by Karen Diem
Zita skidded into a room full of people, panting, and no doubt looking wild-eyed. The cops by the door stared at her; no one else looked up from their boards.
“Geez, lady, it’s just Bingo,” one policeman said.
“No, men tried to kidnap me!” she answered. Belatedly, she said, “Help!” The announcers stopped speaking. Now, people looked at her, and a low snarl began in the crowd, most of whom had surrounded themselves with moats of Bingo boards.
Did I escape kidnapping to have an angry mob of devout Bingo worshippers tear me apart? She ran her hand over her hair, stopping when she realized her hand was sticky. Zita stared at the blood of the second attacker—definitely Brains from the zoo—on her hand. Her brain felt slow and stupid. Someone tried to kidnap me. Dios, have they realized I was the jaguar? How? I can’t tell the cops. “I think I injured a couple of them when I got away.”
The cops followed her gaze to the blood, and the older one snapped out of his indolent pose. “Call it in. Attempted kidnapping, backup requested.” His orders were the first of many. It began a long night that alternated between maddening questions, restless boredom, and blurry exhaustion, before the police released her.
***
What little sleep she managed was on Quentin’s couch, and occurred sometime after one in the morning. Even though her calls and texts went unanswered, she assumed he would not mind. Unable to sleep past sunrise, she grabbed an early workout on the silks at the aerialist gym before wasting the rest of the morning at the police station answering repetitive questions. Now, she snacked on a soft pretzel as she ran up and down the steps of the nondescript building holding Miguel’s task force. Watching for her brothers and any loitering kidnappers kept her mind busy. Straps on her backpack rubbed at one spot on her side as it bounced, and her oversized t-shirt stuck to her skin in places in the heat.
Finally, Miguel marched down the stairs, his head down like a guard dog on patrol. His shoes shined, his pants held a crease, and his tie flapped in the breeze with the cadence of his gait. One arm held his coat, but the other was free in case he needed to draw his gun. From experience, she knew he would leave that hand free as long as possible. Zita had the utmost faith he would spot a bomber, but miss an attractive woman’s interest. A part of the war lingers. “About time,” she muttered, and then checked her phone. Quentin still hadn’t returned her calls or texts.
“Miguel!” She hopped up on a railing and waved both arms over her head to get his attention.
Her brother tried to seem disapproving, but the expression dissolved as she sprang down and hurtled toward him. Miguel caught her up in a hug and winced at her head. “What did you do to your hair?”
She returned the hug and pounded on his back, taking comfort in his familiar piquant aftershave and warmth for a second. Zita stepped back, running her hand over her hair defensively. “I'm fine, thanks for asking. Nothing’s wrong with my hair; I cut it. Is your case done? Will you be in town for a while or are you back to Bumble soon?” As she washed down the last bite of pretzel with water, she craned her neck to see if Quentin was there.
“Did you give your statement officially about last night?” he countered. Miguel scanned the street, giving it the same suspicious scrutiny he subjected everything to since he got back from the Middle East. He leaned against the rail.
Zita growled. “Yes, I did. I even spent quality time looking at mug shots though none of the pictures matched any of the three guys. A science chick took samples of blood off my hands and my helmet last night. The cops might be able to catch them off that. Since Quentin and I installed the cameras in the lot, I can tell you they’re not high definition. It’s possible they’ll get a license plate, but I wouldn’t bet on it.” She shrugged.
His eyes were thoughtful as they returned to her. “I thought only two attacked you?”
Zita nodded. “Yes, the third was driving the SUV. I can identify him and the one whose jaw I probably busted. Given the circumstances, I paid attention to what they looked like. Sketch artist was out sick.” Her leg vibrated with the need to move. While he kept standing there, she had to stay close enough to hear.
Miguel kept pestering her. “Did you come up with any reasons why someone would try to kidnap you?” He was a dog with a bone. The night before, she had hung up on him to get him to stop.
