Into the Fire

by Adrienne Giordano

  “Excuse me,” Rose says, her tone more indignant than just a minute ago. “You have no right to speak to us that way.”

  “Off!”

  First out and now off. He obviously enjoys a solid adverb. I give Rose a sarcastic smile. “We must be dogs.”

  She takes a tiny step forward, using all of her height to look him straight in the eye. “Sir, there is no need to shout. Please adjust your tone.”

  You tell him, Rose.

  He blasts her with another stream of Spanish and shaking fists. And his face? My goodness, it’s getting red. We may need an ambulance.

  “How dare you!” Rose thunders, Her-Majesty persona firmly in place.

  So much for staying calm.

  Wow. This is getting good. I peel my eyes from Rose and focus on the cop whose face is bunched up and nearly purple. How has this guy not popped an artery?

  If this keeps up, we might wind up in the clink, and the thought of that sends my insides into a full-on convulsion. And not a porta-potty in sight.

  Just my luck.

  More Spanish ensues and then, “Do you understand? Silence!”

  Rose gasps, her mouth falling so wide open I could drive a truck through it. Her classic horrified indignation is hilarious and if I wasn’t about to soil my jeans, I’d laugh. I can’t imagine there’s a human alive who has told Rose Trudeau to shut it.

  And this guy? She looks mad enough to take him out. I have to step in. Have to. I hold my hands up. “Okay. Let’s all—”

  “Do you know who I am?” she roars at the cop as she steps closer, getting into his space. “I am Rose Trudeau. I was coming to this island when you were a child.” She half-turns, patting the air in the direction of the building. “I was inside this building the day it burned. I lost loved ones! How dare you! You absolute horror of a man. Your people skills are an abomination. And don’t think I won’t contact your superiors about this. You, sir, are a disgrace to the badge.”

  Holy cow.

  Horror of a man?

  Abomination?

  That may have been harsh.

  I ping my gaze to the cop, who grits his teeth and raises his fists, this time holding them frozen in the air as if—whoa—I don’t like that. I slide between him and Rose. I’m shorter—and younger—than both of them and probably way more agile. If he takes a swing, I’ll at least break his momentum.

  “Estas bajo arresto´!”

  Another loud gasp erupts from Rose. “Don’t. You. Dare!”

  I angle back. “Wait. Did he just say—?”

  Before I can finish my question, Rose is on the move, angling around the cop and bumping me, nearly knocking me off my feet. “Let’s go, Rae. We’re leaving.”

  “Estas bajo arresto´!”

  Rose ignores him, marching back toward the gate as I right myself and come face-to-face with the enraged cop. I hold up both hands. “I’m so sorry. She’s…emotional.”

  He takes off after Rose, giving me no choice but to chase him down. This guy might be nuts and there is no way I’m going to let him get physical with a sixty-three-year-old woman.

  “Estas bajo arresto´!”

  By the time Rose reaches the gate, another police car has pulled behind the cab. The cab driver is still leaning against his car, arms casually crossed, head cocked. Watching the show.

  At least he waited for us.

  “Dammit,” Rose says. “Another one. Hurry up, Rae.”

  She pushes against the gate, tries to quickly slip through the opening, but the cop grabs her, applying way more force than necessary. She lets out a squeak and I turn back, stabbing my finger at the cop. “Hands off, asshole!”

  When he jerks her arm, a fierce buzz shoots straight up my spine. Heat floods my face. Between that and the blazing sun, my cheeks are frying.

  This will not happen. No, sir. “Hey!”

  I throw my elbow into his bicep.

  Nothing. Shoot.

  When he doesn’t let go, I dig my nails into his wrist and feel a hum of satisfaction when he winces and lets go. That’ll teach him.

  Now he waves his fists at me. At least he’s given up on Rose.

  “Estas bajo arresto´!”

  I blow right by that. “You do not get to touch us,” I demand, employing Haughty Rose’s trick of emphasizing certain words.

  On the other side of the gate, another officer—this one older with graying sideburns—approaches, his strides unhurried. “Ladies, you must calm down.”

