Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  As Cristina made her way to the T station, her anger subsided, and she began to think more clearly. There had to be a reason Stacey had invited her there. If she replied to the email, maybe she’d get some answers. Cristina reached into her purse for her phone.

  She froze in the middle of the sidewalk. Her phone was missing. She dug through her purse again. Damn. She must’ve left it on the check-in counter.

  Cristina marched back to the hotel. Had she always been so distracted? Was that how she had missed Jerry’s and Carl’s warning signs? By the time she reached the top of the staircase, she wondered if even the car crash had been caused by her own carelessness.

  Cristina stopped short of entering the lobby. Her heart pounded. She ducked around the corner and spied the man at the check-in desk. Even though his back was turned and he was wearing a navy sport coat, the broad shoulders and the shaggy black hair poking out from under the fisherman’s cap were a dead giveaway.

  Sebastian dos Santos.

  As Cristina watched, the smarmy clerk hung up the phone, said something to Santos, and pointed at the elevator. Santos tipped the brim of his hat and strolled to the lift. After he stepped inside, the doors closed.

  Cristina chewed on her fingernail and puzzled over Santos’s appearance. Clearly, he wasn’t a hotel guest.

  The indicator on the wall showed that the elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor.

  Whatever Santos’s reasons, Cristina had plenty of questions. Like, why he didn’t tell her he’d worked on her parents’ car before the accident? And why did Zero Dark want them dead?

  Cristina glanced at the check-in desk. The clerk was helping another guest.

  There was only one way to find out. Cristina spotted her phone on the counter. Adjusting the belt to her double-breasted coat, she straightened her back and sauntered over to the desk. When the clerk’s back was turned, she snatched up her phone and marched to the elevator. With every step, she expected someone to shout out that she should not be there. Cristina kept her chin high and flaunted her budget chic fashion sense.

  A security guard eyed her. Did he know her plan? She turned away quickly, then spared a glance over her shoulder.

  He was leering at her backside.

  Tossing her hair and rolling her eyes, Cristina ignored her pounding heartbeat and continued to the elevator. When the door slid shut, a smile crossed her lips. She was stalking her stalker.

  The doors opened on the twelfth floor. She exited and headed for the stairwell.

  Two flights later, she cracked open the steel door to the fourteenth floor. The hallway was clear. So far, so good. The elevator was around the corner, so she headed that way.

  From the next hallway, she heard a man yell, “You’re going to ruin everything!”

  Curious, she peered around the corner. What she saw stopped Cristina in her tracks.

  Santos was arguing with Stacey Peterman.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cristina ducked around the corner. There could be no mistaking Stacey’s beak-like nose and short, wild blond hair. Holding her breath, Cristina risked another peek. Santos wagged his finger in Stacey’s face. Cristina could make out the harsh tone but not the words.

  Santos’s six-foot frame towered over the petite woman, but she held her ground. Santos leaned in, his nose inches from hers. She slapped him so hard he staggered against the door.

  Covering her mouth with her hand, Cristina retreated again. Clearly, these two knew each other well. Instantly, Cristina remembered the news clippings Santos had given her. All those bizarre suicides—was he involved with them? Perhaps he also had something to do with Jerry’s madness.

  Cristina chanced another glance. Santos was speaking again. Staring at the floor, Stacey nodded and wiped a tear from her eye. She looked up, smiled sadly and hugged him.

  Cristina’s shocked gasp shattered the silence.

  Stacey’s gaze darted her direction. The expletive was clear on her lips. Santos turned too, eyes wide.

  “Shit.” Cristina dashed toward the stairwell.

  Footsteps pounded behind her.

  She barreled down the stairs. Ripped off her high heels. Metal steps slammed into her bare feet. A fire door crashed open from above.

  “Cristina!” Santos’s voice echoed down the stairwell.

  She kept moving. Faster. She passed the tenth floor.

