by Julie Momyer
“Where are you?” She rounded the corner where Auggie was supposed to be waiting, but the curb was empty, not a car in sight. She’d been stood up.
Twice.
Why would he leave her here? Her grip tightened on her purse. If this was his idea of a joke…
An engine revved. “Need a ride?”
Jaida ignored the offer and kept walking.
The metallic gold four-door crept along beside her, the engine knocking under the hood. In her periphery she could see the dim glow from the dome light. It illuminated a crown of dark hair and little else.
“How much?” The driver’s voice carried through the open passenger window. She closed her eyes on a breath and walked faster. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
He sped up, just enough to keep tight with her stride and without breaking her own she reached inside her purse and wrapped her fingers around the can of pepper spray. If he tried anything, she would use it.
The car edged closer until the front tire mounted the curb with a scrape and a squeal, the fender bouncing when the car rolled back down onto the street. “What are you doing?” she yelled.
Jaida staggered sideways away from the rogue vehicle, ran a few steps, and ducked inside the first door that hadn’t been locked up for the night.
The hydraulic door fell closed behind her with a silent gasp, the scent of Asian cuisine filling her nostrils. She moved to the edge of the plate-glass window where the “Open” sign flickered, and watched the car idling at the curb.
“Can I help you?”
Jaida startled and turned at the woman’s voice. She forced a smile and waved a hand over her clothes. “Costume party,” she said. “I’m waiting on my ride.”
She did need a ride, but not in the back of a police cruiser. And from the look on the woman’s face that was where she was going to end up if she didn’t get out of here quick.
“We close in fifteen minutes,” she said before taking her leave and disappearing into the dining area. When Jaida turned back to the window, the car was gone.
Outside, the scent of fresh drizzle and wet concrete greeted her. She stood under the shelter of the awning and dialed her cell phone, the patter of raindrops pelting the canvas arc. No ring, no answer. Her call was instantly routed to Auggie’s voicemail.
You can’t trust anyone. She shoved the phone back in her purse then slid her arms around herself and glared at the empty street. How was she supposed to get home now? The bus?
She walked to the bench at the corner, the heels of her stiletto boots wobbling on the uneven cement. She stopped when she realized her mistake. She couldn’t take the bus; she didn’t have any cash.
What was Auggie thinking leaving her like this? It was unprofessional. It was dangerous.
As though her last thought was premonitory, a hand came from behind and clamped around her waist, yanking her backward. She screamed and tried to pull free, but the hold tightened and lips were pressed against her ear.
“How ‘bout a little something for Daddy?”
The sound of his voice brought on a wave of rage. Jaida spun, shoving against the immovable chest. “You big jerk, you scared me to death.” She bent at the waist and pressed a hand to her heart. It was galloping behind her ribs like a herd of wild horses.
She glared up at him. “Where were you?”
Auggie laughed, his shaved head gleaming in the light of the street lamp. “I’ve been right behind you the whole time, chica.”
“Right behind me?” Her pulse pounded in her neck, and she was yelling at him now. “Why didn’t you show yourself when I came out of the bar?”
He reached for her arm and she pulled it away. They had a plan, and without a second thought he’d digressed from it.
“Chill out. I didn’t want to scare our guy off, detective. I was giving him space. If he was out there I wanted to see if he would follow you. You do want this don’t you?”
She bristled at his deliberate use of the word detective. What was he implying? That she wasn’t a professional?
Her eyes narrowed as she shot back, “I do want this, but I also want my backup to back me up.”
“Look, Jaida, I did my job. I was there for you.”
“Fine,” she said, “but this is the last time I do this. Next time you can go in drag.”
He draped his arm over her shoulder and this time she didn’t pull away. “I would love to, babe,” he said, “but I wouldn’t fool anyone with biceps like these.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
He pinched her arm, and she swatted his hand away. “Thug.”
Auggie pulled his keys from his pocket. “C’mon, let’s go get the car.”
2
Jaida stood at the living room window nursing an iced tea, staring into the fog that swallowed up the whole of Newport Beach. In the distance, hazy yellow dots of light along the pier smoldered through the wall of white. It was the only thing visible beyond her patio.
Tonight played out like amateur night. If she had followed protocol and vetted Ray properly would it have turned out any differently? Auggie thought so. And he reminded her of that all the way back to the office. He said they would have known Ray was a fraud if she’d done her job right. But was he truly a fraud?
Their case against William Gale was shriveling up at the edges. She needed Ray to be who he said he was. Without him, everything she had on Gale was worthless.
She’d put in nearly two years of her life on this, and the proof of her labors were stacked and separated in piles on her desk. The photos, the tape, and the documents she had accrued were enough to put an ordinary man away for a long time. But this was no ordinary man.
All she needed was one warrant, and she would have access to everything, including Gale’s private records. She was looking for something specific, but would it even be there? Her heart skipped a beat at the thought, the possibility thrilling and frightening her at the same time.
Theoretically, a mere two hours ago she’d been one step closer to having it in her hands, but in the midst of her pending victory fear still taunted. What if she was disappointed? Or worse, what if she was the disappointment?
