Bad Mary.
In some ways, she looked like an entirely different woman. Her hair was no longer wavy—it hung unnaturally straight, as if she had had it ionically pressed. She was toned and slender, far less puffy than she had appeared to be. Even her mouth, collagen-pumped as it was, didn’t look so botched up as it had in the photographs.
I wanted to pick up my phone and call Agent Green right then and there, and that’s probably what I should have done. But the sight of La Reina sitting so close to me, a woman who had just been my mirror image in orange clay, infuriated me to no end. Now that I had her within my reach, I wasn’t going to risk losing her.
“Yeah, look at the glow on you,” I said in feigned admiration. “I hope I look as good under all this nonsense.”
She gave me a polite smile and leaned back as her facialist applied a sweep of makeup on her forehead.
“I need a drink, Brenda,” she told the facialist.
“Have you tried the coconut smoothie?” the facialist said.
“Does that come with a double shot of Bacardi?” said Bad Mary dryly.
“Sign me up for one of those,” I said, settling back into my chair as my aesthetician wiped the mask off my face.
“Two virgin coconut smoothies coming up,” one of the cheery attendants said, rushing off to the spa juice bar.
Bad Mary sat up and gave me a once-over look, checking out my newly treated skin.
“You’ve got a glow on your skin, too,” she said, reclining into her chair again. “These masks are fabulous, aren’t they?”
“They are,” I said, trying to sound as if I was simply having a casual conversation.
“Between the masks and the Pilates, you can take ten years off,” she said with an authoritative wave of her hand.
“Exactly,” I said. “Just look at me—I’m sixty-five.”
Bad Mary guffawed, causing her forehead to wrinkle unnaturally, revealing the edges of scar tissue at the hairline. Upon closer inspection, she seemed manufactured in a sense, not a genuine woman but a strategically arranged composition of other women’s features, all designed to camouflage her in society, not distinguish her in any way. Bad Mary was a friggin’ fembot.
She took her coconut smoothie from the cheery attendant and sipped it through a straw, once again demonstrating her alien nature. Her lips, numb from collagen abuse, pursed awkwardly around the straw, making her eyes bug out. She drank her smoothie much like a fish might drink a smoothie.
“This certainly hits the spot,” I said, taking a sip of the shake.
But it was clear Bad Mary didn’t share my taste for it. Her face puckered in disgust as she sucked on the straw. She kept taking sips and stopping to lick her lips, as if each sip was supposed to taste different from the previous one.
“They used the wrong coconuts,” she said, smacking her lips again to judge the flavor. “Old coconuts.”
“Old coconuts?” I said.
“Yes. There are young coconuts, which are nice and sweet, perfect for piña coladas and coconut cream flan. And there are old coconuts, which are bleh. These are old,” she said in a decisive manner.
“Coconut cream flan sounds delicious,” I said.
“It is,” she said assertively.
“Do you cook much?” I said.
“A little,” she said in contrived modesty. “Just enough to be considered a gourmet cook. In fact, I’m now writing my first cookbook.”
“A cookbook—I’m impressed. What kind of cookbook?” I said.
“The foods of Andalu-thia,” she said, feeling the need to add: “That’s a region in the south of Spain.”
“Ah. Are you Spanish?” I said.
Bad Mary turned rather chilly at the question.
“No,” she said, offering nothing further, just a weak smile as she got up and disappeared toward the dressing room area.
A little while later, I bumped into her at the spa checkout desk, where she was paying her bill in cash. She looked up with a dead-behind-the-eyes smile.
“It was very nice to meet you,” she said, slipping a humble beige Liz Claiborne wallet into a shoulder bag of matching jacquard-print design.
“Same here. Good luck with the cookbook,” I said, my mind scrambling to keep the conversation going.
“Oh, thanks,” she said, starting to walk out.
“I’d love to try that coconut cream flan sometime,” I said, undaunted.
Bad Mary nodded diplomatically, as if to detach herself from the chitchat.
