by Julie Momyer
She glanced at the clock. It was nearly eleven, and it was Monday. Her weekend grace period had officially ended. Soon, Auggie would make his appearance and inform her that the investigation on Gale was closed. Once again, she would be on her own.
She sat back down at the desk and reached for the styrofoam cup. Sipping at the lukewarm coffee, she looked over the open folder. The pages of the year-old summary stared up at her. It was the last report in the file. How many times had she read through it already? Twenty? Thirty?
Jaida rolled the desk chair forward, the seat squealing in protest, and read the investigators remarks. She considered every angle the prosecutor could approach this from. Anything turned over had to be strong enough to stick. She had to be missing something that would seal this up for her, something small but significant, and that’s what she was searching for. Again.
Gale deserved more years behind bars than he had left to live. The video footage she’d viewed was macabre. A murder preserved on film, it mimicked a violent scene straight out of CSI. Only this was real.
The video alone should be enough to guarantee that charges would be filed, and a conviction would follow. But the quality was so poor it could be argued that it wasn’t Gale—that he was the victim of a look-alike’s heinous actions, another man with a similar face and build. And she had nothing in her arsenal to shoot that theory down with.
Even after video forensics spent hours cleaning it up, the image alone didn’t prove beyond a reasonable doubt that it was William Gale wielding the knife.
Jaida picked up the second page and looked it over, reading the first line once, twice, and then a third time before she gave up and tossed it back into the pile of loose papers. She couldn’t do this. Not today.
She dug her fingertips into her temples and rubbed, but the tension clawed tighter. This was not part of her job. She was to present the facts and the evidence then pass the baton onto the police in a collaborative effort. It was the State that would choose to prosecute…or not.
And therein lies the rub. It was the ‘or not’ that had her stressing out and scrambling for surety in a system that was so unpredictable.
Her own motives in this were hardly altruistic, but if she got what she wanted there would be a double win. She would learn the name of her mother, and for the victim, Marcus Dennison, justice would be served.
Jaida shrugged out of her sweater and let it slide between her and the back of the chair. With the thermostat set at an arctic chill, the white cashmere had become an office staple. Even in the middle of summer.
She eyed the long-stemmed red rose draped over the top of her inbox. Lance left it for her. She lifted it and pressed it to her nose, the sweet fragrance a stench in her nostrils, a reminder of one more mistake.
Her face burned hot with shame at what she’d done. But what was one more indiscretion? Why should it matter? She pressed her eyes closed. Maybe it shouldn’t, but the ache behind her ribs told her it did.
She rubbed one of the velvety petals between her thumb and forefinger. The shade of the rose was an uncommon deep purplish-red. Carmine red. Not true red. Not true love. No surprise there. If it weren’t for the art classes she took a hundred summers ago, red would just be red to her. But what did the color represent?
She set the rose down and typed “colors of roses and their meaning” into the internet’s search engine, and in the blink of an eye there were twelve million, seven hundred thousand results at her fingertips.
She scrolled down, randomly selected a link, and with a click of the mouse, the page opened to a spread of professionally photographed roses. She scanned the bullet list below it. Red meant true love—she knew that one. Her gaze drifted down the page, past the pinks and yellows. There it was. Carmine red—deceitful desire.
What kind of meaning was that? And whose deceitful desire did it refer to, the giver or the receiver? Jaida closed the page.
She was reading too much into a simple gesture. The idea of Lance choosing a flower based on the color was ridiculous. To most men a rose was just a rose.
The phone rang. She lifted the receiver to her ear. “Detective Martin.”
Silence.
She glanced at the caller ID. Unknown caller. Jaida opened her mouth again, but it was another voice that spoke.
“I told you to come alone.”
Her fingers tightened on the receiver. “Who is this?”
“You don’t know?”
“I do now,” she said. It was Ray. His voice didn’t sound natural, but it had been altered in some manner since the first call. Not electronically. It was just unusual.
“Did you recognize me at the bar?” he asked.
Was this a trick question? “You weren’t at the bar.”
“No, I wasn’t. I gave you very simple rules, Detective Martin. Did you think you could break those rules and get away with it?”
“I don’t understand. I did exactly as you asked.”
“I told you to come alone.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Technically she had come alone. She didn’t know where Auggie was until he grabbed her on the street.
“I won’t tolerate being played. If you want my cooperation, you’ll stick to my rules.”
“How about tonight?” she asked. “Same bar, same get-up if you like.”
His anger was palpable. “I will say where and I will say when if I choose to meet you at all.”
Pompous, self-important, little… She bit back the angry words and worked an agreeable smile into her voice. “As you wish, Ray. Feel free to call me if you decide you’re still interested in talking.”
The phone clicked. He hung up first. It was a waiting game now. Jaida set the receiver on the hook and pressed her eyes closed. Please, please, call back.
She had the leverage she needed now, the excuse for keeping the case open. Ray’s call had given her that much if nothing else. Her office door banged open, and she swung around.
