by Louisa Luna
“What?”
“I think this would almost be easier if he was a nice guy, but he’s not. He was when we got married a million years ago, but he’s been a jerk for a long time. We had a fight two weeks ago, and he called me an asshole. Who talks to their wife like that?”
She seemed to wait for Cap to respond, so he said, “It’s very disrespectful.”
“Yes, it is. And now, it’s like, okay, I’m free. I get whatever I want because I have this tape. I get the kids. I win. Who cares.”
Pause, thought Cap. Let her breathe.
“You married?” she asked.
“Divorced.”
Mrs. Svetich nodded.
“I’m sure you don’t have anything to tell me that makes this moment easier.”
There was, actually, a great deal Cap could tell her. What he really would like to say was, Two years. You’ll be a basket case for two years. Then you’ll start feeling like a normal person again. You’ll start enjoying the taste of coffee and watching your kid’s school play. But for two years you will be a schizophrenic. Angry, guilty, sad.
Instead he shook his head.
“Yeah, I thought as much,” said Mrs. Svetich. “Yes. So. Your bill,” she said, opening her purse.
“I can send you an invoice.”
“No, thanks. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d like to pay now so I can never think about you again.”
Cap nodded and handed her the invoice. She pulled out a checkbook and a pen and scribbled the numbers and words, ripped the check out, and held it out for Cap to take, the paper shaking in her hand. Cap took it from her, and Mrs. Svetich stood up to leave, so Cap did too.
He tried to think of something else he could say.
“Don’t worry,” said Mrs. Svetich. “There’s nothing you can say.”
She laughed again, but oh, her eyes. He could see drops hanging off the lower lids. One blink would make them roll. He walked with her to the door.
“Thanks, Mr. Caplan,” she said in a strange high voice. She didn’t blink and didn’t look at him as she left.
Cap shut the door, rolled his shoulders back, and made a sound like “Gah.” He checked his watch, 12:15. Really too early for a beer. He sat back in his chair and scrolled through his emails.
He clicked on one with the subject line “Inquiry” from an address he didn’t recognize:
Mr. Caplan,
I am interested in retaining your services. Please write me back at this address and let me know your availability for a conversation.
Thanks,
A. Vega
New business is good, he thought. What had just happened with Mrs. Svetich was the hardest part of the job. Everything else: tracking down people who weren’t candidates for Mensa to begin with, filling out paperwork for the retail outfits that hired him, making his own hours, leaving his old Sig in a MicroVault in the closet, not waking up with his jaw locked from tension—this was all the good part.
So he wrote back:
Hello,
I am available to speak now until 2:30 p.m. this afternoon or otherwise after 7 p.m. tonight. Also I am free tomorrow between 9 a.m. and noon. If those windows don’t work for you, please let me know what times might.
Thanks for your interest,
Max Caplan
He hit Send and leaned back. Sipped his cold coffee and opened the folder for the skip. He flipped through the pages: the driver’s license photo of Brandon Haas, last known street address. Trouble finding this one. Didn’t want to pay child support for his two-year-old twin boys, so he moved out of his apartment and ditched his cell. Only after he’d insisted on a paternity test because he told the mother of his children, “Can’t be mine, they look colored.” The mother had said to Cap that Brandon was full of shit because he knows she would never sleep with a black guy. Good, good people.
And now he heard the doorbell from the front of the house and figured it was UPS. He found himself feeling relieved that he could step out of Brandon Haas’s life for a moment as he went through the door that led to the rest of the house. Through the hallway and living room and to the front door. He glanced through the window and saw a woman there, no one he recognized. He opened the door and there she was. She was slender but not small, big eyes taking up most of her round doll-like face, little makeup, brown hair pulled back. Pretty in an unadorned way.
“Max Caplan?” she said.
“Yes?”
“I’m Alice Vega. You just sent me an email.”
Cap looked around.
“You got here pretty quickly.”
“I was close by.”
Cap tried to read her. Clothes were a giveaway for the type. Mrs. Svetich’s blouse with the boat neckline and khaki pants showed that she had dressed up, that she had maybe once held a job where she wore these clothes, even if she was a stay-at-home mom now. The mother of Brandon Haas’s children, Hayley, wore stained jeans and an extra-small T-shirt.
Then there was the face and body: eyes, lips, hands. That will tell you the state of mind. Mrs. Svetich was all tight neck muscles and pleading eyes—desperate, sad, tense. Hayley Haas twitched and ran her words together and screwed her lips up into crazy angles—angry, unpredictable, drunk.
Alice Vega wore black, all black. Black pants, black blouse, black boots, black canvas jacket. Her face had no discernible expression, but there was emotion there; Cap just couldn’t make it out.
“Is this still a good time for you?” she said.
“Yeah. It is. Let’s go around to my office.”
She nodded and smiled politely. Cap turned the lock on the doorknob and closed the front door, walked across the parched lawn to the driveway.
“You from around here?” he said over his shoulder.
“No,” she answered, and that was all.
Okay, Cap thought. Not a talker.