Her foot tapped faster. She adjusted the straps on her backpack and unclipped her water bottle from the side. “No, I don’t know why anyone would try to kidnap me. I’ve been in quarantine, remember? Stop hounding me, Miguel. The cops wasted most of the morning asking the same questions and flashing mug shots at me. The only one I recognized was a former blind date. If he had been one of the men last night, I could have walked. If you’re curious, I’m not a fan of the prison gorilla style.” In the hope of distracting him from her lies, she narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “Or the pug dog look, especially if they don’t need to shave yet. I’m not convinced the coma wasn’t stored-up boredom from listening to Justin drone on.”
He declined the bait. “You should stay with me until this is all sorted out. The hotel can supply a cot.” Miguel shifted his weight and checked over his shoulders.
She shuddered at the idea. “We talked about this last night. Let’s not test sibling love like that, hermano. I like being on friendly terms with you. Besides, you’ll wrap up your case soon and go back to Bumble or wherever until the next one. No hay bronca, I’ll check in with you once a day.”
“Four times a day,” Miguel snapped.
“Twice.”
“Three times. I don’t like it, Zita. On your second day out of quarantine, someone tries to grab you?” he growled.
She shook her head and tapped her foot. “Two’s all you’re getting, Miguel. I got a life to live, and you can’t be answering personal calls all day. You have criminals to put in jail.”
His exhale was loud. He started to speak, but stopped. Miguel drummed his fingers on the rail. “I spoke to the lead detective on your case. He has a larger-than-average number of missing persons right now, a high percentage of which were quarantined.”
Zita almost choked at that little nugget. “Wait, folks from quarantine have gone missing?”
Her brother paused while a group passed. Once they were gone, he continued. “Some have disappeared. That’s not for public dissemination. They may have chosen to run off.”
She considered that. “I can’t blame them if they did before the quarantine ended, but they should be back if that’s the case. You do know I’m warning my friends, right?” If quarantined people are disappearing, the kidnappers have not identified me from the zoo. That would be a relief, but I need to tell the others, whether Captain Law and Order likes it or not.
Miguel had that expression, the one where he looked pained, constipated, and resigned to those conditions. “Please ask them to keep it quiet.”
“Look, I’ll stay with Quentin while the cops investigate. If it looks more serious than that, well, I can crash with friends until I find something south and poorly documented to do.”
His brown eyes crinkled with concern as he looked down at her. “What about your so-called real job? The hours go down in the summer, but you spend half the week there. I thought your boss loved you, or at least loved having you bring in business with the translations?”
Zita snorted. Shoving down resentment at the memory, she ran in place. “Oh, the same boss that took a half hour to ask if I’d changed… so she could accommodate my new special needs? No, she claimed she had no phone translation jobs during the quarantine. Yesterday, I had to meet her at a diner near work, probably so she can verify I haven’t sprouted horns or anything that might frighten a customer. If I had, she’d either fire me or pimp me out so she could show how her office cares about special needs, right before she drops my hours to almost nonexistent.” She wants to climb the corporate ladder using my linguistic abilities, fine, but that conversation was disturbing. Just to get a reaction, I’m half-tempted
to tell her I’m the naked Zoo jaguar gang member teen. With my luck, she’d believe me, and I do need the job. Still, imagining the reaction that statement would get restored her spirits.
Her brother snarled. “Zita, you need to take this seriously. Someone tried to hurt you. Even Quentin’s flaked about it.”
“Pues, I was there. I kind of kicked their asses.” Zita chuckled, as much at her own pride as at her win. “You know, before the running and screaming for help bit. Quentin contacted you? Did he say why he’s been dodging me? Is he having trouble in the bathroom or what?”
Miguel stiffened. “What do you mean? Didn’t you tell him what happened?” His forehead furrowed, and his lips pressed together.
She shook her head. “No, he’s said nada since we parted ways yesterday. His place was set up for his date, but they must’ve gone to her house. Since he didn’t reply to any of my texts or calls, I assume they got busy. He wouldn’t ditch us though, so you yell at him whenever he shows up, smelling of sex and old cologne.” Her stomach turned over at an unpleasant notion that she pushed away as soon as she could. In defiance, Zita clambered back on the rail and balanced.
