Lost in the System

by Nancy Jo Wilson

  I force my mind back to the present and try to control the shivers that course through my body despite the Florida heat. I’ve been gone from the apartment too long. I don’t want Charlie coming to look for me, but I can’t get hold of myself.

  My cell rings forth with “Smooth” by Carlos Santana. I check the caller ID. It’s Marisol. I think about letting it go to voicemail, but with her about to pop out the baby any second, it might be important. Maybe I’ll be forced to round out this twisted day by playing birth coach.

  “Hello,” I say in the steadiest tone I can manage.

  “Querido,” she says. My body calms in some kind of Pavlovian response to her lilting, accented voice. “I know you’re working,” she continues in Spanish, “but I just wanted to tell you I love you.”

  It is ridiculous, cheesy, and completely sappy. Yet, it works. I know she isn’t saying it to me, but in that moment, those words are what I need to hear. I exhale slowly and feel all the tension leave. Maybe wives aren’t totally useless.

  “Te amo tambien,” I say before hanging up. I close the car door and walk back to the apartment.

  “What took you so long?” Charlie asks.

  “Marisol called.”

  “Can you two go longer than an hour without talking to each other?”

  “Nope, it’s called love.”

  Charlie is holding a coffee can and lid in his hand. It is covered with bright paper and reads, “Rock the Universe!!!” Chuckles stares into it with a puzzled expression.

  “Where’s Lydia?” I ask.

  “She’s getting us the numbers of people in Nashville,” he pauses, then yells down the hallway, “When’s the last time you put money in here?”

  “Night before last,” her voice echoes back.

  “How much had you saved?”

  “With those tips, it was $387.12.”

  Charlie looks back into the can, snorts, and tips it in my direction. There’s nothing inside but the reflection of the ceiling lights on the bottom.

  “When we find that twerp, I’m going to wring his scrawny little neck,” Charlie says without a hint of humor.

  Not if I do it first.

  V

  Lydia takes the can from Charlie and thrusts her hand inside as if the emptiness is an illusion. After several seconds of digging, she gives up, sets the can on the table, and looks at the two of us. I wait for the geyser of tears to begin again. I wait for the crumpled girl to re-emerge. It doesn’t happen. The feisty woman is still in firm control.

  “This isn’t what it looks like,” she says, planting her fists on her hips.

  “What does it look like?” I ask.

  “You’re going to play that card? I have enough problems without you guys treating me like I’m stupid.”

  “We’re not—” Charlie starts.

  She interrupts, putting up an impatient hand. “I know it looks like David took our money. I know it looks like he went home. But he didn’t. If he wanted to go to Nashville, he would have told me. David wouldn’t have taken off without a word. Something else is going on; I don’t know what, but it’s something. It’s your job to figure it out.”

  Sure, take it out on us instead of the little twerp who skipped with all your loot.

  “Ms. Hawthorne,” I say in a placating-the-victim tone, “We understand your concerns and, I can assure you, we are never less than thorough. However, it is our job to investigate all possibilities, even the uncomfortable ones.”

  Lydia isn’t put down that easily. “I don’t want you focusing on Nashville and forgetting to look in Jacksonville.”

  I am gripped by two conflicting desires. One, to grab her and throttle her for being so bletted naïve. The other, well, I’ll just say a spunky woman who knows her own mind excites me in a special way. I can’t indulge either impulse because I am stuck in the body of Captain Discipline.

  So, I clear my throat to show Benigno’s self-control and continue evenly. “Ms. Hawthorne, you have my promise that we will exhaust every avenue at our disposal and follow every lead that crosses our path.” I am not going to back down, though. She needs to understand we aren’t going to avoid the runaway scenario just because she doesn’t like it. I add, “Regardless of where it takes us.” Frankly, I don’t care where it takes us because I am out of here at the end of the day.