They walked up the concrete path alongside the house, Vega still behind him a step. Cap opened the door to his office and held it open.
“Where are you in from?” he said.
She stepped inside. He watched her eyes cover the room like headlights, and he suddenly felt embarrassed about the space. The IKEA furniture seemed old and shabby; the stained wood floor did not seem part of the house’s old-school charm; it just looked cheap.
“California,” she said.
“Wow, long way,” he said. “Would you like coffee?” he asked, pointing to the Krups in the corner.
“No, thanks.”
“Please sit.”
She sat on the edge of the chair, like she was ready to leave suddenly. Cap sat behind his desk and realized how messy it was, covered in folders.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Vega?” he said.
“I’ve been hired by the Brandt family. I understand you used to be a detective with the Denville Police. I need your help.”
Cap’s professional smile disappeared.
“Are you a PI?” he asked.
“I find missing persons.”
Cap nodded.
“I’m not sure how I can help you.”
“I met with Greg Hollows this morning.”
Cap moved the Brandon Haas folder on his desk an inch to the left.
“And how is he?”
“Reluctant. He doesn’t want my help. Says he doesn’t need it.”
“I doubt that.”
“So do I,” said Vega. “It’s easier if I do this with the police. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yeah,” said Cap. “Easier, cheaper, quicker. I’m still not sure how I fit in here. You know I’m no longer with the police.”
“I do. Most information I can get. I have a guy who can get it for me. I don’t need to know how to find the girls’ father, or get video feeds—I have the full cooperation of Jamie Brandt and her family as of now. But there’s a piece I can’t get to.”
“Witness statements,” said Cap.
“Yes. I could get employees from local businesses, but the people in the parkin
g lot, passersby; there’s no way I could get them all.”
She paused. Cap watched her eyes travel quickly to the corner of the room as she thought.
“I could get them. It would just take time.”
“Which you don’t have,” said Cap.
“Which I don’t have,” said Vega.
Cap smiled and tried to look casual. He sipped his cold coffee casually, to show Vega how much he didn’t care about the Brandt girls or the police department.
“Okay,” he said. “You seem like a resourceful person who’s done her homework. So you know all about me, right?”
“Some.”
“So you know that I ended my relationship with the Denville PD two and a half years ago, and it was not exactly what you’d call an amicable breakup.”
Cap waited for Vega to say something. Her face again a blank sheet.
“I don’t have witness statements, Ms. Vega,” said Cap. “I don’t have access to witness statements. I literally can’t walk into the station or else I violate the terms of my agreement with them, okay? What I’m telling you is you have a broken arm and you need a paramedic, not a guy in an alley with a box of Band-Aids.”
They were quiet. Vega cocked her head a small bit to the side and then reached for an inside pocket. Just for a second Cap felt his legs tense up, the back of his head tingle. Old reflex.
She pulled out a sheet of paper folded into quarters and unfolded it. She leaned forward on the tip of her chair and placed the paper on Cap’s desk so he could read it. It was a printed copy of one of the articles from the Trib. Cap forced a laugh.
“You know, I’ve made a great effort not to look at this stuff. I know you just met me, Ms. Vega, and I know you’d never guess this about me, but I don’t have the greatest self-esteem to begin with, and this just makes me feel bad about myself.”
Vega held her hand over the paper like it was a Ouija board.
“This says that you resigned less than twenty-four hours after this kid, Ron Samuels, died in police custody. Less than twenty-four hours. That makes me think you did it quick to make it go away, to avoid criminal or civil litigation. It says you were on track to become sergeant. In less than twenty-four hours, you decided to crash the career you’d been building your whole life without a fight. There’s only one reason anyone does that.”
“Why’s that?” said Cap.
“To protect someone. Probably a friend, colleague. Probably someone else was in the room when Ron Samuels died. Someone who made the wrong call, didn’t call an ambulance when he should have. Maybe there was negligence, maybe not. Sounds like the kid had a drug problem. But something happened in that room. If you were culpable, maybe you would have tried to negotiate at least to get some part of your pension, something. But you didn’t. Because you were protecting someone else.”
Vega was so calm when she spoke that Cap couldn’t quite be angry. Hearing her recount the experience just made him tired.
“Hey, what do you want?” he said.
“Witness statements.”
Cap held out his arms to show how empty they were. No witness statements here.
“I don’t have them. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Someone in the Denville Police owes you a favor. I propose you call it in. I will give you half of whatever I make from this. Jamie Brandt’s aunt has a lot of money, and I don’t work cheap. If I work a month on this case, your half could be upwards of twenty-five K.”
Who the fuck are you? Cap thought. Where did you come from? He tried not to imagine putting twenty-five thousand dollars into his anemic share of Nell’s college fund. Which would probably cover book costs, but it was a start.
“What if I said I don’t care about the money?” he said.
“I don’t care,” said Vega. “I don’t care about you and your personal needs and wants. I don’t care that you feel bad about yourself or that you have or haven’t come to terms with your former career—I don’t care. I am looking for these two girls, just a little younger than your daughter, Mr. Caplan, and you could help me do that. You have the capacity to do that. So why wouldn’t you do that?”
