by Blake Banner
At twelve we pulled into Deadham, in Norfolk County, on the southwest border of Boston. Their house was a large, attractive clapboard affair on Crowley Avenue, and backed onto a magnificent old Catholic church. I couldn’t help wondering who on the town council had named the streets. Probably the same person who called the town ‘Dead Ham’.
I followed Dehan up the stone steps to the porch and she rang on the bell. It was opened almost immediately by an attractive woman in her late forties or early fifties. She had made no effort to conceal the gray streaks in her black hair, which she had cut short. She was dressed in black Levis and a denim shirt, and had a single string of pearls around her neck which she fingered as she looked at us without speaking.
I said, “Mrs. Clemente?”
“Yes. Are you the detectives from New York?”
I nodded and showed her my badge. “I am Detective John Stone. This is my partner, Detective Carmen Dehan. May we come in?”
“Of course.” She stepped back, holding the door. “Do you know something about Rosario?”
There was a hint of Latino in her accent, but it was more generic, cultured East Coast. Dehan said, “We don’t know yet, Mrs. Clemente. That’s what we hope you will help us find out.”
She led us through a hall to a large, comfortable living room with dark wood floors, and two open sash windows set into a bow, overlooking Crowley Avenue. There were bookcases floor to ceiling in the alcoves on either side of an iron fireplace; and the occasional tables that flanked the old leather chairs and sofas all held large, interesting lamps—and more books: some open, all with bookmarkers in them. I noticed a couple were on architecture.
To the left of the door the room opened out to a set of French doors that gave onto a broad lawn. At the end of the lawn I could see the church. In front of the French doors there was a baby grand piano, and on it a photograph. I wondered if it was Rosario. Mrs. Clemente was gesturing us to sit, and saying, “Will you have some coffee?”
I shook my head as I sat on the sofa. “No, thank you. We won’t keep you long.” She sat in the chair next to me, staring intently at my face. I said, “I realize you must have been through all this before, but it would be very helpful if you could tell us about Rosario, and the last time you saw her.”
She sank back in the chair, her eyes abstracted. Outside the sun was bright and I could hear busy birdsong, but inside it was shaded and still.
She took a deep breath. “I raised Rosario alone. I was young when I had her. She was…” she made an expressive face, “…a mistake! But she was the best mistake I ever made!” She laughed. “Bobby—that’s her father—he was hot, you know?” She smiled at Dehan. “But I didn’t want to marry him! Hell! I didn’t want to have kids with him! We were at college, he was planning a career and so was I. But God decided he wanted me to have Rosario, so he busted the rubber and next thing I know I’m pregnant.”
He laughter was infectious. She flapped a hand at me. “You have to forgive me. I talk plain. I always have. It’s got me into trouble sometimes, but hey! That’s me. Anyway, Bobby panicked and ran, but my parents were fantastic and they helped me. Rosario grew up in a real close, loving family and...”
She paused and suddenly her eyes were flooded with tears. She bit her lip and stared at me, with her head on one side, like she was begging me not to give her the news she feared I had brought.
Dehan said, “You had a good relationship with her.”
She nodded, took another deep breath to steady herself. “Very good. People joked we were more like sisters than mother and daughter.” She smiled and shook her head. “But it’s not true. I was her mamma. And she is my little girl.”
I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. “Can you tell me about the last time you saw her?”
She gazed over at the open window with the fingers of her right hand resting on her pearls. “She had only recently graduated. She was clever, a real good student.” She glanced at Dehan, like she felt they would share some kind of understanding about that. “She did architecture, like me. But she was interested in green, sustainable bio-architecture. It’s a whole new field.” She laughed again. “When I was a student we built things! Now they integrate materials!” She nodded, as though agreeing with some internal dialogue she had going on. “She was good, real good. So she got some interviews in New York…”
She shifted in her chair and frowned at me. “She applied only to small firms that were specializing in sustainable, eco-architecture. She didn’t care about money. What she wanted to do was develop skills she could take to the third world, because she believed a new model of sustainable economy would be born out there, like she said, from the roots up.”
