the Bluetooth, and I’m in the midst of afternoon pre–rush hour traffic, all headed, with me, out of Boston. “Hang on, Franko. Got to get a…” I find a pencil, but of course it’s broken, so I toss it into my Jeep’s backseat and scrounge for another. “I’m amazed you got the police report this fast. Imagine, they’re actually following the public disclosure law. Probably a first in the annals of the Swampscott PD. Okay, got the pencil.”

  “It’s Bresnahan,” Franklin says, then spells it.

  I write the name on the little notebook I keep clipped to the sun visor.

  “Tommy Bresnahan, according to this, was the bartender the night of the murder,” Franklin continues. “Latest whereabouts, according to the report, U-N-K. Apparently he was the fourth bartender in four months. Cops told me the bar owner’s working the place himself now. DeCenzo, remember? He’s given up on hiring outsiders.”

  “Well, you can find this Bresnahan if anyone can,” I say. “Do bartenders need licenses or anything? Moron!”

  “What?” Franklin responds. “Moron? How should I know if they need licenses? I can find out, though, but gee…”

  “Not you,” I reassure him. “Some idiot’s decided up here in the city of Lawrence, a red light means go. Which makes my green light mean stop. Anyway, how about this for our afternoon plan. You want to try to track down this Bresnahan? And what about Tek’s partner on the case? The guy in Detroit.”

  I steer around a corner, trying to read the street signs, but of course this is Massachusetts, so there aren’t any. “You get them, and after I find Gaylen—cross fingers—I’ll head to Swampscott and see if I can sweet-talk the bar owner into giving me more info on this Bresnahan. I bet DeCenzo has job applications, paperwork, something. But it’ll have to be later when his place opens.”

  The house numbers on what I think I remember is Eckman Street are getting higher, so I’m pretty sure I’m headed in the right direction. And then I see the house. />
  “Listen,” I say. “I’m just pulling up in front of the Lawrence Collective. If we’re lucky, and we often are, that little ingrate is going to be in my clutches any moment now. And Dorinda is one step closer to getting her life back.”

  As Franklin clicks off, I realize Dorinda’s life may not be the most rewarding to “get back,” if her daughter is guilty of killing the hardly lamented but nevertheless dead Ray Sweeney. Gaylen’s own father, if Dorinda is to be believed. I know Franklin still thinks CC Hardesty is the father. If CC knew about Gaylen’s birth, maybe he thought so, too. And I wonder what Gaylen believes.

  Before I can give myself a good answer, I realize I’m at the inconspicuously ordinary front door of the Lawrence Collective, a dingy clapboard three-decker. I know from a story we did a few years ago on battered women that it’s a front for a hideaway. A shelter for women who don’t want to be found. It offers a roof, good food, anonymity—and counseling. The guard said Dorinda’s counselor was based in Lawrence. Only two places here do prison counseling. One told me they didn’t go to Framingham, so this is the only place left she could be. And if she’s here, maybe she’ll know what really happened.

  I push a small square button on a dingy intercom screen. There’s a blast of static, then a wary voice buzzes back. “Yes?”

  I look up, remembering they’d rigged the tiny lens of a surveillance camera above the door. I smile into it and wave, then answer. “It’s Charlie McNally, Channel 3.” The directors here turned out to be good sources for the shelter story. If I’m lucky, they’ll still be around.

  A grating metallic click snaps the lock open. Crossing my fingers, I go inside. When I locate the director, Rosemary Pannatieri, and tell her what I’m after, she looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. She throws a plaid-shirted arm across my shoulder as we walk through the empty living room toward her nook of an office. I remember it’s basically a closet. An actual closet with the clothes bar still in place above her desk. There’s room for her chair and a visitor’s. And that’s all.

  “If I didn’t love you so much, I’d throw you right out of here,” the shelter director says, pointing me to the needlepoint cushion padding the visitor’s seat. “You’re asking me for information about a client? Mind you, I’m not confirming anyone is a client. But you know the rules, Charlie. Confidentiality is our middle name—no, it’s our first name.”

  She takes a covered rubber band from her top drawer and tames her tangle of curly salt-and-pepper hair into an unruly twist. There’s a smile in her dark eyes as she looks at me again. “You never give up, I know. And that’s why we love you. But you ain’t getting one word from me.”

  “Can I just ask,” I begin, “if you’ve ever—”

  Ro holds up a weary hand. “Nope,” she says. She points to one ear. “I can’t hear you. In fact, I can’t hear questions at all.”

  “But I—”

  “I seem to remember you’re a coffee girl,” she says. “Don’t want you to drive all the way back to Boston caffeine-free. Come grab a cup in the kitchen and we’ll talk about old times. But that’s all. Your stories made a lot of difference to the women here, and I’m grateful.”

  I follow Ro back down the hall, past closed doors and an array of children’s drawings and finger paintings on sheets of newsprint tacked to the walls. Multicolored rainbows. Big yellow suns. Crayon green trees with circles for leaves. Stick-figure children with outsize feet. No houses. No faces. I count my blessings for a moment, marveling at the cosmic roll of the dice that landed me and my mom in safety and security.

  A slender figure, back to us, is chopping carrots on a wooden cutting board. She turns, skittish, as we step through the doorway. Knife in hand, her face flares into fear. “It’s okay,” Ro reassures her. We’re not introduced and she turns back to her chores.

  Ro pours coffee into two mismatched mugs, hands me one and points me back out the door with hers. “Dinnertime soon,” she says quietly, “and I don’t want to scare any of our clients, you being here.” She smiles. “No offense.”