  She takes a deep breath and exhales. It is clear she isn’t happy but has decided not to argue any further. “I don’t mean to give you a hard time. I know you’re doing your job. But I know my brother. This isn’t like him. My other brother Jesse was the hardheaded, rebellious one. If it were Jesse instead of David, I’d be thinking just like you.

  “David’s,” she pauses, fumbling for the right word. “David’s sensitive. Well, more sensitive than most teenage boys. He’s into art and music and drama. He’d leave a note or something. He wouldn’t just take off,” she finishes, turning and walking down the hall. “His room’s in here,” she says, striding through a doorway.

  Chuckles slides up next to me and asks, “How many times have we heard that?” Then he puts on an affected feminine voice. “I’ve known my husband fifteen years. He’s a good man. He wouldn’t cheat.” Then he shrugs and drops to his normal tone. “Yet we still find him in a seedy hotel wrapped around a nineteen-year-old.”

  I chuckle in response and clap Charlie on the shoulder. “Isn’t that the truth? Do we ever come across someone who lives up to what their loved ones say about them?”

  “Nope, everyone’s up to something,” he says, then whips out his Cheshire smile. “Except you and me, of course.”

  “Well, me at least,” I add.

  “You said it, Benny Boy.”

  “Benigno.”

  David’s room is like any other teen’s, which means it looks like New Orleans after Katrina hit. Clothes cover every inch of carpet and most of the desk. Only a fitted sheet shields the bed, the other covers lay in a heap on the floor. Band posters and hand-drawn renditions of album covers paper the walls.

  “David’s?” I ask as I point to a sketch of a man in a trench coat with angel’s wings.

  “Yeah, he’s good, isn’t he?” She appraises the drawing as if seeing it for the first time. “You’d think it’d get old, his art, but I’m always amazed.”

  The only thing that keeps me from gagging outright at the sappiness is the fact that she’s right. The twerp is that good. I notice a CD cover with the same picture lying on the stereo and his copy was Xerox quality.

  After I scan the rest, my eyes settle on his bedside table. There are two framed photos. One is of the entire family. Mr. Hawthorne and Jesse had darker hair and eyes than the other three, but they were all unmistakably related. The other picture is of Lydia and David in the apartment’s living room. I recognize the yellow curtains behind them. Lydia’s hair hangs loosely around her heart-shaped face and she has a wide smile, all pink lips and white teeth. This is what she looks like when her world isn’t falling apart around her. Man, I wish I wasn’t pretending to be married. David’s smile isn’t as wide as hers, but he looks happy. He doesn’t look the part of the sullen, miserable teen. A kid capable of swiping his sister’s jack and running off without leaving a note wouldn’t have shots like this in his room. Lydia must have put them there.

  “Would you be able to tell if anything was missing?” Charlie asks. He opens his eyes comically wide and gazes around the room.

  Lydia giggles. “Actually, yeah. I’d need a little time for an inventory. His duffle is right there, though.” She gestures toward a rumpled nylon bag near the closet door. “Wouldn’t he have taken that with him?”

  She’d stated in the intake interview that David’s backpack was gone. I decide not to point out that a backpack would be much better on the road than a duffle. I know this from experience. It’s always best to have your hands free if you can manage it.

  “That’s everything for now,” I say. “We’ll keep you updated if we learn anything new.”

  She follow
s us to the front door. “Are you going to talk to Mrs. Granger? What about his school?”

  Chuckles turns on the quarterback charm. “Yes, ma’am. She’s next on the list. 4B, right? We’ll be out to the school as soon as we can.”

  “Yes, she’s in 4B.” Lydia continues to hesitate in the doorway, her hand resting on the knob. She turns and looks into the living room and then back at us. “Should I come with you?”

  She doesn’t want to be alone in there. I want to walk off with Charlie but can’t. The thought of her alone, worried, and scared in this apartment holds me like a gravitational force. Not your problem, Smullian my boy.

  True, I argue within myself, but Benigno would care. It is my job to emulate my host as much as possible. So for the sake of appearances, I decide to give her something to do. It’s for the character, and certainly not because I am worried she’ll go nuts sitting in the empty apartment. And if you believe me, I have some land for you on Tricon 4. “You know what would really help us?” I ask.

