She's Mine

by Claire S. Lewis

  The windows overlook a small dusty courtyard shaded by lime trees. I open the window. Mundane everyday sounds filter into the room above the whirr of the air conditioning – a car horn, a dog barking, the endless buzz of cicadas. Sun streams through the branches of an acacia tree growing in a corner of the courtyard. A cat is stretched out on the warm stone on top of one of the walls. It yawns and rolls over.

  Costa breezes in a few minutes later and Christina immediately hands over the brown envelope.

  ‘I think you’ll find these papers interesting. They may be relevant to your enquiries,’ she says.

  What about Damien’s mobile phone. Why isn’t she handing that over?

  Costa runs his eyes down the list of bets placed by Damien at the Black Jack casino, frowns and puts the sheet to one side. He sits up straight, self-important. He’s preoccupied with his own reveal this morning, pleased to be the centre of attention, now that the Commissioner has placed him in command. He sets a large metal box that looks something like an old-fashioned tool kit in the middle of the table.

  We sit down apprehensively as Costa unlocks the box and removes a large yellow padded envelope stamped Exhibit which he lays on the desk in front of us. I place my hand over Christina’s and hold my breath as he slits open the envelope with a paper knife and carefully pulls out the plastic exhibit wallet contained within it. I feel her hand trembling beneath mine. A child’s pink swimsuit, balled up and covered in sand is visible through the clear plastic.

  Costa explains that the item of clothing was found and positively identified by a police tracker dog at Crooks’ Bay yesterday afternoon. The area around the rock cavern where the clothing was found has been cordoned off and a police forensics team is preparing to carry out a detailed inspection of the site. The team has requested a visual inspection of the item by witnesses to confirm the dog’s positive alerts.

  He clears his throat. ‘Miss Scarlett Georgia Reyes,’ he says, writing my name at the top of the witness identification form. I watch the pen held in his firm grip, gliding smoothly over the paper. His handwriting is surprisingly neat, made up of beautifully formed copperplate letters.

  ‘Please confirm your name and address.’ He pushes the sheet over. ‘Am I correct in thinking that it was you who helped the victim to change into her bathing clothes for the beach?’ he says, officiously.

  ‘Yes.’

  Costa unzips the exhibit wallet, and using a pair of plastic tongs, lifts out the damp swimsuit. It hangs limply. The pink and white stripes are unmistakable. Christina lets out a low moan.

  ‘It’s Katie’s,’ I say.

  ‘Can you be sure?’

  ‘Look inside,’ I tell him, choking back my tears. ‘I always draw a smiley face, you know, in black marker pen inside the clothes she takes to kindergarten… she can’t read her name tag.’

  Costa lays the swimsuit down on the empty wallet and draws apart the straps with the tongs. Sure enough, there’s a smiley face staring up at him in smudged ink. Costa has one eyebrow slightly raised, and looks so pleased with himself that, with my emotions on a knife edge, for one instant I have to bite my lip to stifle a laugh and the next, I’m sobbing into my cup of tea.

  ‘You understand what this means, of course,’ he says to Christina, ignoring my distress. ‘Someone must have taken her.’

  He pauses for effect.

  ‘We’re looking at abduction.’

  Christina groans.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been telling you since yesterday,’ she says, holding her head in her hands.

  I struggle to compose myself, my eyes glued to his steady, suntanned fingers as he signs the identification form, Detective Sergeant Paul Costa, Chief Criminal Investigating Officer, then slides the form, together with the swimsuit back into the plastic wallet, zips it closed, and writes the words, Exhibit One, in black marker pen on the outside.

  Christina walks over to the window and watches the cat, still stretched out on the warm stone in the sunshine. ‘What now?’

  ‘The investigation continues,’ he says. ‘We reassess and we keep searching. From now on, this is a criminal investigation and I am the chief criminal investigating officer on the case.’ He sits back and thrusts out his chest. ‘I’m in charge.’