“You should,” she said as she brushed past me on her way out to the parking lot.
I tried to follow her out without seeming too obvious, and I even managed to scribble down her license plate. But just as I turned on the ignition of my car, I saw the spa checkout attendant waving at me from the front door.
“Come back,” she said, waving a scrap of paper.
I cursed to myself as I turned off the car. I went back in to see what she wanted.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“You forgot to pay,” said the attendant.
“Sorry,” I said, horrified at my lapse, “I guess I’m a little too relaxed.”
“No prob,” said the girl, handing me the check.
I paid her with a large bill, glancing back to catch sight of Bad Mary driving away in a white Volvo S70, an outdated but perfectly safe car.
“Shoot. I forgot something else,” I said to the attendant. “I forgot to give that woman out there my phone number. I’m supposed to show her some houses later. Do you know how I can reach her?”
“No prob,” said the attendant, sliding a notepad across the counter and handing me a pen. “Go ahead and jot your number down, and I’ll have her call you.”
“Will do, thanks,” I said.
“I’ll go get your change,” she said. “Be right back.”
When the attendant left the desk, I went around the counter and pretended to use the phone at her desk. I spied the large appointment book, which was open on the desk, and I scanned it for facial appointments. And there it was—gold. I scribbled down the name, number, and address of the most pampered client at A Brand New You Day Spa: Sofia Villanueva.
“Sofia Villanueva, you sorry bitch,” I thought as I slipped back to the other side of the counter, “I hope you like surprises.”
TWELVE
RED ROOF INN—DAY 30
A generic, functionally appointed hotel room designed for the traveling-sales-rep set. Mary, visibly antsy, hunches over her laptop, the cell phone glued to her ear.
Sofia Villanueva didn’t exist. Except, perhaps, to the good folks at the Home Shopping Network. Her name was nowhere to be found in the property and vehicle records I thoroughly searched online. Both her license plate number and the address written next to her appointment on the spa log corresponded to a different name entirely: Natalie Newhouse.
Who on earth was Natalie Newhouse?
For all intents and purposes, it didn’t matter who she was. For all I cared, Bad Mary could have called herself Nancy Reagan. I knew she was Maria Portilla—I was convinced of it. Besides, contrary to what the feds may have believed, Bad Mary simply was not that smart. It took just one comparative glance at those two last names to know I was dealing with the same pathetic human being.
Villanueva.
Newhouse.
She wasn’t too bright at all. Clearly, she shared Jimmy Paz’s affinity for word games. Whatever. I had her cold.
I rang up Agent Dan Green’s desk at DEA headquarters. My heart leaped when I heard the voice on the other end.
“Agent Green, it’s Mary Guevara,” I said. “I hope you’re sitting down.”
“I’m sitting down, but I’m not Agent Green,” said the guy who answered the phone.
“Is this Agent Gonzalez?”
“Not him, either,” he said. “Gonzalez is no longer based in this office. Green, I’m not too sure where he is at the moment. But I’m glad to take a message.”
�
�Are you an agent?” I said.
“Special assistant. My name is Marcus,” he said.
“Marcus, this is urgent,” I said. “Please tell Agent Green this is Mary Guevara.”
“Spell it,” he said.
“G-U-E-V-A-R-A.”
“You mean like Che?”
“No, sir, not like Che.”
“What’s the message?”
“Tell him I’ve located Maria Portilla, the fugitive drug dealer they confused me for. I found the real Maria Portilla. I know where she is. She’s in Malabar—”
“Spell the name,” he said, giving no indication he had recognized the tip.
“P-O-R-T-I-L-L-A…”
“Okay. That’s your name?”
“No, my name is Guevara,” I said.
“Like Che.”
“Yes,” I said, annoyed, “like Che. Please tell Agent Green he needs to call me. My number is six four zero two nine four eight. It’s extremely important that he call me right away. I’m going to wait by my phone, okay?”
“Yep. You’ll hear from him as soon as he gets this message,” said the assistant, hanging up.