  As we stroll back toward the front of the house, chatting about nothing, Ro points out the new couch, chairs and throw rugs she’s purchased with a state grant she managed to wrangle. A chaotically colorful room is filled with toys and easels and towers of blocks, train tracks laid out in a sprawling figure eight.

  “We’re making progress,” Ro says. She knocks on the wooden door frame for luck. “And no outside trouble to speak of.”

  We arrive at the triple-locked front entrance, and both deposit our empty mugs on a doily-covered side table. She clicks open one dead bolt with a snap, then another. Then turns back to me.

  “Look, Charlie,” Ro says, “you know I can’t tell you about any clients. But it’s not a breach to tell you we do have a volunteer counselor at Framingham. Getting her degree in psychology, focusing on domestic violence. Her name is Laura Maldonado.”

  “Is she—” I begin. Maybe she’s Dorinda’s counselor.

  “Who she talks to, what they talk about? That’s one hundred percent off-limits,” Ro answers. She pats me on the shoulder, opens the door and waves me out. “Sorry, Charlie. Our staff and clients need privacy. But as always, it’s nice to see you.”

  * * *

  “So much for that brilliant idea,” I mutter out loud as I head down the flagstone path. “Good coffee, zero information.” It’s still early evening, the sun’s still up, neighborhood kids flash by on bikes, a menagerie of dogs happily chasing after them. I dig for my keys as a navy-blue car with an unfortunate dent in its passenger-side door attempts to parallel park in front of my Jeep.

  She’s never going to make it. I trot around behind my car, afraid to get in her way, and wait while she makes another attempt. I hear the grind of her gearshift as she backs into place, see her rear tire bounce against the curb. No wonder there’s a dent in her door. Girl cannot drive.

  Smiling, I position my key to open the Jeep’s door and glance up as the driver climbs out into the street. My key never makes it into the lock.

  I can’t be sure, but the journalism gods may have answered my prayers. I just wish they would have told me what to say.

  “Excuse me?” I figure that’s as good an opener as any.

  The girl turns toward me with a polite smile, questioning. She’s twenty-something. Wearing a plain white shirt and a dark cotton skirt tied with a colorful scarf. Bare legs, little navy flats. A bulky brown leather bag, almost bigger than she is, hangs over one shoulder, with a rolled-up newspaper sticking out its unzippered top. Could be a college student? Coming home from her summer job as a salesclerk? I don’t know. But I do know her brown eyes. I know her cheekbones. I recognize the oval shape of her face and the wave of her almost-russet hair. I have her picture in my cell phone.

  “Yes?” she replies. Then she frowns. “Oh, I didn’t hit your car, did I?” She walks closer, eyes fixed on my front bumper.

  This is Gaylen. My mind is racing. Of course. This is where she lives. The shelter. This is where she’s hiding. The possibilities in my brain shift, rearrange, and then click nicely into reality. This is how Gaylen gets to see her mother but disappear from the rest of the world.

  “Laura?” I ask. I’m low-key. Casual. Unthreatening. She’d never know my heart is beating so fast I can barely breathe. If she bolts, I’m screwed. “Laura Maldonado?”

  She stops short, her face registering confusion, then suspicion, as she takes a cautious step backward. Her car keys are still in one hand, a tube of pepper spray and a silver whistle dangling from a metal key ring. I see her glance at them, shift them, as if she’s worried she’ll have to physically defend herself or call for help.

  “Do I know you from somewhere?” she asks, her forehead furrowing. She’s still taking tiny steps backward, away from me and toward her car.

  I’m taking tiny steps forward. Toward her. And toward some answers. “You’re Laura, right?” I confirm. She nods, only just, but says nothing. “I’m Charlie McNal
ly, Channel 3 News.” I’m almost close enough to reach out and touch her. “And this morning I had a long talk with your mother.”

  Laura—Gaylen—whirls around, scrambling for the proper key, one hand reaching for the car door handle. With a step, I plant myself between her and the car, leaning against the still-warm metal, preventing her from opening the door. I’m the tiniest bit anxious about the pepper spray thing, but I’m betting she won’t use it.

  I smile at her, attempting to telegraph how much a threat I’m not. “I know who you are,” I say softly. “And I’m so sorry.”

  Laura/Gaylen is breathing in little puffs, her chest rising and falling, her eyes darting. She looks like a frightened child—she is a child—caught in a lie, trying to calculate if she can get away with it. Then with one quick motion, leading with a thin shoulder, she darts for the car door. But I’m taller and stronger. And I’m not going to budge.

  “Gaylen?” I continue, keeping my voice low and steady, “I understand you don’t want people to know who you are. I respect that. And I can keep a secret.” I pause. “If I need to.”

  I scout up and down the quiet street, cars in driveways, the last of the kids inside. The dinnertime lull in a summer night. “Look,” I say. “Walk with me. Once around the block. Just hear me out.”

  “You can’t—” she begins. Her eyes narrow warily and suddenly she looks much older. Sadder. Suspicious as a mistreated animal. Then her nose goes in the air, and she looks at me from under her lashes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “And if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll call the cops.”

  “Want to use my phone?” I ask pleasantly. “I’ll wait with you while they come.” I elaborately adjust the sleeves of the thin sweater tied over my shoulders and tuck a strand of hair behind one ear. I call her bluff. “But of course, when the officers ask your name, if you don’t tell them the truth I will.”

  Her shoulders sag. The sneer disappears from her face.