A Name in the Dark

by G S Fortis

“Like a terrorist.”

  “I got it!” he shoots back.

  “Chester,” Paige intervenes, “how about another round?”

  He turns without answering.

  When he’s far enough away, Paige asks me, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  She shakes her head. “I mean, are you calm?”

  I inhale deeply. I check my watch. My heart rate is high but within the normal range and slowing down. My body is relaxing with each breath. I don’t feel Dudley coming on. “I’m okay.”

  “Then can I freak out right now?”

  “Yeah. You go.”

  “What the hell, Darcy?” she says in a voice a few decibels too loud. She looks around the bar then quiets herself. “Now we have the Russian mob involved?” She grabs the rest of her martini and downs it in one gulp.

  “Yeah, I totally didn’t see that coming,” I say in a calm, collected voice.

  “How did they get involved?”

  I offer my best guess at this time. “I think Sebastian works for him. Or he did until he skipped town.”

  “Do you really think he skipped town?”

  “I’m trying to be optimistic.”

  “What’s the pessimistic answer?”

  I stay silent, which gives Paige the answer she didn’t want.

  “Shit.” She grabs my drink and downs it.

  “What this means is that Sebastian is—was—some low-level dealer who switched from Carmen to Yury Yury. That’s how Yury Yury knew about Tiffany and about us.”

  Chester returns with our drinks—on the house. Paige downs her second martini. I grab my old-fashioned and start nursing it before she has a chance to claim it.

  Paige takes a bite of her olive. “And he wants Elizabeth as a pawn in his drug war with Carmen?”

  “Yeah. As if we didn’t have enough to deal with,” I answer, biting down on a cherry.

  “Jesus,” she says. My stomach growls. “Now we’re caught in the middle of some drug war?”

  “If we are, it’s still probably the least of our worries.”

  Paige shoots me a look. “That’s comforting.”

  Chapter 16

  ____◊____

  IT’S MORNING. I LIE in bed, thinking about last night’s altercation. It’s not clear whether Yury Yury works for himself or for some larger organization. Either way, I start counting everyone I need to watch out for—drug dealers, Santa Muerte, the LAPD, and now the Russian mob.

  I pull myself out of bed and head out to the living room. With no cause for alarm, I’m able to slide my door open without having to sing the Notre Dame song. Paige is in the loft, waiting for me. I’m not sure how long she had been standing there, but knowing her patience and resolve, I’m aware that it could have been all morning.

  What strikes me is how she’s dressed—a black T-shirt, black pants, and black shoes. She looks like she’s going to a casual funeral. Then I notice she’s holding the same outfit on a hanger, presumably for me.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  She pushes the hanger forward. “I need you to change.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I found him, Darcy.”

  I struggle to catch up. “Found who?”

  “The judge.”

  It takes me a moment, but I get there. Paige has figured out the redacted name of the judge on all the legal documents hiding her past.

  “You were right,” she continues. “It’s not me I should have been searching for—it’s the judge! I thought about how you said it might be one judge on all those same documents. And I thought, ‘That’s weird—how many judges approve all those different kind of forms? There are all different courts—different judges.’ So I did another query. I wanted to know which judge did all three—name change, Social Security, and termination of guardianship.”

  “And you found one.”

  “And I found one. Get this—his name is Judge William Whitaker.”

  I cock my head. “Whitaker?”

  She nods vigorously. “I was four years old, and the court had to assign me a new name. He gave me his.”

  I’m impressed. If I could convince Paige to abandon her high-salary, low-effort career, she could become one hell of a struggling private detective.

  “Now,” she says, holding the outfit out for me, “I need you to change. And please don’t ask why.”

  Paige and I have an understanding. “Please don’t ask” is the cue for unconditional friendship. It’s our way of saying, “The shit is about to go down, and I need someone by my side when it does.”

  I grab the outfit and change in my room. Of course, I keep my jacket on. A plain T-shirt isn’t going to keep me warm. When I emerge, she grimaces at the jacket but says nothing.