  “Wait!” Ragged breathing punctuated his shouts. “It’s not what you think.”

  She rounded the next landing. Ignore his lies.

  By the seventh floor, she started to tire. He was two floors above her but gaining fast.

  She ducked through the stairwell door.

  There! She dashed across the hall. Pulled the fire alarm. The hallway erupted in flashing lights and ear-splitting sirens.

  Panicked guests poured out of their rooms. Cristina raced to the opposite end of the hall. Guests swarmed past. She reached the other stairwell. Looked over her shoulder. Santos’s head bobbed over the mass of bodies. Dipping low, she followed the crowd into the stairwell and weaved between the guests as best she could.

  The lobby was packed with people, yelling and shoving. Hotel staff struggled to maintain order. Cristina used her thin frame to squeeze her way to the exit, keeping her head down in case Santos was behind her.

  It took another minute to reach the front entrance. Cristina’s body tingled as the adrenaline wore off.

  “Did you smell smoke?” asked a woman in a bathrobe as she trailed behind Cristina. “I didn’t smell anything. I don’t believe there is a fire.”

  “Third time this week.” Cristina checked over her shoulder as they emerged onto busy Arlington Street.

  No sign of Santos.

  Cristina forced her knees to stop shaking as she turned to the woman and rolled her eyes. “Last time I stay in this dump.”

  Sebastian dos Santos pushed his way onto Arlington Street. It only took a moment to realize he’d lost her.

  “Merda,” he mumbled and glanced at his watch. Fire personnel would arrive soon, followed by authorities when they discovered the hoax. He wouldn’t stick around for that.

  Someone tugged at Santos’s sleeve. He spun around, fist raised.

  Stacey Peterman stared at him. He lowered his arm.

  “Did you find her?”

  “No.”

  She moaned. “What a mess.”

  “I sent her here for a reason. Why didn’t you talk to her when she showed up?” Frustration bubbled in his throat. He fought the urge to yell at her. “We’re both at risk.”

  “I followed orders. They played me. Again.”

  Avoiding her gaze, Santos willed himself to remain calm. “Now you know.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” She touched his arm. “You sure it’s not too late for her?”

  For the past two weeks, Santos had struggled with that question. Maybe he’d waited too long. Maybe he should’ve intervened earlier.

  “If that’s the case, it’s too late for all of us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As he cruised his Dodge Charger on Route Nine westbound, Detective Wilson tried to shake the feeling of being trapped in a game of Whac-a-Mole. Each time he thought he’d hammered out an answer to the Cristina Silva puzzle, ten more questions popped up.

  Wilson turned up the car radio. “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison filled the car’s cabin. Tapping his finger on the wheel, he tried to clear away the fog.

  Technically it was his day off, but he’d barely slept the previous night. Conflicting facts and conundrums tossed about in his head. Even when he’d tried being tough, grilling Dr. Silva with sarcasm, she didn’t waver, showed no signs of deceit. She clearly believed her story.

  But did something like guilt lurk around the corners of her soft, doe-like eyes? Or perhaps it was self-doubt. And the w
ay she got teary-eyed when talking about Detective Parker—Wilson couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. It took all his will to resist the urge to offer a comforting hug.

  Cursing, he snapped off the radio. It was happening again. He was losing his objectivity. He dug his fingers into the steering wheel and tried to convince himself that his feelings for Dr. Cristina Silva were not why he was driving to Framingham alone on a Saturday. Nope.

  It would’ve helped if he at least had Mitchell Parker’s report. According to Framingham PD, the detective had killed himself without warning. Any information about the Silva crash investigation had died with him. Hard copies had been damaged in a flood and the electronic file was corrupted in a server crash. Hard drive backups were never found.

  Wilson passed the sign announcing Framingham. Why hadn’t the FBI already done what he was about to do? The answer was obvious, at least to him. The feds relied too much on their computer tracking systems and spy satellites when sometimes you needed good old-fashioned detective work. While the police report and the officer involved might be gone, there could still be someone who could confirm Martins had tampered with the Silvas’ car.