  Christina was not party to my grilling by the Commissioner yesterday but even so I can tell she senses a hardening in the police attitude towards us following the discovery of the swimsuit. In their eyes, this isn’t simply a tragic incident any more. Costa’s body language makes it plain. There’s a certain detachment in his manner. We are all suspects now – and the crime is child abduction.

  He tells us that Damien was held in custody overnight, charged with offences of dangerous driving. Costa doesn’t hide the fact that he regards him as a key suspect in the abduction of Katie. The driving charges provide a useful pretext for keeping him in custody. The bail hearing will take place later in the morning.

  He looks from one of us to the other. ‘Do you know of anyone who could wish Katie any harm?’ he asks. ‘Do you know of anyone who would wish to do you any harm? It seems as if Damien has a solid alibi.’ He taps the list of bets. ‘Can either of you think of anyone else?’

  We both shake our heads.

  ‘What about the child’s father?’ says Costa. He turns to Christina. ‘Are you still in contact with him?’ I can see where he’s going with that one. In fact, I’m surprised he didn’t ask the question sooner.

  Christina lowers her eyes. ‘Katie’s father died before she was born,’ she says.

  There’s a long silence, then Costa says, ‘Do you think money could be a motivation?’ Although the Black Jack record of Damien’s bets appears to constitute a solid alibi, I can tell Costa’s still thinking about his gambling debts.

  ‘I have a good salary,’ says Christina ‘but I don’t earn a fortune.’

  ‘How good is good?’ says Costa.

  ‘Around one hundred and twenty thousand US dollars a year,’ says Christina. I call that a fortune and from the look in Costa’s eyes so does he – but I suppose in the financial circles Christina moves in, that’s standard, and would it really be enough to attract the attention of a potential child abductor?

  ‘What about your mother?’ I cut in. ‘You told me once that she is embarrassingly rich. You said she inherited a trust fund. Damien must know that.’ Christina gives me a filthy look, and then turns to Costa.

  ‘It’s true my mother is wealthy. She inherited a substantial sum from her grandfather who made his money trading commodities in London. But my mother lives in England. I live in New York. Damien has never met her and I’ve never spoken to him about her financial affairs. I’ve had nothing to do with her since before Katie was born. So please can we leave my mother out of this?’ Costa says nothing but he scribbles something down in his notebook.

  Once I’ve completed the formal identification of the swimsuit, Costa announces that he wants to speak to Christina alone so he asks me to ‘take a break’ and report back to the police station in two hours’ time. I can’t help feeling a bit hacked off that he’s made me come over so early, only to send me out of the room twenty minutes later. But of course, now that Katie’s disappearance is a suspected abduction, he wants to interview us all separately. That way he can play us off against each other. He holds open the door for me. His aftershave smells expensive and my flesh tingles as I brush against his starched cotton shirtsleeves.

  ‘Before you send me away, you could at least tell me the results of the drug test,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, yes, forgive me, of course.’ He gives me a condescending smile. ‘Negative. The result was negative. We’ll talk about it later.’

  10

  Scarlett

  I’m so angry that my ears are ringing by the time I get to the waiting area.

  There must be some mistake, or the drug test was carried out too late – more than twenty-four hours too late thanks to the Commissioner and his investigation team. Costa seems to think I
should be pleased with the negative result. OK, so maybe they won’t be able to charge me for drug offences but it’s going to make it so much harder to restore my reputation and prove I wasn’t to blame for Katie’s disappearance. If the police aren’t going to help me clear my name, I’m just going to have to do it myself – beat them at their own game.

  I soon get bored of perching on a sticky plastic chair in the waiting area watching the clock so I decide to get a cab back to the hotel and get started with a spot of sleuthing of my own. The way things are going, I’m the one who’ll end up being arrested for criminal negligence or some other trumped up charge unless I can find the evidence to prove that someone else is responsible for whatever has happened to Katie. Judging by the tough questioning the Commissioner put me through yesterday, everyone seems to be treating me as one of the prime suspects. The Commissioner’s already told me that he’s appointed a psychologist to put me through a lie-detector test later today. And he’s asked me to take part in a re-enactment, on the beach, of Katie’s disappearance tomorrow afternoon. Then to cap it all, he’s arranged a news conference for tomorrow evening at which Christina will make a public appeal for Katie’s safe return from which he’s specifically excluded me.