She took a big breath.
Dehan said, “She was an idealist.”
Mrs. Clemente put a lopsided smile on her face and nodded. “She said she was a practical idealist. However, life teaches us there is no such thing. She was naïve.” She shrugged. “But thank God for naïve people, right? Because they are the ones who do worthwhile things in this world. Pragmatists maintain the status quo. Dreams shake things up.”
I gave a small laugh. “Maybe you have something there, Mrs. Clemente. She got some interviews in New York?”
“Yeah,” She reached out and touched my foot. “I’m sorry. It’s so nice to talk about her. All my friends are terrified of talking about her in case I cry. But it’s a…” She shook her head and leaned forward towards Dehan. “It’s a fucking relief!” She threw her head back and laughed. “Excuse me, but it is such a fucking relief to talk about her and laugh about her and cry about her! Why not? God gave us tears for a reason, right? So…!” She made an eloquent gesture with her hands, like things were flying around her head. “I am all over the place today, thinking about her. You asked…?”
“Her interviews.”
“Right. She had two. One was a smart outfit on Riverside Drive, on the Upper West side in Manhattan. She wasn’t so keen on that one. She thought the ‘green’ aspect with them was more for show. Then there was another one in Brooklyn that she was more hopeful about.”
Dehan pulled a pen and notepad from her pocket. “Can you give us their addresses?” She wrote them down, then asked, “And were these both on the same day?”
“No, she wanted to spend a couple of days in New York. So she stayed with a friend.”
Dehan stared at her a moment, waiting.
“Oh, um, Pam, Pam lived with her parents, Jason and Stella, give me a second and I’ll remember. “Hermany Avenue, Twenty-two twenty, in the Bronx…”
I nodded and smiled. “I know it. It’s not far from our precinct.”
The words hung in the air like a bad omen. Outside the birds were still singing and the sun was still shining, but inside Mrs. Clemente had gone very still and very quiet, staring at me, taking in the significance of my words. Dehan was staring at me too.
I looked at her. “It runs into Zerega Avenue. Two hundred and twenty-two, would be about half a mile from the Fedex depot.”
Mrs. Clemente asked in a dead voice, “What does that mean?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m not sure yet, Mrs. Clemente. Is that a photo of Rosario on the piano?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“May I have a look at it?”
She stood and walked quickly to the baby grand, picked up the picture in both hands and brought it back, clasped to her bosom. Dehan got up and sat next to me on the sofa. Mrs. Clemente sat on the other side and handed me the picture. We all three stared at it together. The girl in it was beautiful. It was a graduation photo. She had her cap and gown on, and she was smiling into the camera. Her hair was black and her eyes were large, dark and humorous, like her mother’s. She was full of life and enthusiasm, and dreams and hopes, but she wasn’t Angel.
“This is not the girl we’ve found, Mrs. Clemente.”
“Not…? But the girl you found, is she alive…?”
I shook my head. “No. The girl we found was
murdered, two years ago.”
“At the same time that Rosario was in New York?”
“About half a mile away from where she was staying.”
“Oh, Dios Santo…!”
Dehan reached over and took her hand. “Mrs. Clemente, why was Rosario reported missing here instead of New York?”
“Because she left Pamela’s house on Saturday morning, on her way home. Pamela left her at the bus station. She saw her get on the bus. Rosario was a very impulsive, spontaneous, independent girl. That’s the way I brought her up. It’s the way my parents brought me up too. I always thought maybe she got off somewhere on the way, to look at the sea or whatever. But she would have called, and by Saturday night I was worried. I called the cops, and by the time I filed the report it was, I guess, one o’clock on Sunday morning.”
“So the report was filed here.”
She nodded. “You think there may be a connection?”
I sighed. “It’s impossible to say at this stage, Mrs. Clemente. Over fifty percent of the population of the Bronx is Hispanic, about half of them are women…” I shrugged. “What look to us like parallels may just be statistical facts. Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet. We will look into this, we’ll talk to Pamela and if you’ll give us permission to check her bank and phone records we’ll try and build a picture of what happened on Friday and Saturday.”
