by Gary Corbin
Val sucked in a deep breath, bit back a snarky retort, and hurried to her locker. She dressed in a rush, eschewing make-up, as always, and had almost reached the exit when Hillebrand called to her again.
“Dawes!” The coach stood outside the door to her cramped office, bordered on two sides by oversized glass panes. “This friend with the missing baby. Is her name Lee-moo?”
“LeMieux,” Val said, nodding. “Why?”
Hillebrand pointed to a TV affixed to the top of the wall opposite her desk. “You’ve made the news.”
“Crap!” Val scurried into the office to listen to the broadcast. The screen showed Detective Jordan speaking with a reporter alongside a grainy photo of the woman who’d taken Jada. Jordan said something about asking for anyone who recognized her to call the toll-free number on the bottom of the screen.
“Don’t get dragged into this mess, Dawes,” Hillebrand said. “I mean it.”
“You don’t think I should help my friend find her missing baby?” Val said. “Seriously?”
“Let the police handle it,” Hillebrand said. “Remember what I said about your scholarship. We don’t need scandals like this attached to UConn soccer.”
Val’s mouth dropped open and her ears flushed red. “There won’t be any scandal,” she said. “But I won’t let money stand in the way of saving a child’s life!” She pushed past the coach and fled out of the locker room.
She calmed down about halfway to the building’s exit. Great move, dummy, she scolded herself. Alienating the woman who controlled her financial lifeline at college—for what? She’d done nothing of substance so far to help Rhonda.
Still. She would never bail on a friend in need.
Val found Rhonda leaning against her car in a parking lot outside the practice facility. “I’m so sorry for how I acted earlier today,” Rhonda said, her face a well of sadness. “I was just so upset about Jada, and that Child Services lady seemed to blame me for it, and—”
“No need to apologize,” Val said. “Is there any word?”
“Rizzo’s gone missing,” Rhonda said. “He lost his job, and his landlord hasn’t seen him in over a week. I’m certain he’s involved in this, Val. But I don’t know—oh, damn, there’s my cell.” A tinny, muted version of Bob Marley’s “Don’t Worry About a Thing” played from Rhonda’s purse. She yanked her phone out and answered it. “Desmond!” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach you!”
A man’s voice shouted into Rhonda’s ear, the strong Jamaican accent distorting the words enough to make them unintelligible for Val. Rhonda shook her head. “But Desm—” More shouting. Rhonda sent Val a pleading look.
“I can’t tell what he’s saying,” Val said in a low voice.
Rhonda frowned and put the call on speaker. Desmond’s Jamaican lilt filled the air. “Then they said they’d kill me!” he shouted. “And I didn’t do nothing!”
“Who said they’d kill you?” Val said. “When?”
“Who’s that with you?” Desmond’s voice shrilled with suspicion and fear. “Rhonda, I just told you, we can’t tell anybody anything!”
“My friend, who’s helping me,” Rhonda said. “Who were these men? What did you tell them?”
“They were looking for you.” Desmond’s voice grew more agitated. “Yesterday morning. I didn’t tell them anything, I swear!”
Val stared at Rhonda. “That means they’re the ones who—Desmond. What did they want with Rhonda?”
“Where she’s living, who she’s dating, stuff like that,” he said. “They just said if I didn’t tell them, they’d cut off my fingers, then my toes, then my...I can’t even say it. They’ll kill me, Rhonda! What should I do?”
“Cooperate with the police, that’s what,” Rhonda said. “They’re also looking for you.”
“No! No cops!” Desmond’s voice reached pure panic mode. “They said if I contact the cops—”
“The police will protect you,” Val said. “These men can’t reach you there.”
“Ha!” Desmond said. “Maybe in Connecticut, but in Jamaica—”
“Hush!” Rhonda said. “Desmond! Do not say where I am out loud, to anyone, ever! You didn’t tell these men where I am, even by accident, did you?”
“No! I swear!” The line grew silent for a moment. “I don’t think.”
“You don’t think?” Rhonda held the phone out wide from her body and stared at the ground, seething. “Desmond!” she shouted. “What–did–you–say–exactly?”