  “Oh, please. He started it!” This from the ultra-proper Rose, who is massaging her upper arm. “All we were doing was looking.”

  A flurry of Spanish is exchanged between the two cops, the younger one—our arch-enemy— gesturing wildly while the older one shakes his head. The conversation stalls and he lets out a sigh.

  Still confused and praying “arresto” doesn’t mean what I think it does, I face the cop on the outside of the fence. “What’s happening?”

  The cop slowly shakes his head. “He’s arresting you.”

  15

  Rose

  * * *

  Of all the insanity I’ve faced, being thrown in prison has never been an issue. Worse, I’ve roped my young cohort into it. I envision Rae and I cohabitating in a dusty cell, complete with a hole in the ground in place of a toilet.

  My God. The horror.

  I turn my head to Rae, sitting beside me at the battered metal table. At least we’re not chained.

  What have I done? I have to get this poor girl out of this. I lift my chin, conjuring my best acting skills. “Don’t you worry, my dear. I’ll get this all straightened out.”

  “I’m not worried,” she says.

  I study her for a moment. Her tilted head, her relaxed mouth and shoulders. Can it be? She’s sitting in an interrogation room in a place where neither of us has any support system and she appears calm as can be.

  It fortifies my resolve, reminds me who I am and how far my contacts extend. “I like your attitude,” I say. “As soon as they come in here, I’ll tell them we want our phone call and I’ll have Phillip do his thing.”

  My son won’t be happy, but he’s his father’s child. He’ll know what to do. Fix first, lecture later.

  The interrogation room door opens and a tall, lean man carrying a folder steps in. His leathered, dark skin sags at his cheeks—years in the sun will do that. His mustache is more gray than brown. His hair is cut short, military style, giving him the no-nonsense feel of a man in charge.

  Somehow, I don’t think he’s a patrol officer.

  He closes the door and reaches a hand to me and then my young friend. “Ladies, I’m Superintendent Ernesto Guerrero.”

  Thank goodness he speaks English and I won’t have to stumble through an entire conversation in Spanish. I’m too rusty for that and stress isn’t helping.

  “Hello. I’m Rose Trudeau. This is my friend RaeLynn.”

  Geurrero drags the chair across from us away from the table. The screech of metal legs against tile shatters the few healthy nerves I have left, but I lift my chin and prepare for whatever will come next.

  He eases into the chair and nods. “Yes. I know. It’s been some time since you’ve visited, Mrs. Trudeau.”

  I’m not sure where he’s going with this, so I do the wise thing and agree. “It has.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He’s apologizing.

  To us.

  I assume this must be a trick. His way of softening up the old lady and her naive companion. Clearly, he doesn’t know me. “For?”

  He shrugs. “The Grande. Your experience. It’s…” He purses his lips and squints at me, clearly trying to choose the correct words. Whether this is due to the language barrier or legalities, I’m not sure.

  “Tragic,” he says. “Years later and there’s still so much pain.”

  His attention moves to RaeLynn. “Ms. Demming.”

  Rae straightens up and nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re a reporter?”r />
  Uh-oh.

  “I am.”

  “I can only assume, after all this time, you’re the reason Mrs. Trudeau has come.”

  Rae peers at me for a second, then turns her attention back to Guerrero. “Yes, sir. I’m working on a story about the Grande.”

  “Have you no shame?”

  For a second, the room is silent, the tension filling it like a flash flood.

  Rae cocks her head. “I’m sorry?”

  He gestures to me. “Using this woman, at her age.”

  What? First of all, no one uses me. Second, I don’t appreciate him treating me as if I were decrepit. Particularly since he’s not all that much younger than I am. I lean in. “You cannot be serious. Do I look frail to you? And frankly, it was my idea to come here. My dearest friend died in that fire and, as you say, after all these years, there’s still so much hurt. And no answers.”

  He meets my eyes, his dark gaze direct. Good. My intended dig about his department’s failure to solve this case hit its mark.