She nodded. “Of course.” She fought to control the tears, frowning as though trying to make sense out of what was inherently absurd and cruel. “She is dead, isn’t she?”
I held her eye and felt momentarily exhausted. “I wish I could answer that for you, Mrs. Clemente. I honestly don’t know.”
“The not knowing is almost worse… May God forgive me.”
I nodded. “I know. We’ll be in touch as soon as we have any news. Is there somebody you can call on? Today is going to be tough. You’ll be remembering…”
She echoed my nod. “You’re kind. I have my work. Tonight I’ll go and dine with my parents. We’ll get through it together.”
I smiled and patted her hand. “Sure. Feel free to call us any time.”
Dehan took a photograph of the picture with her phone and we stood. I hesitated a moment, then asked, “There is one thing, Mrs. Clemente. Have you anything—a lock of hair…”
She closed her eyes. “DNA…”
“Yes. Just…” I trailed off.
She turned and went to a dresser. There she opened a drawer and took out a small tin. She brought it over and handed it to me. “It’s her first milk tooth. When you’re done with it…”
“We’ll bring it back to you.”
Dehan gave her two kisses on the cheek and they hugged like they were family or old friends, then she showed us to the door and we made our way to the Jag, sitting old, sober and burgundy in the May sunshine. I climbed in behind the wheel and watched Mrs. Clemente close the door. Dehan climbed in beside me.
“Is there any worthwhile profession,” I asked the world at large, and Dehan in particular, “that does not involve dealing with human tragedy?”
“Lots, geology, physics, architecture… Stone?”
I turned to face her. “Yeah…”
“How much of your life have you not told me about?”
I grimaced and nodded a lot. “Why?”
“The way you talked to her. She said that the not knowing was worse than knowing…” She frowned and shook her head. “You said you knew. Sure, we’re cops. All cops know that’s true. But the way you said it, you do know. You know that from experience.”
I shrugged. “One day, Dehan, but not today.”
I turned the key and the big old engine growled. I spun the wheel and we turned back, south, toward Philadelphia and the Ibarri family.
After about half an hour she reached over and squeezed my knee. It was a gesture that made me smile. I looked at her. She was smiling back at me, with the wind whipping her hair across her beautiful face. “You don’t have to,” she said. “You’re an old, Anglo-Saxon dinosaur. I get that, and I like it. But when you’re ready, I’m here.”
I nodded. “I know.”
And we drove on in comfortable silence.
FOUR
It was seven o’clock by the time we arrived at the Maple Shade Township and turned into Buttonwood Avenue. The Ibarri home was, like the Clemente home, a gabled, clapboard house. It was painted in white and gray, well kept and surrounded by well tended gardens and lawns. It lacked the urbane elegance of the Clemente house; it had more the feel of a genteel country cottage. It was pretty and homey. Dehan spoke absently, half to herself: “I bet the kitchen smells of apple pie and baking bread.”
I looked at her, nodded, sighed and climbed out. The slam of the car doors echoed in the evening street and we followed the flagged path to the blue front door. It was opened by a man who looked to be in his late sixties. His black hair was receding and turning to gray and he had a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses hanging around his neck. Dehan said, “Mr. Ibarri?”
He nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“We’re detectives Dehan and Stone, from the NYPD.”
We showed him our badges and he nodded again and stood back. “My wife is in the living room.”
The living room had the same cottagey look as the outside of the house. The sofa and chairs arranged around the coffee table were upholstered in white chintz with pink flowers that were echoed by the curtains. There were paintings on the walls of landscapes and kittens, and everywhere you could put a doily there was a doily. Mrs. Ibarri was standing in front of one of the armchairs, with her hands linked, one holding the other, in front of her belly. She was trying to smile, but her face was too rigid with anxiety. Dehan told her who we were and she nodded and glanced at the sofa and the chairs. We all sat. They didn’t offer us coffee. Instead Mrs. Ibarri said, “Have you found Sonia?”