But when I didn’t hear back within a half hour, I called Agent Green’s desk again. This time, I didn’t get Marcus, or any other live voice. I got Agent Green’s answering machine. The outgoing message went like this: “You have reached the desk of Special Agent Dan Green of the DEA. I will be away from the office and unavailable to receive phone calls until Monday the seventeenth. You can leave a message at this number, if you’d like, or you can dial zero to speak to an agent on duty. Thanks.”
I dialed zero, but that only bounced my call to another recorded message: “ This is the Miami office of the DEA. We are closed for the day. Our regular office hours are eight a.m. to six p.m., Mondays through Fridays. If this is a police emergency, hang up and dial 911.”
How could the office be closed? Worse still, how could Agent Green be on vacation? What gave him the right to be away for so long? The seventeenth was two days away—I couldn’t wait that long. Maria Portilla could be gone by then. I had to make a decision on the spot, and in my gut I sensed it would be the wrong one, no matter what I chose to do. I could call 911 and report Maria Portilla’s whereabouts. But to someone unfamiliar with the case, the tip might sound far-fetched and unreliable. I didn’t want to take the chance. Nor did I want to surrender my information to someone who didn’t know my story—what if the Brevard County sheriff’s office turned the investigation on me? I’d be back to where I had started. On the other hand, I couldn’t just swoop in and grab La Reina on my own.
I paced the mauve confines of my room, trying to figure out what I should do next. As much as I wanted to see Bad Mary go to jail and as desperately as I wanted my old life restored, I wasn’t a delinquent or some hot-dog vigilante—okay, despite that minor false-imprisonment incident back at Gus’s apartment, the breaking-and-entering situation at the Surrey Court warehouse, and the illegal handgun stashed in my nightstand. The point is that, undoubtedly, I was an upstanding citizen. So, I decided to wait for someone to return my call from the DEA. For a little while, at least.
I lay on the bed as I stared at the panel on my cell phone, ready for my favorite screen saver, the goofy picture of Max I’d snapped at the beach two months ago, to light up with a ring. But I had a feeling it wouldn’t light up at all. So I struck a little deal with myself: If fifteen minutes passed and the phone still had not rung, I would take it as a sign from the universe that I should proceed on my own.
To kill time, I grabbed the hotel phone and called my son at Tony’s house. When I heard Tony’s voice answer the phone, I could tell he was still in a bad mood.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said, keeping an eye on the time. “I’d like to speak to Max.”
“Why do you bother to ask when you know what the answer is? Besides, he’s taking a nap now,” Tony said.
“Max never takes a nap, not unless he’s sick—what’s wrong with him?” I said, obsessively checking the cell phone to make sure it was on.
“He’s tired. He’s been working very hard in therapy. You know, with his pediatric psychiatrist,” Tony said flatly, in the same manner another father might describe a son’s visit to the dentist or the barbershop. “He’s doing some very important emotional work, you know. Victoria and I are quite proud of him.”
“Any therapist who would keep Max from me is a hack and you know it,” I said.
“For your information, he is not a hack. He came very highly recommended,” said Tony.
“Really. By whom?” I said, my eyes darting between the cell phone screen and the alarm clock.
“By someone with excellent contacts in the child welfare community,” said Tony, pronouncing the word “ walfare.”
“Who’s that?”
“Victoria,” he said.
“What does she know about child psychiatrists?” I said, baiting him.
“Plenty. Dr. Howard is one of Victoria’s closest advisers on her Children for a New Society campaign. He is an extraordinary advocate for children,” he said.
Tony had stepped in it big-time. I’m sure he hadn’t intended to admit that this shrink was one of Victoria’s political cronies, but he did just that. For all the times Tony had tried his best to unnerve me, pushing my buttons to prove his contention that I was an unfit mother, he had finally proven to be my best ally. Unwittingly so, of course. He had buried not only the shrink and Victoria but also himself.