  “I was there that day,” he says. “One of the detectives on scene.”

  I sit back, raise one hand. “And now you’re in charge. Congratulations.”

  Under the table, Rae kicks me.

  Kicks me.

  “Sir,” she says, “we’re not here to make trouble. We thought a visit to the site might help Mrs. Trudeau remember some details. Perhaps we can help. This is a cold case.”

  At this, the corner of his mouth quirks. “You want to solve this crime? A housewife and an inexperienced reporter?”

  The tiny hairs on the back of my neck dance and I level a hard stare at him. What is it with the La Paradisio police department? Every member so far needs sensitivity training.

  And, right now, he’s messing with the wrong housewife.

  “You know,” I say, “insulting us won’t play well in the American press. Imagine what the State Department will say when they find out we’ve been detained for walking onto property that wasn’t properly secured.”

  Already my mind is churning. Spitting out names of senators and congressmen I’ve helped get elected. After throwing an epic fundraiser that helped put Jackson Harlan in the White House thirty years ago, I’ve developed enough political chops to start my own super PAC. An odd burst of energy whips inside me. I do love power plays.

  “Mrs. Trudeau, you make threats?”

  Hardly. I point at the file. “If you’ve done your research, you’ll know I have friends. Important ones. They owe me. And, after all, La Paradisio is a territory of the United States.”

  He shrugs as if conceding the point. Well, good for him.

  Beside me, Rae clears her throat. “Sir, are you arresting us?”

  Ignoring her, he remains focused on me. Oh, yes. He understands this situation quite well. I lift my chin again. Smug won’t help us, but this is more than that. This fire inside me is Rose—the Rose—coming back to life.

  Lord, it feels good.

  I give him my best Ice Queen stare. Simon liked to say it could slay dragons. “You strike me as a smart man, Geurrero. Last I heard, Player Wright plans on shooting his latest blockbuster here. Coincidentally, I ran into him the other night. It would be a shame if he happened to move his production somewhere else. All that lost revenue…”

  At this he laughs. A big, hearty bark that somehow doesn’t annoy me. He gets it. More than that, he respects my gumption.

  Even if he hates it.

  “You’re…” he searches for the word.

  “A badass?” Rae offers. “She sure is.”

  My young friend seems impressed.

  Guerrero pushes back from the table and lifts the folder, smacking it against the air. “You’re free to go. I expect, while you’re on my island, you’ll respect our laws.”

  Oh, please.

  “Stay away from the Grande,” he continues. “It’s dangerous. Enjoy your stay.”

  16

  Rae

  * * *

  We exit the interrogation room to find an officer waiting with our luggage. Our cab driver, probably guilt-ridden, earned his fifty bucks by transferring our belongings to the police cruiser after our arrest.

  The officer hands off our luggage and we are escorted down a long hallway to the lobby. Freedom is just feet ahead of me and my fingers are itching to throw open that door and suck in fresh air.

  One thing this experience has taught me is that I’m not built for prison life.

  I quicken my pace, moving ahead of Rose and shoving open the door where the afternoon heat wraps around me and makes quick work of squashing the chill that came with sub-zero air-conditioning.

  Ever regal, Rose steps through the door into the late afternoon sunshine and digs in her tote—Chanel, if I’m not mistaken—for her sunglasses.

  “Heck of a day so far,” I tell her.

  “It’s a humdinger.”

  A humdinger. Funny. “Now I can brag to my journalism buds.”

  Rose lets out a soft laugh as I drag my suitcase down the three steps at the police station’s entrance. Bumpbumbumpbum, the plastic—I couldn’t afford rubber—wheels thump against concrete and go silent as they hit the sidewalk. Behind me, Rose opts to roll her suitcase down the wheelchair ramp, an option I’d blown right by since my mind was already on our next move.

  “We should go back to our hotel and make a plan,” I say.

  Rose reaches the bottom of the ramp and pauses to adjust the fancy scarf strung around her neck, then fluffs her short hair. I like that about her. With everything going on, she’s still hyper-aware of her appearance and what it says about her.