“Delivery.” Auggie entered carrying two white paper sacks. “Something wrong? You look troubled,” he said then shoved the door shut with his foot.
“I had a phone call.”
“Was it our man?” He found a small square of exposed wood in the sea of her paperwork and set the bags down on the desk.
“It was,” she said, hesitant to say much more. His hand disappeared in one of the sacks then reappeared with a paper carton. He handed it to her.
Jaida opened the flap and a small burst of steam released the scent of General Tsao’s chicken. It was her favorite.
Auggie opened another one and handed it to her. “Mmmm, pork lo mein. You are my hero.” This was just what she needed after living on coffee all morning.
He grinned and licked an orange sauce from his thumb. “I take it the conversation didn’t go well.” He drew another container from the bag and set it in front of him. Drinks followed.
“He knew you were there,” she said. He looked up at that. Let him mull that over for a while. That way when she stepped outside his authority and handled this herself, he would understand, because the next time their informant made her an offer to meet she would be going alone.
“Impossible. Did he specifically identify me?”
“No, but he knew I had backup.” She twisted the plastic fork in the middle of the noodles and tucked the bite in her mouth.
“When does he want to meet?”
She chewed then quickly swallowed. “We haven’t gotten around to that yet. I think right now he’s about proving he’s the one with all the power.”
“Next time we’ll just have to be more careful. No meeting up with me afterward unless it’s an emergency. Maybe it was just a hunch on his part until he saw us together on the street.”
“Maybe,” she said, but she wasn’t convinced. She sank into the chair and waved her fork over the food. “Thanks for the Chinese.”
“No problem.” Auggie slouched down in the armchair
across from her and propped his feet up on the desk.
“Just to be clear, this means you’re keeping the case open now, right?”
He nodded then jerked his chin at the open file lying next to the shabby Nikes he wore. “I see you’re hard at work on it. Are you making any headway?”
“Trying.” But not succeeding, though she wasn’t inclined to reveal that little nugget of information. Auggie might be her friend, but he was also her superior.
“Let me guess. Lance has you sidetracked.”
In a way, yes he did. She grinned and pointed her fork at him. “You are just too good of a detective.”
He eyed her over the tops of his feet. “Just a friendly suggestion, but I don’t think you should see him anymore.”
“Why?” She hadn’t expected that, not after he tried to pawn her off on Kevin.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Intuition. Something tells me he’s a bad idea.”
“Yeah, and you thought Kevin was a good idea.”
His feet dropped to the floor, and he held up his hands in surrender. “All right, I admitted I was wrong there, but the guy is so pathetic when it comes to women, you in particular. It’s like he’s some awkward adolescent tripping all over himself. You can’t help but have a little compassion.”
“You make him sound like such an attractive prospect.” Jaida laughed. “Besides, I thought you liked Lance.”
“I’m just telling you what I think. Let’s leave it at that.”
‘Let’s leave it at that,’ implied there was more, but she wouldn’t ask. Not today. Not with everything else she had to deal with.
“Fair enough.” She bit into the shrimp-stuffed egg roll Auggie unwrapped for her.
His fork invaded her territory and speared a piece of her chicken. She leaned forward and guarded the remains of her food with her arms. “Eat your own.”
“You can have some of mine.” He shoved his carton at her, and she looked inside the empty cavern. Empty, save for a skimpy mouthful of white rice, tinted red from the sweet-and-sour sauce.
“Thanks.” She made a face at him then frowned, a somber mood overtaking her. “Why do you think Ray wants to help? I mean, what exactly does he get out of this? He’s putting himself on the line, and the man he’s about to expose repays favors like that with a bullet to the head.”
He shrugged. “A grievance, a vendetta…he didn't get what he was promised. Could be anything. Guys like this have revenge in their blood. Once we’re through with him, if he’s still breathing, he’ll probably be begging for a new identity and a boat ride to some uncharted island.”
Auggie popped the rest of an egg roll in his mouth and cleared away the trash then tossed her a pre-wrapped fortune cookie. “Fresh out of the oven.”
She tore into the plastic wrap. Without breaking the crisp golden cookie, she slid the edge of the fortune out with the tips of her fingernails and held the faint red print up to the light. “Charm is deceitful, and beauty is passing, but a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised.”
“Where did you get this? From a Chinese restaurant or an evangelist?”
“Both. The owner is a Christian man.” He chucked her chin. “If nothing else, they’re wise words. Now, get Lance off your brain and get back to work.”
Nettled by the self-professed heathen defining Scripture as “wise words,” she pinched the fortune from her cookie into a tiny ball and flicked it into the wastebasket. Was he crossing over?
Wise words, truth, or mere babble, they had a mild impact. But she learned to shut them out before, and she would do it again.
9
Jaida sat back and watched the fax machine kick out page after page of her adoption history, and now the final sheet inched its way to the top of the tray.