Her eyes searched his face. He felt like he was in a dream state, like he would look down and suddenly realize he had the body of a horse.
“I don’t do police work anymore, Ms. Vega,” he said. “I don’t associate with police. I have my own business, my own clients. I’m working on something right now,” he said, tapping the Brandon Haas folder. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
They stared at each other for what felt to Cap to be about thirty minutes. Then Vega nodded and finally took her eyes off him. She looked at the floor.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
She finally sat back in the chair, and Cap relaxed his neck and exhaled. She looked up at him and smiled. It was not what he would call genuine but it was respectful. It made him want to tell her more.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I admit the things I work on are not as serious as this.”
“Skips and cheaters?” she said.
“Skips and cheaters,” he said.
“So if this one,” she said, pointing to the Brandon Haas folder, “were out of your way, just disappeared, you would reconsider?”
Cap laughed. “I don’t know. I’d love to say to you, No way, but I’m getting that you probably don’t hear that a lot.”
Cap’s cell buzzed on his desk; the photo of a pug dog came up, the one that Nell had set as her profile picture.
“I’m sorry,” he said, holding the phone. “Will you excuse me?”
“Yes, please,” said Vega.
Cap tapped Accept and headed out of the office, through the door into the hallway of the house.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Dad, nothing’s wrong. Don’t panic,” said Nell.
“Worst possible thing you could say to a parent. What’s up?”
“Mom’s car broke down at her work, and she was going to pick me up from practice, but now she’s got a class this afternoon, and then she has to wait for the tow, so could you pick me up and take me to Carrie’s?”
“Sure, what time?”
“Like five-fifteen-ish.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. How are you getting from Carrie’s house to Mom’s if Mom has no car?”
“Carrie’s mom can take me.” Then Nell whispered, “After we eat quinoa cakes and barley salad.”
Cap smiled.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“No prob, Bug. Hey, does your mom need…is she okay?”
She’s not okay, Dad; she needs you to save her. And she says she’s sorry about all the fights that you had at the end and that nasty voice mail she left you that time, and she’s really grateful you never called her an asshole. And she wants you back and wants us to be a family like we were, three against the world.
“She’s fine; she has Triple A. I gotta go. See you later. Thanks, Dad, I love you.”
“Love you too,” said Cap.
He hung up and went back into the office. Vega was sitting where he had left her, hands in her lap.
“I’m sorry about that. It was my daughter. And you know, if she calls instead of texts, I know something’s up.”
“Of course, it’s no problem.”
“Where were we?”
“You don’t want the job,” she said. She was not angry.
“Right,” Cap said. “I’ve just got too much on my plate right now.”
Vega nodded. They were quiet for a moment. Then she stood.
“Sorry to bother you.”
“Not at all, thank you for coming by. I hope everything works out.”
Cap walked her to the door.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand.
“You as well,” she said, shaking it.
He opened the door for her, and she stepped out.
“Hey, Ms. Vega?”
She turned.
“How did you know I had a daughte
r? It wasn’t in any of the articles about me—I went through a lot of trouble to keep it out.”
Her eyebrows raised up just a little bit, in a tiny arch, charmed.
“I saw her shoes when you opened the front door. Female athletic shoes.”
Now Cap smiled, both of them caught in the joke.
“I see,” he said. “So how’d you pin her age?”
“You have a copy of Othello on the dashboard of the car in your driveway.”
“How do you know it’s not mine?” he said. “Maybe I live for Shakespeare.”
“Just a hunch,” she said, shrugging, looking down.
Was she looking down shyly? Was this flirting? Cap couldn’t tell. He hadn’t been on a date in so long he’d forgotten what it felt like.
“Thanks for your time,” said Vega, and then she left.
Cap watched her go, fairly certain he saw the lines of a holster crossing her back under her jacket.
3
In the car, Vega scrolled on her phone to the photos she had taken of Caplan’s file while he’d been on the phone in the other room. She stared at the photo of Brandon Haas, looked over his stats, and tapped out another email to the Bastard on the screen.
Later in her room at the inn, she was studying footage from the Kmart parking lot when the message from the Bastard came in:
“Got a Brandon Hass with same birthday as your Haas from ADP paycheck dated 3/15, Luke Construction out of New Castle, PA. Also leases, driver license, but all old.
Also Junior Hollows is boring as shit but his wife has two Facebook pages, and you’ll get a kick out of one of them.”
Vega sniffed in approval at the Bastard’s ingenuity and stopped reading, closed up her email, and went online to find a number for Luke Construction.
—
Vega was on her way out the front door, patchouli and lemon still in her nose from the sitting room, a slip of paper in her hand with an address on it.
“Ms. Vega?”
She turned. It was Elaine, the owner of the inn. She was a slender woman in her seventies with long hair. She wore a lot of scarves and beads and was holding a basket of fruit.
“Hi,” said Vega.
“This is for you,” Elaine said, presenting the fruit.
Vega stared at it.