The furrow deepened. “It’s not like him to not call back in the morning, if not right away.”
“True. I’ll check with his answering service and see if he had a busy schedule today.” After a step or two on the rail, Zita caught his expression. She acquiesced and hopped down. His office is probably a hot mess since I haven’t been around to remind him to take money and not just barter. After dialing Quentin’s answering service, she went through the usual steps. Taking a gulp of her water, she nearly spat it on Miguel as the computerized voice announced the number of messages. “I need paper and a pen,” she muttered.
Miguel pulled a small notebook and pen from a suit pocket and handed it to her. His eyes looked pained as he said, “You shouldn’t delete anything in case…” His words cut off, and he turned his head away.
She nodded, taking them from him, and wrote. As she put the book against a massive stone pillar to write, one of her legs began bouncing again. When she finished, she snapped the phone shut and tucked it away. Her troubled gaze held Miguel’s. “Quentin never picked up any messages from last night.” Her hands ran over her choppy hair, back and forth, and she inhaled. As her stomach clenched, Zita forced the words out. “Fifteen of the urgent messages and two of the non-urgent ones were from his date’s dad. Apparently, the girl he was with last night hasn’t come home either, and needs medication.”
Miguel swore. “Quentin’s missing and so is his date?” His color washed out.
Zita closed her eyes and tried to remember the woman. “He met her when we filed a report for my personal effects that went missing. Fit but not athletic shape, I’d guess his date plays tennis and is about thirty. Her name’s Jean… no, Jen Stone. Quentin said she was just his type: unattached, fun, and not looking for more than a sexy weekend and done.” She handed the notebook and pen back to Miguel.
She could see him pulling back, switching to focus on work as he recorded notes. “That’s something at least. Can you give me a better description than the sports she plays?”
Her brother was missing, and she had a sinking feeling she would spend the rest of the day at another police station. “Sí, sí, get picky. She is a white girl, about 5’8, 140 pounds, medium build, brown hair and eyes. The hair was shoulder length, I think. He said they were going to do dinner, dance at a new place he got a VIP invite to, and then Vitamin Q if it worked out. You know him. Never met a pair of panties he didn’t want into.” You had better be fine, Quentin, you dumbass. A lump rose in her throat, and she fought back the impulse to pace.
Miguel’s pen raced over the notebook, and he flipped pages. “Who called Quentin about her? What medication?” His face was somber, the same expression he used for taxes, work, and asking out women.
“Her dad, he sounded upset. His number’s the circled one. He didn’t say what she took, just that it was daily. Maybe diabetes?”
With a grunt, he flipped back to the page with messages, and copied the number. Dark hair tumbled into solemn eyes as he looked up from the page. “Given your misadventure, we can assume he was kidnapped. We need to file a report. You spoke to him and met her so you need to come too.”
She let her head roll back, and she closed her eyes for a moment. I refuse to be caged in your hotel room or office, so that had better not be in your plans, hermano. If Quentin’s been taken, I can’t sit around. When her eyes opened again, her brother was watching her, his features so similar to Quentin’s that she felt a pang. “Yeah, whatever.”
Miguel opened his mouth, the lines around his eyes easing, before expression left his face.
A voice behind her greeted them. “Why, Agent Garcia, this must be your charming sister!” Footsteps sounded on pavement.