  She finishes her mini-grooming session by smoothing the hem of her lightweight sweater. “I agree. I’ll phone the hotel and have them send a car.”

  “They’ll do that?”

  “For what we’re paying? Of course.”

  Wow. First the private plane and now limo service. For a girl from a small town where luxury meant a meal at the diner, this is definitely a new world.

  Rose digs back into her tote for her phone. “When we get to the hotel, we’ll order up food and work through dinner. Is that all right?”

  “Fine with me. I have a list of potential witnesses to show you.”

  Rose pokes at her phone, then lifts it to her ear, holding out her finger to shut me up. A minute later, she’s employing her Spanish again and then hangs up.

  “They’ll be here in fifteen minutes. We should speak with Detective Sanchez. After the fire, I called him weekly for updates. Eventually, I gave up.”

  Sanchez. The name is familiar, so I plop on the step and drag an accordion folder from my messenger bag. Inside the folder is my legal pad filled with notes. I flip the first few pages until I get to the aforementioned list.

  The third name on it is Gabriel Sanchez.

  “He’s on my list,” I tell Rose. “He retired nine years ago, though. I don’t know how much help he’ll be with anything recent.”

  “That’s…unfortunate.”

  I tuck the list back in the folder. “He’d still be a good source, since he was on the front lines of this thing. We’ll hunt him down first thing tomorrow. See if he can fill in any details or hook us up with anyone else.”

  Rose nudges her chin at the folder. “What all do you have there?”

  “Research. Court transcripts, media clips, witness interviews.”

  “You did all that yourself?”

  “Yep.” I smile up at her. “Some of it was online. The rest I dug for. There’s a union rep we should talk to while we’re here. I was able to track him down, but he wouldn’t talk on the phone. His paranoia ran deep.”

  “Who did he think you were? The CIA?”

  I laugh. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  A black sedan pulls up to the curb and a woman in a light brown pantsuit, who looks a few years older than me, jumps from behind the wheel.

  “Hello, ma’ams.”

  Her face is full and round and her lips f
orm a giant smile that chips away at the rough start to this trip.

  She hustles to Rose and grabs her suitcase, then holds her free hand out for my bag. I wave her off, opting to keep it with me. “I’ve got it. Thanks.”

  After stowing the luggage, we settle in for the ride. Rose takes the rear passenger seat while I sit behind the driver who is blessedly silent, so we don’t have to explain to a stranger exactly why two American tourists were visiting the police station.

  Minutes later, we arrive at the hotel, an oceanfront high-rise with gold, reflective windows and a circle drive perfectly landscaped with sculpted shrubs and palm trees. A roadside motel, this isn’t.

  The driver pulls to the front entrance and a bellman rushes to open Rose’s door.

  I slide from the vehicle and survey the street, where more people flood the sidewalks. There are shops and outdoor cafés and a street performer doing a half-decent version of “Margaritaville” as folks wander by, tossing bills into his tip bucket.

  This must be the busy downtown area I read about.

  The bellman rushes over, retrieving the luggage and stowing it on a cart. I start to object, but Rose shushes me.

  “They depend on tourism,” she whispers. “Let them earn a living.”

  Ah. Good point. My suitcase is one thing, but they’re not taking my messenger bag. My laptop—my absolute lifeline—is in there. Bad enough I lost sight of it while at the police station. The laptop is password protected and my files automatically backed up, but I’m still not chancing it. I sling the bag over my shoulder and follow Rose inside, where we are greeted at the entrance by woman in the same light brown suit as our driver. She’s added a paisley scarf tied at her throat and her nameplate says Dora.

  “Good day, ladies.”

  “Hello.” Rose nods. “Thank you for sending the car.”

  “Of course, ma’am. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your suite.”

  Okay. So what the heck kind of hotel is this that we don’t have to do the whole credit card, get-your-key thing?

  This has to be a rich-person thing, so I stay quiet and follow Rose and Dora to the elevator that takes us to the top floor.