  “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?” I ask as we walk out the door.

  “Bellagio Country Club.”

  * * *

  The Bellagio Country Club is a private club tucked away in the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains. Located off the meandering roads of Bel-Air, the property is a collection of Spanish-style clubhouses and includes private pools, tennis courts, and an eighteen-hole golf course. It’s the type of establishment where the elite have come to play since the Golden Age of Hollywood.

  Normally, it would be impossible to gain entrance to this club unless you were willing to pay the two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar initiation fee plus yearly dues. Or unless your best friend convinced you to pose as a member of the event staff for a private reception. So here I am, wearing a white apron over my black outfit—sans warm and cozy jacket—holding a silver tray of canapés for the wealthy and powerful citizens of Los Angeles. It’s a private luncheon on the deck of the main clubhouse, which overlooks the city from its rich and insulated perch. The day is clear and sunny, providing a view from downtown to the ocean beaches. Banners and signs mark the occasion—a fundraiser for some local politician running for reelection at the end of the year.

  I move through the crowd, putting on my best smile and trying to pretend I actually care about my job. The appetizers clatter on the metal tray as I shiver from the unobstructed wind that sweeps through the hills. I’m on the lookout for one person—Judge William Whitaker. Not only did Paige find his name, but she also cyberstalked him and discovered he’d be at today’s reception. How she found that out she refuses to tell me, for my own legal protection.

  “See him yet?”

  I flinch and turn to find Paige behind me, holding an empty tray. She scans the crowd, looking at everyone but me.

  “Don’t sneak up on me!” I reprimand her.

  “Find me as soon as you see him.”

  “Yeah, I know the…” Before I even finish my sentence, she’s gone.

  Earlier, she sent me a text—a photo of the judge at another one of these events. He’s a good-looking man in his sixties with thick wavy silver hair on a face with sharp, chiseled features. He has a warm, genuine smile, even in the posed photo Paige found.

  I keep looking out for this silver fox as I navigate the elite of Los Angeles and hope I don’t drop these canapés. After an hour of serving appetizers to the city’s preeminent stakeholders, I’m about ready to call it—no Judge Whitaker in sight.

  An event assistant wearing a headset stands in the corner on the deck. He’s clean-cut, Ivy League, and very nervous. I ditch my tray and pull out a blank sheet of paper. With great determination, I march up to the young man.

  My eyes lock on his, and I quickly issue an order. “I need eyes on Judge Whitaker.”

  “Wh-What?”

  I grit my teeth impatiently and wave the sheet of paper too fast for him to read. “Whitaker! Who has eyes on Whitaker?”

  “Why do—”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Preston?”

  Of course it is. “Okay, Preston?” I say, emphasizing his question. “Someone smashed the headlight of Judge W
hitaker’s car, Preston? And I need to know where he is. Now!”

  Preston? clicks on his headset. “Anyone have eyes on Judge Whitaker?” I shoot him an impatient glare, and he adds, “Please?”

  The funny thing about people is if you act like you hold a position of authority, they will respect it. Take Preston? here. I can tell by his Cole Haan shoes and hundred-dollar haircut that he has more money in his bank account than I do, and unlike me, he actually belongs here. But if I act like he’s supposed to answer to me, well, he’ll answer to me.

  Preston? nods as he listens to his earpiece. “N-Napa Lounge,” he stammers.

  I’m off before he can finish. Paige is still meandering around with an empty tray. When she sees me charging forward, she falls in pace with me. I grab her empty tray from her. Another cute hostess is offering a selection of finger sandwiches to trophy wives. Without a word, I swap it out with Paige’s empty tray and leave behind a group with befuddled expressions.

  “Where?” Paige asks.

  “Napa Lounge.”