Dehan shook her head. “We don’t know. We are hoping you can help us. When did you last see Sonia?”
Mr. Ibarri frowned. “We already explained to the police when we reported her missing…”
I said, “Was that the Philadelphia PD?”
“Of course.”
“We are from New York, Mr. Ibarri. We only have the very basic information they emailed us. I know it is very hard to go over it again…”
He nodded. “No, I see.” He stared down at the carpet. “Sonia went to New York on Tuesday, the twenty-fourth.”
“May?”
“Yes, the twenty-fourth of May. She was going to stay there for a week, with Mary’s sister…” He stared at us a moment, then gestured at his wife. “Mary is my wife. She is originally from New York. Her sister used to live there.” He closed his eyes, frowned, and waved his hand at us, as though he was saying goodbye. “I am digressing. I mustn’t do that. My father used to do the same thing. It’s infuriating…”
His wife touched his knee. “Nelson…? When we last saw Sonia.”
He covered her hand with his and looked at her. It was a tender gesture, though he was frowning.
“She took the bus. She was looking for work. She was thinking of moving to New York. No disrespect.” He smiled at us without much humor. “I can’t imagine why, but she thought it would offer her more opportunities. Opportunities for what? That’s what I asked her. ‘Opportunities for life, Papito!’” He shrugged, then sighed. “Papito. That’s what she called me. So she phoned us on the Thursday. We talked. She said maybe she had a job. She had met somebody who said he might have work for her. I asked her, what kind of work? She didn’t go to college, you know? She said college wasn’t for her. We told her, ‘We’ll pay, whatever it costs.’ But, ‘No, Papito, I want to work. I want to make money.’ So she went to New York.”
He went quiet, blinking, staring at the wall. Mary gave his hand a small squeeze. She said, “She told us Olga, that’s my sister, Olga said she could stay with her as long as she liked. They were real close. Olga never had kids, you know? So our Sonia was like the apple of her ey
e. She loved her like her own child. When she went missing it killed her. Literally. She died like a month later.”
Dehan had been making notes. Now she was frowning at her pad. “So she was due back Tuesday thirty-first?”
Mary nodded. “In the morning. But Olga phoned me on Tuesday night. She was half crazy out of her mind, crying. She was hysterical.”
“Why?”
They were both quiet for a long moment. Then he buried his face in his hands and started sobbing noisily. She looked away from him, then put her fingertips to her lips and blinked away her own tears. After a moment she said, “Sonia had met a man, a man who told her he could give her work. On Friday she told Olga she was going to spend the weekend with him. She was twenty-two, an adult, there was nothing Olga could do…”
Nelson’s voice came shrill and twisted. “She should have told us! An adult? She was a child! In her mind…” He stabbed at his forehead with his finger, his eyes and his nose swollen with crying. “In her mind she was still a child!”
Mary sighed. “She begged Olga not to tell us. She didn’t want to worry us. Monday she had heard nothing. She was sick, not knowing what to do. Tuesday she phoned me, crazy, out of her mind. So we called the police and we told them what had happened. They wrote it all down and we never heard nothing more.”
Dehan took a deep breath and shook her head. “And your sister died, Mrs. Ibarri?”
“On the thirty-first of June. Exactly one month later. Her heart just broke, you know? She had the high blood pressure.”
I knew it wasn’t Angela, because Sonia was still at home with her parents when Angela was murdered, but I asked the question anyway, with a sinking feeling that I knew what the answer was going to be. “Where was your sister’s house, Mrs. Ibarri?”
“In the Bronx, the nicer part. Virgil Avenue, in the Castle Hill area. Not by the PJs...”
I nodded. “I know it. Mrs. Ibarri, Mr. Ibarri, the girl we have found is not your daughter. The girl we found died before your daughter left home. But we are going to make inquiries and see if we can find out what happened to Sonia.” I shrugged. “Sometimes people do crazy things, then they feel bad and they don’t know how to make it right. So they don’t call, time goes by and every day it gets more difficult…”