I didn’t call attention to his gaffe, not just then. I tried to do the opposite.
“Sounds like he’s pretty competent, then. Did he prescribe any medication?” I said, playing into the Ramonet pathology.
“Just a minor dosage,” said Tony. “Max really needed to sleep.”
“Let him rest, then,” I said. As outraged as I was, I kept my tone level.
I hung up with Tony and buried my head in a pillow. Even though I now had evidence of a flagrant conflict of interest, I couldn’t help but feel defeated. I was worried sick about Max.
After a few minutes, I checked the time again. The fifteen minutes were almost up. I paced by the alarm clock until thirty seconds remained on the allotted time and then I picked up the cell phone to make another call. This was a call I didn’t want to make because doing so was an admission that I just might need help. I’m a woman who takes pride in handling my business, earning my salary, paying my bills, raising my child. And I was 98 percent sure I could handle the likes of Maria Portilla—singlehandedly—but there was that nagging 2 percent chance that she could get away. I couldn’t take that risk.
So I made the call. The phone rang a few times before an answering machine picked up. When I heard the beep, I left this message: “Listen, I may need your help tonight. I found her. The address is Forty-seven Sunset Terrace, in Malabar. I’m headed over there now. I need you to come out and wait nearby until I call you. And one more thing…Bring your gun.”
THE RETREAT AT MALABAR—DAY 30
A suburban development of palm-lined, winding roads and Mediterranean-style houses of nearly identical size and appearance. Mary’s car weaves along a quiet street.
Even at night, I could tell the development had been aptly named for a woman of Maria Portilla’s characteristics. Indeed it was a retreat from the life of a runaway drug dealer, a place to blend in, to mimic the lives of others. This was a place where your home looked like everybody else’s home—from the outside, that is. Everybody’s door had a wreath of dried flowers and everybody’s backyard had a vine-covered pergola. Those who may value a more refined sense of individuality might stay away from such a compound, but Bad Mary was not one to, well, retreat from The Retreat. Her freedom depended on her ability to go undetected among the neighborhood joggers, the tennis club members, the Tuesday-night bridge enthusiasts.
And I have to say, it wasn’t a horrible place. It was quite lovely. In fact, in some ways, The Retreat at Malabar reminded me of my own neighborhood back in
Miami. The similarities had nothing to do with the houses or the community layout, mind you. It had to do with a sense of order, diligence, and calm I felt as I drove along Sunset Terrace. It was that unmistakable feeling of safety that comes from a certain level of predictability in which every routine is honored, every hedge trimmed, every newspaper collected from the lawn, every window aglow at a certain time of evening. Such quotidian rituals bring with them a sense of safety. I learned this as a child in my parents’ home. I learned it in the repetition of similarly lived days, the shuffle of my father’s steel-toed work boots on the kitchen linoleum at dawn, the wheeze of my brother’s school bus at the corner stop, the aroma of steak and onions frying in a pan at dinner, the way the lock on the front door squeaked as my father clicked it shut each night.
And this is what I missed the most about my home, the feeling of security it engendered. I feared that feeling might be lost in me forever. If the federal raid of my home taught me anything, it taught me there is no such thing as safe.
Bad Mary was about to learn the same suburban lesson.
THIRTEEN
A RECTANGULAR HEDGE of nondescript shrubbery traced the way to Bad Mary’s front door, a sturdy, hacienda-style wood door hung with an odd wreath of dried roses embedded in a tangle of dehydrated eucalyptus. As I got closer to the door, I could hear the distant strumming of a Spanish guitar in a spirited rendition of “ La Malagueña. ” I wondered if she had company, although that possibility didn’t stop me from ringing the doorbell.
After a few moments, the door cracked open, a chain tethering it to the frame. Bad Mary, the door concealing half of her face, peered at me with a bewildered look. I didn’t stare directly at her at first as I pretended to search my bag for one of my business cards—one I had printed up just a few minutes earlier at a nearby Kinko’s, mind you.
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