“Nothing!” he said, wailing. “I didn’t tell them nothing!”
Rhonda seethed again, shaking her head at the ground, speechless.
“What questions did they ask you?” Val said.
“Where Rhonda was, and where the baby goes for day care, things like that,” Desmond said. “I said I didn’t know, but they didn’t believe me. They took out a knife and held my hand down and—and—Rhonda, they were going to cut off my thumb,” he said, sobbing.
“So...you told them?” Rhonda’s voice had regained an eerie calm. “You told them where I was?”
“I said you were living in Mother’s house,” Desmond said. “But they knew that wasn’t true. Then I told them you went back to Yale. They said if they find out that’s a lie, they will be back. Rhonda, what am I gonna do?”
“Go to the cops, like my friend here said you should,” Rhonda said. “Otherwise, keep your mouth shut!” She hung up the phone and pressed her hands to her head. “That’s how they found me, then. Rizzo knew I couldn’t go back to Yale, but it probably wasn’t hard to figure out I’d switched to UConn. Closer to my mother’s house, and all that. That stupid boy!”
Val nodded in agreement, but gestured for Rhonda to sit on the car’s hood next to her. “You can’t blame Desmond for trying to save his own skin,” she said. “At least we have a lead, now. The police can get a description of the men in Jamaica and trace them back to here. It doesn’t sound it, but this is a good development, to my way of thinking.”
Rhonda glared at her. “That’s because,” she said between her teeth, “you’re not missing an eighteen-month-old baby.” She jumped into her Ford Focus and started the engine. Val had just enough time to tumble off the hood before the car lurched backward out of the parking space and sped out of the lot.
Panting on her hands and knees on the pavement, Val stared after her, disappearing at high speed down the narrow road leading off campus. Her friend’s volatile reactions put both of them in greater danger, so long as Val continued to help. Coach Hillebrand’s warning echoed in her head: Don’t get involved. Part of her saw the wisdom in her coach’s words.
But only a small part. The rest focused on the picture in her mind of eighteen-month-old Jada, and the danger she was in. If something similar happened to her niece, Ali, she’d want someone—everyone—to do everything they could to help. She couldn’t abandon her friend. Rhonda’s impulsiveness made her even more vulnerable—and more than ever, in need of a friend like Val.
Chapter Eight
The sun drifted below the tops of the trees bordering the parking lot, casting long shadows on the pavement, but bringing a welcome, partial relief from the day’s intense heat. Val slung her backpack over her shoulder and trudged toward her dorm, clear across campus. To save time, she cut through the natatorium that bordered the practice facility. Holding her breath against the heavy aroma of chlorine and sweat, she focused on ways she could help Rhonda in this impossible situation. She exited the building and waited for some cars to pass before crossing Hillside Avenue.
About a hundred yards south, a swarthy man in a dark jacket and slacks ducked behind the pillars supporting the east entrance of the basketball pavilion.
The man raised her suspicions for a few reasons. One, the furtive movement, as if he were hiding. Two, the dark jacket, far too heavy for the unseasonably warm September evening.
She glanced in his direction again, but didn’t spot him. Either he’d hidden well, or she’d imagined it, or he�
��d continued on inside the building. Maybe it wasn’t a jacket, after all. It might have been a basketball player wearing a navy blue UConn sweatshirt, heading in to practice.
Except that athletes didn’t use the main entrance, and the team didn’t practice in the pavilion.
Val jogged across the street, glancing back at the pavilion entrance. Her legs still ached from three hours of running, but adrenaline quieted the pain. She made it past the engineering building without further visual evidence of the man, and she slowed to a walk again. She rounded the corner and glanced up at the windows of the art museum—
She saw him again. A stocky man in his mid-twenties, about 5’7” tall, with dark, curly hair. The shadows hid key facial details, even his skin color, especially with the sun in her eyes. But he more or less matched Rhonda’s description of Rizzo. He seemed to be trying to blend in, without success, among the students ambling down the sidewalk along the open green.