  We hurry down the long hall, our feet pattering on the Spanish tile. And there, off the main hall, is a placard marked Napa Lounge. We charge inside. The lounge is sparse and white—oppressively white. The only color in the room comes from the wood beams across the ceiling, which match the brown carpet. Even the four men standing in the center of the room are white. They turn to look at us when we barge in with only a single tray of offerings between us.

  “Oh, good,” one of them says. “I was wondering if we’d get any food in here. Come in, come in.” He waves us over, and we approach. My hand extends to offer the tray of new appetizers. Paige is empty-handed.

  In the center of the group is a tall man with thick silver hair and wire-framed glasses. He smiles at us and allows his companions first dibs. This is Judge William Whitaker. As the men pluck food from my tray, Paige lasers in on the judge. Her stare doesn’t waver, even as he appears to become uncomfortable.

  “Can we order some drinks, too?” asks another man. He turns to the others. “Should we get a bottle of scotch?” Then he addresses us again. “Can you get us a bottle of scotch?”

  I glance at Paige. She says and does nothing. Not wanting there to be an uncomfortable dead silence, I start stalling. “Sure thing, gentleman. Any particular bottle? We have Glenlivet, Glenfiddich, Glengarry, Glen…”

  “I’m Paige Whitaker!”

  Everyone is quiet and turns to face Paige. She continues to stare at Judge Whitaker. He takes her in, trying to process her sudden unprovoked announcement.

  “Ross,” I finish, and an even more awkward silence falls.

  Whitaker turns to his friends. “Would you mind excusing us?”

  The other men slowly step away, leaving only the three of us in the lounge.

  Whitaker turns to me. “And you are…?”

  “Oh. Darcy Caine.” Not sure how to greet a judge, I wave. “Hi.”

  He smiles. “I’m going to assume you’re going to be part of this conversation, but if you wouldn’t mind, could you close the door for us?” He points at the door to the hall. As I move to close it, he turns to my friend. “Paige, why don’t we have a seat?” He gestures to the corner, where several armchairs sit in a semicircle.

  I shut the door, deposit my food tray on the nearest table, and join Paige and Whitaker. He studies Paige thoughtfully. He’s still smiling, though now he seems mildly amused.

  Finally, he speaks. “You found me. After all this time, you finally found me. It’s been—what? Twenty years?”

  Paige nods.

  “I’ve always wondered about you. How you turned out. If you were okay. I hoped that one day you would find me. That’s why I gave you my name—the only clue I had to offer. And look at you. Here you are, this beautiful young lady. And since you’ve found me, I have to imagine you’re very bright. It looks like things turned out okay for you.”

  This time, Paige doesn’t nod. As he reviews the expression on her face, his smile fades just a little. “Did you ever get adopted?”

  Paige shakes her head. I’m suddenly struck by how quiet she is. Paige only has two speeds—Stop and Go. Go is how she escaped the foster system. It was how she taught herself everything about computers. It was how she’d found her way to this man after all these years of searching for answers. But Paige has the same insecurities and vulnerabilities as everyone else, and when you hit that chink in her armor, she slams on the breaks and stops.

  “She didn’t,” I answer, knowing that the fact she was never adopted is a particularly painful subject for her. I take her hand and offer a reassuring squeeze. If Paige can’t speak, then I’ll speak for her. My attention returns to Whitaker. “She left the last foster home the moment she turned eighteen. Got a job, found her own place to live, and put herself through two years of junior college. She’s a web developer now. Very successful. And the best person I’ve ever known.”

  Whitaker’s smile returns. “I’m happy to hear that. So, then, what brings you here? To me?”

  I wait then answer for Paige. “She’s looking for her birth mom.”

  This time, Whitaker’s smile not only fades but disappears completely. “Why?”

  “Because,” Paige says, breaking her silence, “I want to know what happened. I want to know why she left me. If she’s okay. If…” She trails off then redirects her queries. “Do you know her?”

  Whitaker shakes his head. “I know you’ve been better off without her, Paige. I’m sorry you didn’t have an easier life growing up. You deserved better. But I see you now, here before me, and it looks like you turned out to be the best possible version of yourself. I don’t think that would have been possible with her.”