Jaida took another sip of tea. Stiff and cold, her fingers tightened on the glass. With no new leads, it looked like she would never know the answer to those questions.
She traced her finger in a circle over the moisture on the windowpane. Zero. That’s how many options she had left, and if she didn’t come up with a new strategy to keep herself in the game, everything would be lost.
She set her glass on the end table, whisked the blue jacquard drapes across the rod then sank into the softness of the leather couch. The cushions yielded under her weight, cradling her like a baby. Her whole body sighed. It had been one long twelve-hour day, and the only thing she had to show for it was her throbbing feet…and Mac’s telephone number. The corner of her mouth lifted on that last thought and her eyes slid closed.
What if they were wrong? What if Ray’s call wasn’t a hoax? She was grasping at the wind, but what if, in her persistence, she managed to catch it? There had to be some legitimacy because everything he’d told her was spot on.
Was he a psychic? She half laughed at the notion. Now that would be a hoax because she didn’t buy into the paranormal.
Ray had Gale’s private number, and he quoted it as if he dialed it often. In their brief telephone conversation, he’d casually made light of Gale’s fondness for unusually young women, and Cognac-infused cigars. But it was his subtle remarks on the Dennison murder that sold her. No one could guess at those details and be accurate. No one was that good.
His standing her up just didn’t make any sense. She tugged her boots off, each one hitting the floor with a dull thud. She leaned back and tucked a throw pillow behind her. If Ray was the real deal he would be calling back.
As if on cue the phone rang, but it was the landline. She closed her eyes and ignored it. The machine could get it. Her number was unlisted, an
d Ray only had access to her through Baseel. Anyone else could wait until tomorrow.
The answering machine came on after the third ring. “Hey Jaida, it’s me.” Auggie cleared his throat. “As of tonight, we’re calling it quits on Gale.”
No! She jumped up. He was going to ruin everything.
“We have what we have,” he continued. “Let’s just turn it over and be done with it.”
Jaida yanked the receiver from the base, an electronic screech piercing the air. “You can’t do this to me, Auggie.”
He sighed that same heavy sigh when he was annoyed with her. “Jaida, we’re already breaking under a heavy caseload. We’re just spinning our tires on this one.”
“Just, don’t be so quick on this.”
“Quick? Do you know how much time and money we’ve already put into this investigation?”
“Can’t we just take the weekend to get some perspective?” she asked. “Besides, what if Ray calls back?”
When he didn’t respond, she said, “We’re getting close, I know it.” It was a lie, but what else could she say?
“What difference is two days going to make?” he asked.
“Like I said, maybe Ray will call back. He may still intend to work with us. Maybe he was sick, or delayed.” Maybe she left the bar too soon. There were a number of circumstances that could have detained him. Including Gale.
“That’s an awful lot of maybes, Jaida. How about offering me something concrete?”
She pressed a hand to her forehead, defeat sinking her. “What do you want me to say?” If she had anything concrete she wouldn’t be wasting the last hour of her day begging for more time.
“Do you know what I honestly think? There is no Ray. This is just another wild goose chase that Gale concocted to throw us off.”
The last of her hope withered. That would explain his intimate knowledge of the murder. She ran the concept over in her head before shaking it. “It’s not true.” It couldn’t be true. “This is too important to me,” she said, the pitch of her voice rising.
“Why? Why is this case any different than the others?”
She pressed a hand to her mouth, wishing she could take it all back. If she told him why, he would pull her from the case.
“Jaida?”
“It’s…it’s…he’s not any different.”
“I know what he did to you, but you can’t risk the credibility of the agency for revenge. Besides, you came out clean in the investigation.”
“This isn’t about revenge.” Is that what he thought?
“Then what is it about?”
Nothing the agency would be interested in. Not when she was on this side of it. “What about public safety? We have an obligation to put him away. You know how dangerous he is.”
This would have been easier if she’d hired the Baseel Agency to find her mother instead of going to work for them, but they would have kept her planted on the sidelines, and she couldn’t abide that.
Auggie went quiet. Was he caving? A soft sigh rattled through the phone. “I’ll take the weekend and think about it,” he said. Relief flooded her. She’d bought herself two more days.
“Thanks, Auggie.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, then hung up.
She set the receiver back on the base and pressed her palms to her head. Like steady drumbeats, the stress pulsed at her temples. She had forty-eight hours to come up with something that would change his mind.
The couch beckoned. Jaida turned toward it when something caught her eye. Where had that come from? There was an envelope dangling from the mail slot in the front door. She snatched it from the grip of the brass flap and turned it over. There was no stamp, no return address. Someone dropped it off.
Inside was a full-sized sheet of copy paper with a single typed line through the center.
The past is called the past for a reason. Leave it there.
No heading, no signature, nothing to identify the sender. But a name wasn’t necessary. She already knew. She crumpled up the veiled warning and threw it in the kitchen trash. Did he really think she would be scared off so easily?