Val broke into a run—no jogging this time—brushing past a few clusters of students walking abreast on the sidewalk. The road curved right, and a giant, stately oak screened her enough to risk stealing another glance back at the man, but she’d lost sight of him. It looked familiar: she’d cut through this courtyard early that morning on her way to calculus class. She knew her way around, now. She detoured through the science complex, hoping to lose him among the maze of buildings crowding the north end of the campus. Looked back again—
And lost her footing in one of the giant, unrepaired holes in the concrete walk, falling flat on her face on the sidewalk. Her backpack opened, and her sociology book, pens, and notepad scattered everywhere. Luckily, her Chromebook didn’t fall out and get destroyed on the concrete. A few students snickered, and someone let out a “Whoa!” No one helped her up, or to gather her things. She rushed through that, keeping her eye to the south, where she’d last seen him.
He ducked behind a white van parked on the side of the road. Trying to hide, but staying close.
Val considered her options. The police—and Rhonda—were looking for Rizzo, to question him, if not arrest him. She needed to notify them, fast, without alerting him. Tough to do, with him watching her—unless she could get inside her dorm, still a few blocks away, before he caught up to her. Under normal circumstances, her track-star speed would make that a simple task, but soccer practice had turned her legs to rubber. And he’d closed the distance behind her to less than 50 yards.
A new thought struck her: if Rizzo had taken Jada, where was the child now? With the woman who’d picked her up from day care, she assumed. That meant Rizzo trusted her, as he would only leave his prized possession with a close partner. That narrowed the possibilities. The police should be able to track down the woman’s identity quickly and, with that, Jada’s location.
Unless they’d already moved her out of the area. Or hurt her—
Val pushed that option out of her mind. Think positive: the kidnappers needed Jada safe and healthy. Particularly Rizzo, the child’s father.
She decided on a new strategy: keep her pursuer close enough to know his location at all times, but distant enough that he couldn’t hurt or threaten her. A tricky balance, given her tired legs, but she’d manage, somehow.
The second part of her strategy: get help, without scaring him away.
Val pulled out her cell and Tanisha Jordan’s business card. She had little to lose by calling Rizzo in. So what if he saw her making a call? Worst case, she could still outrun him. Probably.
“You’ve reached Detective Tanisha Jordan, Mansfield Police Department,” the voice at the other end of the line greeted her. Voice mail! “You know what to do.” A beep followed.
“Detective, this is Val Dawes. Rizzo’s following me. I’m almost to my dorm. I’ll call again—”
Hard-pounding footsteps sounded behind her. Another glance confirmed her fear: the man was running toward her. She shoved the phone into her pocket and raced ahead, but the backpack and her tired legs slowed her.
Val hurried down a covered walkway that snaked along the biology building, then ran up the broad steps at the far end. At the top, breathing hard, she looked for him again. No luck, but he might have hidden among the large, pale-yellow concrete columns bordering each side. She raced down the busy street that sliced through campus, separating the dorms from the academic clusters. A break in traffic allowed her to cross. On the other side lay a cemetery, surrounded by a low stone wall, not quite waist high on her. She could cut through, but it meant leaving the comfort of people—potential witnesses—behind.
Another check-in with her pursuer revealed that he’d gained some ground. He must have run up the stairs, too. But he hadn’t made it across the street yet. The man looked right at her, no longer hiding his intent to follow. Val needed to push herself harder if she planned to maintain a safe distance. But her leg muscles burned, and try as she might, she could not move any faster.
Which meant, shortening the distance.
She dashed toward the wall, pacing herself as if she were running the 440 hurdles. Timing her leap, she pushed off the ground, extending her legs wide.
But she’d misjudged the depth of the stone wall, and her trailing leg scraped the wall’s sharp edge. She lost her balance and face-planted in the turf, rolling to a stop against one of the gnarly trees that lined the grounds. Her head tapped the trunk’s base, and for a moment, she saw stars.
Then, she saw the dark-haired man dodging traffic, racing toward her.