  “What?” she responds, her blue eyes hopeful.

  “Two things, actually. Could you call some of those people in Nashville and see if they’ve heard from David? And also, it would be great if you could do that inventory of his room.”

  She looks relieved, almost eager.

  I hate that I care.

  “Yeah, I can do that,” she says. “I’ll get right on it. Should I call you when I’m done?”

  Please don’t, you’re complicating my day. “Yes, that would help us a lot.”

  Charlie’s phone rings as she is shutting her door. He answers and after a few “yeps,” he hangs up. “That was Fuller. They picked up Clausen at Jax International.”

  “Good, one more thing off the to-do list. I guess I need to call the secretary—Melinda was her name. She’s not going to be happy.” Oh great, another crying woman. Haven’t I suffered enough?

  I feel like someone is driving a spike into my forehead just over my right eye. I glance at my watch—it is barely one o’clock. This is, hands down, the longest day of my life. Until now, that honor has been held by the day I tested for Life Modification. “Every candidate for Life Modification will undergo a battery of physical, neurological, and mental examinations to determine aptitude for Life Modification therapy and the processes within,” per the book. In other words, They want to be sure of two things: number one, that you won’t go psycho and leave a trail of bodies moldering somewhere in the twentieth or twenty-first century (like the brainhitcher in Jack the Ripper did in the 1800s); number two, that you actually have the brains to carry out all those meaningless tasks while pretending to be someone else. It’s not surprising that most felons don’t qualify.

  “You okay?” Charlie asks me.

  I know I’m acting weird. Time to revisit the I’m-not feeling-myself scenario.

  “Still a little queasy,” I say, patting my stomach.

  “We’ll grab lunch after Granger,” he says as he walks toward apartment 4B. Then he stops and looks back at me. “If I catch this from you, you’re in deep trouble. I do not throw up.”

  I laugh. “Maybe you’ll luck out and only get the other part.”

  Chuckles screws up his face as if he’d smelled a banadox. Think dead skunk kind of stench. “Serious beat-down if I get sick, I’m tellin’ you.”

  I laugh again. “Don’t be a baby. I think it’s something I ate, so you can relax.”

  “Yeah, well, it better be.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead with Granger while I make that call?”

  Charlie nods and walks away. I flip through my notepad looking for Melinda-the-Secretary’s number. My objective is simple—pass her off to Fuller in Economic Crime as quickly as possible. I identify myself and immediately start the blow off. “I’m calling to inform you that Robert was detained at Jacksonville International Airport. If you have any further questions, you can contact Detective Fuller in Economic Crime.” Clean, neat, quick.

  “Why was he at the airport? What’s Economic Crime?”

  Not so quick. Stick to the company line. “Fuller will be able to answer all of your questions.”

  “I don’t understand. He was leaving?” I can hear the tremor in her voice. The tears are coming.

  Third time’s the charm. “Detective Fuller should have all the answers. You can contact him through the main switchboard. Just ask for Economic Crime, and they’ll connect you.”

  “He was leaving me.” I can hear her sobbing on the other end of the line. “Did he take the payroll, too?”

  Maybe if I answer one question, she’ll be satisfied enough to call Fuller. “Well, the accounts are empty. He is a person of interest. However, that’s not my department. It’s Fuller’s area. He’s the one who can give you more information.” Take the hint, lady.

  The sobs now elevate into outright blubbering. Melinda forces words between intakes of breath. “I trusted him. We all did. I feel so betrayed.”

  Clearly, I need a new tactic. She said the magic word. The word used by con artists, customer service representatives, and salesmen alike to overcome someone’s objections and bend those objections to a desired outcome. Yes, I intentionally listed those three professions together. The way I see it; I got pinched for doing the same thing customer service reps and salesmen do legally. It isn’t fair. I do, however, take solace in the fact that grifters hold a certain roguish allure while those other guys are universally despised. I mean universally. There are some planets where tax collecting is considered a more noble profession than sales. But I digress.