  A few minutes later, Wilson pulled into Manny’s Auto Center at Irving Square. Icicles hung from the worn-out sign. Inside, he saw, the garage was spotless—not even an oil stain. A well-maintained 1982 Volvo wagon perched on a lift. There were no other vehicles.

  When Wilson exited his Charger, he caught suspicious glances from passersby on the sidewalk. He cinched the belt on his overcoat and approached the garage.

  “Can I help you?” A stocky man nearly a head shorter than Wilson blocked the way. He wiped his greasy hands on his overalls.

  Wilson flashed his badge. “If you’re Manny Feldman, you can.”

  The mechanic’s eyes widened. “Please put that away.”

  Wilson hesitated before returning his badge to his pocket. “I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Yes, yes, but come inside. Please.” Feldman ushered him through the garage into a cramped office. Auto parts littered a simple wooden desk. A pinup calendar of monster trucks hung on the back wall.

  After shutting the door, Feldman turned to Wilson, scowling. “Detective, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but please don’t throw that badge around here. It’s bad for business.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s been a rash of immigration officers coming through here lately. If people see me talking to you and you don’t drag me away in handcuffs, they’ll think I gave you names. Do you understand?”

  Wilson peered out the window. A couple with a baby carriage loitered on the curb, craning their necks to see inside the garage. “Should I take you down to the station to talk?”

  The corner of Feldman’s mouth twisted. “I’m allergic to precincts. We can talk here—as long as it’s brief. What do you want?”

  “How long have you owned this garage?”

  “Nine years.”

  “Do you know Francisco Martins?”

  He bobbed his head side-to-side. “The name is familiar.”

  “It should be more than familiar. Didn’t he work here?”

  “For a short time. Very skilled with his hands. Shame he disappeared.”

  An itch started behind Wilson’s ear. “Do you remember when that was?”

  “Maybe three years ago.”

  Wilson unfolded a flyer and held it out. “Is this him?”

  Feldman squinted at it. “Yes.”

  “Around that time, Mr. Martins was suspected of arson. Did you know this?”

  “Yes. The police asked me questions then too.”

  “Did you keep him on as an employee?”

  Feldman’s lips puckered. “Detective, those charges were dropped.”

  “Actually, the Silvas didn’t press charges. Unusually kind after he burned down their house, don’t you think?”

  “Their reasons are none of my business. I saw no reason to keep him from work.”

  A sour taste filled Wilson’s mouth. This wasn’t going the way he’d expected. He stuck the flyer in his pocket. “Okay, so you said Martins disappeared. What happened?”

  “One day, he didn’t show for work. He never came back.”

  “Did you try and contact him?”

  “I called his house.” Feldman shrugged. “The number was disconnected.”

  “Do you have the number? Or his home address?”

  Feldman gave him a puzzled look. “Detective, that was years ago. Why would I keep that?”

  More plastic moles popped up. Switching tactics, Wilson said, “Did you know the Silva family?”

  “They brought their Lexus for service here many times.” He half smiled. “Nice car.”

  “And their daughter?”

  “Cristina? Lovely girl. She dated my son Julian in high school.”

  “Really?” The itch flared. Now he was getting somewhere. “Have you spoken to her lately?”

  “No, she moved away after her parents died.” Feldman stared at the ground. “Terrible tragedy.”

  “Do you know how they died?”

  “Car crash.”

  “The day before Francisco Martins disappeared, right?”

  Feldman snapped his head up. “What are you implying, Detective?”

  “Cristina Silva brought the car here for service the day before it crashed. Francisco Martins worked on the car. The next day, the Silvas died from a hit-and-run and a faulty brake line. But maybe it wasn’t faulty. The automotive forensic report I found couldn’t clearly determine if the brake line had snapped or if it had been cut.” Wilson’s pulse raced, the way it did when he was getting close to solving a puzzle. “Since you admired their car so much, you must remember seeing it before the crash.”