The upstairs lights switched off and she spun around, her breath catching in her throat. With knees like jelly, she stood unmoving, her gaze riveted on the two doors at the top of the stairs. It was only the timer, she knew, but a tremor still traveled the length of her spine reminding her who she was dealing with.
Jaida set the alarm and switched on the floor lamp next to the armchair then checked the locks on all the doors and windows, turning on one light after another as she went.
She stood in the middle of the living room and looked over the downstairs. Everything had been secured, and the alarm was set. If he dared venture further than the other side of the front door, she would know it.
Jaida snatched up the empty glass she’d left on the table then wiped up the wet ring it left behind with the heel of her hand. Why had she ever initiated contact with him? She must have been out of her mind. And why didn’t he want her probing into her own past?
The worst of it was, she’d let her heart get involved. She tucked the glass in the dishwasher and picked up the mailer from the kitchen counter. His name was printed across the top in bold, bright, red letters outlined in black, and underneath in royal blue were his political credentials: Former councilman, two-term mayor, district court judge. And presently he was a gubernatorial candidate for the state of California.
Gale’s plastic smile took up half his face on the oversized postcard. His new wife, Patrice, was nestled protectively under his arm, her red hair tumbling over her shoulders in a cloud of curls. Seeing the two of them together brought an unexpected twinge of jealousy, and she hated herself for it.
Councilman, mayor, judge, murderer, it was quite a resume Gale had established…If she could just prove the latter. But his money insulated him, his power protected him, and the high-level connections he kept in his back pocket were his guarantee that he would come out of this squeaky clean.
Jaida tore the card in two, wondering why she’d saved it in the first place. Exhausted, she collapsed on the couch for the second time. She drew her legs up and leaned back. Did Auggie really think she was going after Gale for revenge? Maybe to some degree she was, but not for the reason he thought.
She yawned and tugged the afghan from the back of the couch, gathering the softness and warmth around her like a hug. She worked the edges of the blanket between her fingers, soaking up its comfort.
Years ago she watched her mother work the variegated yarn, shaping the soft cashmere strands of purples, oranges, and reds into chains and butterfly stitches, and bullion stitches, and… Her eyelids slid closed on another yawn, too groggy to remember what else.
“Love,” she mumbled to herself. That was it. Her mouth quirked into a faint smile then slipped into a frown. What did she know about love? And why did people always leave? Whether death ripped them from your life or they walked out willingly, no one ever stayed. Not even the woman she called ‘mother’.
She scrunched the scalloped edges of the blanket in her fists. The only thing she had left of Eva was this afghan and her Bible. They were her parting gifts, an unsatisfactory consolation prize for when she breathed her last and surrendered the ghost.
She recalled the coolness of Eva’s hand gripped in her own, her pulse weak but steady. At the time, it brought a semblance of comfort, but her final words did not: “This Bible holds the truth. Hold onto it, Jaida. I want you to read it.”
But Eva was wrong. The Bible didn’t hold the truth, William Gale did. And she would do whatever she had to, to pry it out of him.
She rolled to her side and curled into a snug ball. She’d been reared by the finest. Eva Payne was her mother. So, why the need to find the name of the woman who gave her life and then left her for dead?
Jaida reached for the remote and turned on the television. Jimmy Stewart’s desperation carried through the airwaves as he begged to return to his former
life. She could relate to his character, George Bailey, and empathize with his despair, but whatever was missing in her own life hadn’t been discovered and wasn’t going to be happily concluded like a two-hour drama.
Striking out tonight was evidence of that.
3
The rubber soles of her shoes buffeted the boardwalk. Jaida found her rhythm, her pace in the noiseless cadence. She didn’t like to run, but the physical exertion released the pent up stress and helped to ease the nightmares.
The past few months the dreams had worsened, so she doubled up, running after rising and shortly before retiring. She skipped last night but made it through the six hours without an episode of terror and sweat-drenched sheets.
She clamped a hand over the stitch in her side and blew out a sharp breath. Like clockwork, the paperboy was about 100 yards ahead of her. He pedaled his beach cruiser past her house and with a curl of his wrist he propelled the Saturday edition of The Register over her wrought-iron fence, swerving just before he rode away.
She lengthened her flagging stride, and pressed into the last stretch of the run, her quads quivering like stretched-out rubber bands. Her thirsty lungs drank in the air as her foot landed over the imaginary line that marked her fourth mile. Done. She was finally done.
Hands pressed to her hips, she expelled a breath and walked off the exertion until her heart rate normalized. Someone called her name and she turned, looking over the row of houses that lined the boardwalk. Who was it? She turned again, this time scanning the beach for a face.
“Up here!” She spun around and shaded her eyes, squinting past the screen in her neighbor’s upstairs window. Marilyn Carter’s hunched form was little more than a vague shadowy outline behind the nylon mesh.
“Newspaper’s on your porch.” She lisped the latest neighborhood intelligence report past her dentures. “Thought you might want to know.”
Marilyn was a widow, an aging eccentric who lived alone, and a self-appointed window watcher for the neighborhood watch. She missed nothing.