  In this hostile environment, I can’t afford to lose any time. What’s more, I can’t help noticing that Christina’s been acting weird. I know she’s in shock and I don’t want to judge her but somehow, she doesn’t seem upset enough! God knows, I feel broken. In her place, I’d be in pieces. And one thing is really puzzling me. Why didn’t she hand over Damien’s phone? It’s obvious that the phone is key to the police investigation. Why would she hold back such important evidence? It doesn’t make sense unless she’s trying to cover for him.

  I slam the taxi door and head straight for Christina’s room. I can’t shake the suspicion that she and Damien are in on this together. She’s hiding something. I want to find out why. The coast is clear when I tap quietly, so I let myself in with Christina’s spare key and lock the door behind me. I’m surprised that the police haven’t already taken steps to preserve and record any evidence that might be found here. I know that in a missing persons case they would normally do this within the first few hours. But I guess we were all fooled. All the early signs were that Katie had drowned. Still, they’ve known since yesterday when Katie’s swimsuit was discovered that she may have been abducted. This delay looks like negligence or incompetence at the very least.

  Feeling more like a thief than an amateur detective, I start to work my way swiftly and methodically through every drawer, cupboard, suitcase and bag in the room. First, the safe. It’s tucked inside the wardrobe. The code has got to be Katie’s date of birth – 140211. Christina uses that for everything. Sure enough, the safe door buzzes and swings open. Christina and Damien’s passports are there. Not Katie’s – but I have that in my safe. It occurs to me that the police have been remiss in not confiscating all our passports. This just confirms their incompetence. There are also a few twenty-dollar bills, house keys, six credit and store cards belonging to Christina, and a small leather jewellery roll containing a gold necklace, a couple of bracelets and the perplexing third jade earring that she must have moved from the bedside table into the safe.

  I find nothing suspicious in the drawers – just a ridiculous quantity of clothes. My boss seems to have brought her entire wardrobe along with her. I count five pairs of shoes and seven cocktail dresses – designer brands. All those hours spent shopping on Fifth Avenue. Damien clearly also has a weakness for designer brands – his boxers, swimming trunks, and shorts are all Ralph Lauren, also three pairs of Levi’s and a collection of flamboyant Versace shirts. Oh, and, not one but three tuxedos together with matching bowties! Why he would need to bring three dinner jackets to a Caribbean island is beyond me. He was obviously planning on taking Christina to some classy establishments or spending all his time at the casino.

  Christina’s left two books on her bedside table, Brideshead Revisited and The Picture of Dorian Gray. She has literary tastes in fiction. Both are well-worn with yellowing pages and broken spines. The novels must be old favourites. They’re annotated in her handwriting with pencil under linings and scribbles in the margins. As I turn the pages, a photograph drops to the floor. At first glance, I think it’s Damien. The man in the faded black-and-white portrait is very young but bears a striking resemblance to Damien – a softer, more romantic version – with the same engaging dark eyes, the same strong jaw line, and the same thick hair parted and swept to one side. Perhaps her first love? It’s rather sweet that she keeps his photograph as her bookmark!

  Seeing the likeness, I begin to understand why Christina fell for Damien even though they seem such an improbable match – he reminds her of a childhood sweetheart. All the more so, I guess, because he’s a few years younger than her. While I feel nothing but disdain for Damien, I can’t deny he has charisma. He’s quick-witted and funny when he wants to be, and he knows how to turn on the charm. Let’s face it, when I reflect on Christina’s life in New York, what isolated, professional single mother in her mid-thirties wouldn’t have her head turned by the attentions of a suave Wall Street boy who takes her to the theatre and the movies and wines her and dines her in all the best bars and restaurants? – especially when he takes an active interest in her child and looks like a male model to boot!