  Feldman pursed his lips. “I remember.”

  “And did you see Cristina that day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she give any money to Mr. Martins?”

  Feldman’s face twisted like Wilson had told him aliens had landed in downtown Boston. “Cristina dealt only with me. I assigned Francisco to work on the car.”

  “You assigned him to the family whose house he burned down?”

  “He’d been servicing that car for six months. He wanted to win back the family’s trust after the charges were dropped, so he offered to take extra care, and the Silvas accepted the arrangement. I inspected the car myself when he was done. It was in perfect condition.”

  “And yet the brake line broke. Martins was negligent.”

  “No, he was thorough. He wouldn’t miss a faulty brake line.”

  “So, he cut it.”

  “As I said, I inspected it after he’d finished. If the line was cut, someone else cut it, not Francisco.”

  Pop, pop went the moles. Who else could’ve cut the line? Cristina? “You’re positive he didn’t tamper with it after you inspected it?”

  “Why don’t you ask the detective who was here that morning?”

  “Detective?”

  “The same detective who told me Martins was cleared of all charges. He returned that morning to drop off papers he needed Martins to sign. Spent some time admiring the Silvas’ Lexus.” Feldman folded his arms across his chest. “He can confirm the car was undamaged.”

  “What was his name?”

  Feldman shrugged. “It was two years ago . . .”

  “Why would you remember?” Despite the cold, Wilson was sweating. None of this made sense. The moles were whacking him now. “One more question, if you don’t mind.”

  “Please, Detective.”

  “You said Cristina dated your son. Were you aware of any family conflicts?”

  “No, they were very happy.” Feldman leveled his gaze. “Is Cristina in trouble?”

  “You haven�
��t heard?”

  “No.”

  Wilson turned on his smartphone and activated the news app. When the local headline appeared, he showed it to Feldman. “See for yourself.”

  Feldman studied the small screen. He looked up, blinking rapidly. “What does a subway shooting have to do with the Silva family?”

  “Dr. Silva was the shooter’s psychiatrist.” He handed Feldman a business card. “And it seems that she is now being targeted by Mr. Martins. If you hear from him or remember anything else, please give me a call.”

  Ignoring the card, Feldman scrolled through the article, mumbling incoherently.

  “What did you say?”

  “Sorry, Detective, but this doesn’t make sense. I’ve known Cristina Silva since she was a child.” He held up the phone, pointing at a photo of Cristina in her white coat. “This woman is not Cristina Silva.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The silver locket lurked on Cristina’s dining table. She inspected it from every angle. Each time she reached for it, she jerked her hand back as if the locket might electrocute her.

  Biting her lip, she tried to summon courage. After the shock of seeing Santos and Stacey Peterman together, Cristina felt lost in a labyrinth. Two seemingly unrelated aspects of her life crashed together, making her question everything she thought she knew. Since returning home, she’d been staring at the locket, her only clue to Santos’s daughter. After wiping away some dirt from the worn inscription, Cristina was able to make out the letters RJ.

  The locket had no latch or clasp. Cristina rubbed it between her hands, tracing over every edge of the engraving. Her finger caught on one of the arrows piercing the man’s chest on the front design. She held it close and scraped her fingernail against it. There was a tiny gap, no bigger than a pen tip. Cristina found her sewing kit, chose a needle, and inserted it into the gap. She felt resistance. When she forced the needle inside, it snapped in half.

  Cursing, she tapped the locket against the table until the broken tip fell out. She got another needle and tried again. This time, she felt a soft click. The locket popped open.

  Nestled into the left half of the locket was a weathered photo of a girl, around five or six years old. Long chestnut hair framed a delicate face. Soft brown eyes peered out. Could this be Santos’s daughter?