  “Why not?” Paige shifts to Go. She’s eager for information and willing to fight for it. “What was wrong with her? Was she in trouble? Was it drugs? Was it…?” Paige trails off. “Did she need help? I can help her now.”

  Whitaker leans forward to meet Paige and takes her hand in his. It’s not a forward advance. It’s not romantic, just caring. “You cannot help her.”

  Paige’s shoulders sag in defeat.

  “Cannot help her?” I repeat. “Paige can’t help her now? That means you know where she is.”

  Paige perks up.

  The doors swing open, and a Bellagio manager steps into the room with a security guard. Behind him stands Preston? with his headset still on. The manager points at us. “Those two. They’re not part of the staff. Escort them off the grounds.”

  The security guard approaches us. We turn to Whitaker, hoping he’ll speak on our behalf.

  Instead, he pats Paige’s hand. “Things turned out for the best for you. And that is all the information I am willing to offer.” He lets her hand fall and leans back in his chair.

  “Let’s go.” The security guard grabs Paige and me by the arms and tries to lift us. He fails. Neither one of us is willing to move yet, and despite our relatively small size, it’s going to take a lot more than one overweight guard to move Paige’s earned strength or my raw power.

  He tries again, but we don’t budge. Whitaker is looking away now, ignoring our presence.

  “I said, let’s go!” the guard orders.

  “Judge?” I ask.

  He glances at us. “I’m sorry.”

  The guard is about to grab us one more time when Paige and I simultaneously stand.

  “That’s more like it,” the guard says smugly. “Let’s go.” He motions to grab Paige, but my arm snatches him in mid-reach.

  “You touch her one more time,” I say, my yellow eyes boring into his, “and I will break your arm.” I squeeze, applying enough pressure to let him know mean it.

  I push him aside then wrap my arm around Paige’s. We walk out of the Bellagio Country Club. Preston? hides behind the manager as we pass.

  * * *

  The entire drive home from the Bellagio Club, Paige is quiet. When we final get home, she goes
straight to bed. She doesn’t deal well with defeat, and she’s back to Stop.

  I put a kettle on the stove and boil some water. Once it has heated to a rolling boil, I pour the hot water into her favorite cup, a small ceramic mug she bought at Disneyland, featuring the character Chip from Beauty and the Beast. I suspect, on some level, she identifies with a partially broken character. Once the tea has steeped for three minutes, I quietly knock on her door and let myself in.

  The blinds are closed, shrouding the room in darkness. Despite this, it’s a cheery space—much cheerier than my utilitarian room, with bright-colored rustic furniture and posters of art exhibits from local museums. With the exception of a speaker system, there’s little tech in here. This is where she goes to unplug each night.

  I set the tea down on her bedside table and have a seat on her bed.

  Under a bundle of blankets and pillows, Paige stirs. “Chamomile?”

  “Chamomile,” I answer.

  She emerges from her cocoon and sits up. Her eyes are red and puffy—she already had a good cry while I was in the kitchen. She drops a single tissue on her bed and takes the cup in her hands. The steam rises from the beverage, and she inhales its aroma but doesn’t drink. We sit in silence for a while.

  Paige finally speaks up. “You know, I don’t care if I’m better off without her. I want to know what happened.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t stop asking, Why?”

  “I know.”

  “What if I’m going to make the same mistakes?” she asks.

  “You won’t.”

  “I already am.”

  She’s talking about her relationships with men. Paige has no memory of her father and no indication that he was ever in the picture. This is why she’s never even considered looking for him. It’s always been about the search for her mom. By learning why there was no father and why her mom left, she also hopes to understand why she keeps going after the wrong men.

  “You’re not your mother. You’re not your foster parents. You are not your name or that judge’s name. Paige Alexandra Whitaker is all you and only you, a beautiful, intelligent, amazing woman. You made her—no one else gets credit for that.”