  The magic word is feel. By using the renowned “feel, felt, found” method, I would end this phone call.

  “I understand how you feel. Anyone would feel that way in your position,” I begin.

  “How could I be so stupid?” she asks.

  “You’re not alone. Other victims of crime have felt the same way.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Others have found that a little information goes a long way toward easing those feelings. When you contact Fuller, he can give you information about the Federal Office for Victims of Crime.”

  “I think I’ll do that,” she says. The blubbering slows down to a few sniffles. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

  “No problem.” No problemo, indeed. One more monkey off my back. My spirits improve, and I join Cheshire Charlie. Either he or Mrs. Granger has left the door open, so I give it a quick tap before entering. The two of them are seated in the living room, surrounded by cats. Charlie is trying to hold a professional expression while one particularly round feline kneads his thigh.

  Mrs. Granger appears to have the same affliction as all pet owners, isn’t-my-animal-the-cutest-in-the-worlditis. She strokes the cat closest to her and says to Charlie, “I named him Romeo because he’s a little lover boy. Look how attached he is to you.”

  “I see that,” Charlie’s mouth says while his eyes are yelling, “Rescue me!”

  “Hello, Mrs. Granger, I’m Detective Diaz.”

  “Hello,” she says. “I was just telling your partner here what a good boy David is. He never complains about anything. He even cleans my litter pans when my back is ailing.”

  Of course, he doesn’t complain; you’re paying him.

  “I couldn’t imagine that sweet boy running off,” she continues.

  I glance at Charlie who is rolling his eyes and trying desperately to dislodge the very plump Romeo. “Has David ever mentioned Nashville to you?” I ask.

  “Oh, all the time. To hear him describe it, you’d think it was heaven itself. He hasn’t talked about it quite so much lately. Has he, Sir Puffington?” she directs to the orange tabby curled up beside her.

  Sir Puffington? She’d be perfect for a pedigreed pet scam. You know, if I conned the elderly, which I don’t. I have rules.

  “What has he talked about lately?”

  “School, this trip he and Lydia are planning. Waste of money if you ask me. I grew up in the Depression. We woul
dn’t have thrown away our hard-earned wages on some frivolous concert. Those two deserve some fun, but a trip to Orlando? Isn’t that right, Sir Puffington?”

  “You said you heard him leave yesterday.”

  “As I told your partner—look at how attached Romeo is to him—I heard David slam the door at 6:45 A.M. That’s when he leaves to catch the bus.”

  “Is there anything you can think of that could help us?”

  “No, I hope you find him soon. Poor Lydia, she must be eaten up with worry.”

  With one sentence, my light mood is gone. I picture Lydia in that apartment sifting through the twerp’s things and crying. She’s turned me into a sap in half a day. No more lying to myself. For whatever reason, it bothers me that she is upset. I really am going to wring that little twerp’s neck. He’s ruining my life.

  “You know, she’d probably like some company,” I say. Even though Mrs. Granger was clearly off her rocker, I know Lydia would like someone to be with her.

  “I wonder if she’s had lunch. That’s the first thing to go—appetite. People get upset, and they quit eating. I lost eight pounds when Mr. Granger passed.” Normally, eight pounds isn’t that much to lose, but Mrs. Granger resembles a dry spaghetti noodle. She must have looked like one of those kids in the Food for the Nations commercials.

  We excuse ourselves and make our way to the car. Charlie is all grins. “I considered pulling my weapon on that cat. I’m sure there’s a section about animal attacks in Code of Conduct.”

  I glance over at him and notice he is covered in cat hair. He either isn’t aware or doesn’t care. I look at my own pants and discover the same thing. I don’t care, but Benigno the metrosexual would. Chances are he has a lint roller in the car. Glove box or side door pocket? I decide on the side door pocket. Benny would have his ticket book and other work-related stuff in the glove box.