Val sprang to her feet and dashed among the headstones toward the Episcopalian chapel, about 100 yards east. She reached top sprinting speed in seconds and did not look back. She timed her jump over the stone wall perfectly this time and raced across the lawn to the paved path that led up the hill to her dormitory. Students crowded the walk, chatting and laughing, forcing her to slow her pace. With heavy breaths, she strode up the hill, nearing the steps that would bring her to the residential courtyard.
“Hey!” someone exclaimed behind her. “Quit pushing. What’s your problem, mister?”
Sure enough, the man had continued his bold pursuit, now with no pretense of hiding.
A blue emergency phone tower rose from the ground at the intersection of the sidewalk and steps. She recalled from freshman orientation that pressing the tower’s large red button would initiate a 9-1-1 call—if it worked. At any given time, some ten to fifteen percent of the units were out of order. Most of the broken units were hooded, once the breakdown was detected. This one wasn’t.
She pushed her way to it and pressed the button. Waited a heartbeat or two. Nothing. She pressed it again, harder, and glanced left, back toward the stocky man in pursuit. Took another breath—
A blue light on the top of the pole began blinking.
Val didn’t wait for the phone to dial campus police. Instead, she dashed up the first flight of stairs. Where the stairway turned to the right, she glanced back. The man chasing her had paused in his pursuit, staring wide-eyed at the blinking beacon.
Val continued up the steps, past the first dormitory with its circular corner tower of multi-colored glass panels, and headed to her own dorm building. She eased her pace to a brisk walk and, glancing around, breathed a sigh of relief: she’d lost him.
She pulled out her phone again and punched in the numbers: 9—1—
The phone rang. Detective Jordan’s number appeared on the screen.
“Detective!” She said. “Rizzo’s here! Less than sixty yards away from me! What do you want me to do?”
“Are you home yet?” Jordan asked.
“Almost,” Val said. “Just a few hundred—”
“Get inside,” Jordan said. “Fast.”
“Shouldn’t I stay in sight so that Rizzo—”
“That’s not Rizzo,” Jordan said. “Get inside!”
“Wait, what?” Val hurried to the dorm’s rear entrance. Fast footsteps echoed off the pavement behind her. “Are you sure? He meets the description—”
“I k
now it for a fact,” Jordan said. “Now get! In! Side!”
“How can you be certain?” Val said, sliding her ID into the security card reader and yanking open the door.
“Because,” Jordan said, “Marty Rizzo is about fifty feet from me right now. Sitting in a jail cell.”
The door closed behind Valorie, and she whirled to peek through the window to find the man who’d been chasing her. But the green yard in front of the dorm remained empty. Whoever the man was, he’d given up the chase.
Chapter Nine
Tanisha Jordan pushed open the door of the tiny interrogation room and made a point of ignoring the stocky, olive-skinned man handcuffed to the metal chair behind a table. Marty Rizzo’s black, curly hair stuck to his scalp and a sheen of sweat lined his clean-shaven face. The temperature in the room probably exceeded 90, maybe 100. Sweltering. Good.
She slung her jacket over the back of her own chair and set a folder stuffed with printouts on the table. She nodded once at the mirrored-glass wall behind her. A slight flickering of the lights signaled that yes, the observation team was ready. She poured water from a plastic pitcher into a paper cup. “Thirsty?”
Rizzo sneered at her. “You know I can’t reach it.” He shook his hands to rattle the cuffs behind him.
“Be a good boy and maybe I can fix that.” She poured another cup and took a sip, then sat down. “So, Marty, what brings you to Mansfield?” She kept her tone light, conversational. Lower the tension a bit.
No luck. “Call me Rizzo,” he said. “Everybody does.”
“Your friends, you mean?” She chuckled. “Does that make me your friend, Marty?”
Rizzo scowled at her. “Who are you? You a cop?”
She laughed. “Who else skips dinner and hangs out at police stations at night? Oh, yeah.” She leaned across the table and gritted her teeth. “Convicts, like you.”
“Is that why you brought me here?” he asked, nonchalant. “To read me my rap sheet? Thanks, but I don’t need reminders. And I ain’t done anything, so—”