  There’s a stack of papers on the floor on Damien’s side of the bed. I crouch down and rifle through them: boarding passes and other printed documents from the outward journey; a printout of the hotel reservation; car rental papers; a green cardboard file containing travel insurance documents and a document with the heading ‘Moorings Lease’; a list of possible places to visit; maps, and some receipts for island excursions Damien booked on the day we arrived.

  I recognise the green cardboard file from my encounter with Damien in Christina’s bedroom in New York and wonder if some of these papers could be the documents I saw him taking from her desk that day?

  I flip back to the insurance documents. It’s Christina’s annual travel policy, automatically renewed each year. An amendment adding Katie to the policy was made last month. I wonder if it was Damien who prompted Christina to include Katie when she hadn’t got around to doing this in the past four years? Could Damien (with or without the connivance of Christina) have dreamt up the idea of faking a tragic accident to make it look like Katie was drowned at sea with the intention of making a false claim on Christina’s travel insurance? Is this too far-fetched? I check the small print in the accompanying booklet.

  Personal accident: If you are physically injured on a journey and the injury is caused by violent, visible, external and accidental means only, we will pay you or your legal representatives up to $25,000 if your injury or accident leads to death or permanent disability.

  I’m not sure that this would cover a drowning accident – and twenty five thousand dollars would scarcely pay for his gambling losses. And there are so many exclusions (that I can’t even understand) and legal hoops to get through. Still, perhaps I’m not being completely ridiculous. He’s so up to his neck in gambling debts that he may have resorted to desperate measures. I put the document to one side. Costa needs to see it – just in case.

  Then I look again at the moorings lease. The rental period covers the whole month of June and the document is signed ‘P. D. Covera’. Damien doesn’t own a yacht. I didn’t even know Damien could sail. He’s never mentioned it before. So why would he need to park a yacht in a marina? I should show this to Costa too. I pull out the document and place it on top of the travel policy.

  Next, I slide my arm under the mattress and inside the sheets and then go round the room on my hands and knees looking under the furniture. From my position on the floor, I notice something pushed under the bed in the small gap between the bed base and the tiles. I slide in my hand and pull out a dog-eared back copy of Playboy magazine. I start turning the pages, partly out of curiosity. The magazine falls open at the
double-page spread, Playmate of the Month, and I gasp in shock to see what falls out: a black-and-white portrait photograph of Katie as a toddler – disgusting man! – together with the original of Katie’s birth certificate. Now what legitimate reason could there possibly be for bringing the original of Katie’s birth certificate on holiday? And why would it be hidden inside a six-month-old issue of Playboy magazine? This is the strongest evidence yet that Damien’s involved. I bet he stole these from Christina’s desk! I add the photograph of Katie and her birth certificate to the cache of papers that I’m gathering for Costa.

  Suddenly, I hear the key turning in the door and scramble to my feet. Damn! Must be housekeeping. Just my luck.

  I’m about to call out for the maids to come back later when the door opens and I catch a glimpse of blonde hair. Christina must have come back early from the police station. Still holding the copy of Playboy magazine, I dive into the bathroom and lean against the bathroom door, my heart thumping at the fear of being caught red-handed.

  I hold my breath. I hear rustling on the other side.

  ‘Scarlett, are you in there? What are you doing in my room?’ Her voice is clipped and impatient.

  ‘I picked up your key by mistake,’ I call through the door. ‘I’m feeling sick, I’m sorry. I had to rush in here to use your bathroom.’

  I hear movement in the room, opening and shutting cupboards and drawers. ‘I’ve come back for some documents,’ she says. ‘The police want them for the investigation.’ While I wait for her to leave, I continue absently to turn the pages of Playboy, until right at the back of the magazine I come to a collage of shots that makes the blood rush to my cheeks. There’s no mistaking it. It’s me in the photographs, captured in a sequence of compromising positions in an outfit that leaves very little to the imagination. How did they get hold of my images? Is that why Damien kept the magazine, because I’m featured in it? Was he planning to discredit or blackmail me?