When she turned to see the speaker, she recoiled. The man speaking walked a step ahead of two other men and a woman. He had a beefy body crammed into an expensive suit and perched on stubby legs. While his steps were slow and his fingers blunt, his hand gestures had an unexpected deftness. The foolish might have discounted him as a chunky white man with a head shaved to hide incipient baldness, but she recognized a predator. His two male companions shouted bodyguard to her instincts. The taller one, a couple inches over six feet tall, had the gun-flashing swagger of a thug who enjoyed being a threat and the uncoordinated movement of someone who relied on size to win. She would have bet that the other bodyguard, a blond an inch or two shorter, could have taken him in a fight. While the first bodyguard was a junkyard dog, the second was a stalking rattler; grace coiled and waiting for the moment to spring, content to hide until then. Both of them, however, lacked the rabid gleam of their boss’ eyes. Nice of them stick together so people can see examples of men to avoid all in one spot. The last member of the group was a woman, whose suit and briefcase suggested a lawyer. Of moderate height and immoderate weight, she brought up the rear of the group and stayed as far from her client as possible while remaining with them. Nothing in her movement bespoke physical skill, but Zita gave her survival instincts points for distancing her from the men.
Miguel straightened, his eyes all cop. “Tracy Jones. What are you doing here?” His voice was flat and his eyes flicked to Zita and back. Zita narrowed her eyes, recognizing brotherly protectiveness kicking in.
A smile with entirely too many teeth met his question.
Proving her wish for survival was less than her professional ambitions, the lawyer spoke first. “Mr. Jones is reporting voluntarily to assist in the investigation, as requested by the lead investigators.”
Jones crossed thick arms over his chest and gave his lawyer a look that made her drop her eyes to her feet. “Again. I don’t know why your office insists on calling me in, but I am a man who believes in doing my civic duty. Agent Garcia, you are positively brimming with welcome today. May I assume this is your adorable sister Zita? I’ve heard so much about you, but reality exceeds rumor.” Cold little eyes fastened on her, and Jones made a move as if to capture her hand in one of his. As he neared, bringing with him the scent of exhaust and dead fish, she sidestepped, touching Miguel’s arm to avoid him. His arm was a rock under her fingers; her brother’s instincts must have been screaming as well.
Her eyebrows rose. The words escaped her before Zita could stop them. “I doubt that.”
Miguel stepped between them, possibly to stop her from hitting Jones if he attempted to touch her again. Her brother’s posture mirrored every bit of the soldier he had been. Miguel’s poker face fell into place, but not before his annoyance leaked. Someday she would mention his habit of pressing his lips together gave away his displeasure, but not until he swore off playing cards with her. “My family is of no interest to you and has no pertinence to the investigation.”
The odious man smirked at her brother; she wanted to punch his teeth in. “Don’t be ridiculous, Agent Garcia. It’s only natural I’d be curious ab
out the man harassing my friends, family, and presumed associates, especially when he asks about me, but does not speak to me.” His gaze fell on her again. “I do like a feisty girl,” he murmured, licking his lips.
His lawyer coughed, her face set in resigned lines.
The blond bodyguard stepped forward and muttered in Jones’ ear. He nodded.
“I do not harass. I investigate,” Miguel answered. “I eliminate the innocent from the suspect list and arrest the guilty. If I ask questions that seem to pertain to you, it would be in pursuit of those duties.”
“Then I eagerly anticipate your apology for my time that you’ve wasted. Excuse us, Agent Garcia, we have an appointment, as my associate reminds me. I’m sure a man like you despises tardiness.” Jones swept up the steps, his blond bodyguard falling back and speaking to the lawyer.
The lawyer nodded, lips pinched, and continued following. Her knuckles were white on the handle of her briefcase.
The blond man took out a cigarette and began to smoke. Although he looked at nothing and no one with the disinterested gaze of a smoker, she suspected he watched them, or more specifically, her brother.
Said brother sighed and put his suit coat back on. Miguel checked his tie to ensure it was straight, his lips pressed together. Zita knew what that meant. He fumed, but kept the sound down. “Nobody told me he was coming in. He isn’t supposed to be aware he’s a person of interest. I don’t like that he recognizes you. Look, I’m sorry, but I think you should come inside.”
The bodyguard inhaled a few more times, stubbed out his cigarette, and went in.
She shifted her shoulders, loosening the muscles. Miguel had to be close to solving the case if the bodyguard was keeping an eye on him. “How could I miss Take Your Sister to Work Day?” Zita answered.