When she reached Barbara Ellenburg and explained the purpose of her call, the woman was more than accommodating. The only thing she required of Jaida was proof of her identity. But the question of legality swirled in the back of her mind. Was the move lawful without going through the courts? She kept the concern to herself, afraid this gift she’d been handed would be snatched away from her.
The hum of the machine went quiet, and she collected the stack of papers from the tray. She carried them to the kitchen table then settled into the padded chair, every beat of her heart pronounced.
There were eight pages including the cover page. Pen and highlighter in hand, she uncapped them both and looked over the first document. It was the Court Report of Adoption.
She skimmed over the legalese and focused on the portions that mattered. No birth name was given. Her date of birth had been listed, but was it the actual date she was born, or just an educated guess?
Based on the story she’d been told, the date recorded had to be within a day of her birth. Other than her gender, most of the fields in Part One of the form were either listed as unknown or left blank: place of birth, birth parents’ names, attending physician. Had there even been one?
Jaida slipped the page from the top of the pile and set it face down on the table then started on the next document. It was a legal form that terminated parental rights. According to this, voluntary consent had been given. But how could that be? Unless… Her gaze raced down the page. If consent had been given, then her birth mother’s name would have been documented at the time of the adoption. Legally it had to be.
She picked up the next page and read the header: Affidavit for Termination. This should be it. She made quick work of skimming over the document then homed in on the name typed in the box. She slammed the paper down on the table. “How could they do this?” she yelled at the ceiling. Jane Doe. They had her listed as Jane Doe.
No name, but they did manage to include “Jane’s” birth date. She was seventeen years old, a minor when she gave birth.
She read the instructional paragraph above the empty fields. As a minor, the parents’ names and address were required, but the indicated spaces were left blank. Convenient. But for whom?
What kind of sham adoption was this? How could a judge approve this? Nothing made any sense. And why would her mother come back after dumping her in the park? Why step forward at all?
The rest of the fax was her medical history compiled shortly after she’d been found, and some photocopies of handwritten notes. She highlighted the name of the hospital and the physician who examined her, wondering if the hospital and the medical group involved had more detailed records than this.
The jotted notes were Mark Vickery’s work product. It surprised her that Ms. Ellenburg included them. Jaida read through the scrawled drafts. Doubling back over the second paragraph, her breath caught. She had read that right. Laurel Gordon, Spencer’s mother, was present throughout the adoption process.
Eva was thirty-five and single when she adopted her. A longtime friend of Laurel’s, she was visiting at the Gordon home the day Spencer found her. Still, she had no idea how involved Laurel had been.
How much did she know? She pushed up from the chair, slipped her shoes on, and reached for her car keys. She would just have to find out.
*
Fueled by sentiment, Jaida sat in the idling car and flipped through the CD case. What she was searching for was her Achilles heel, her kryptonite, but right now she was desperate for the poison.
She slid the disc out of the case and fed “That’s Amore” into the slot, giving herself permission to reminisce. She put the car in reverse and backed out, squinting as she passed from the darkness of the garage into the harsh sunlight, her fingers scrabbling for the sunglasses in the console.
Across the alley, Marilyn Carter wrestled a heavy-duty trash bag into the plastic bin, the point of her red scarf flapping over her short gray hair. She slapped the lid on the can then turned and waved Jaida down, signaling for her to stop. Jaida hit the brakes and lowered the window.
Marilyn leaned close. “Do you have someone staying with you?” She rolled a mint over her tongue and tucked it inside her cheek. “A man in
his mid to late forties? Looks like he wears a rug?”
Jaida frowned and shook her head. “No. Why?”
“Then you better make sure your house is locked up tight. I saw a man snooping around your back door yesterday. He even jiggled the handle. I would have called the cops, but I wasn’t sure if he was a friend or maybe you had a relative who was locked out.”
“I’m expecting a plumber,” she said. But they were supposed to call first.
Marilyn stepped away from the car and moved in the direction of her house. “Maybe that’s all he was about, but you better watch yourself. Especially since you live alone.”
“Will do.” Jaida rolled up the window, the outside heat already encroaching on the cooled interior. Whoever Marilyn saw may have been harmless—a peddler or the plumber—but her warning resonated, and she would take heed.
She turned up the volume on the stereo and pulled onto the street. The warble that was unique to Dean Martin’s vocal cords came out sharp and clear. If Dean was still alive, would he have minded that she borrowed his last name? Spencer had. It wasn’t her choice in replacements that bothered him, but rather her choice to change it at all.
“My One and Only Love” was already half played out. She tried to recall the lyrics about the April breeze, but they escaped her until the line repeated and she crooned them in a duet with Dean.
Spencer had made it her song, their song. Her lower lip trembled and she bit down hard, trading the emotional pain for the physical.
Her participation in the vocals had long since ended, and she gave Dean the privilege of serenading her with one more verse before she turned off the music, turning off the past.
Jaida parked in the lot of the nursing care facility then craned her neck for a quick look in the rearview mirror. She dabbed at the corner of her eyes, then sat back in the seat long enough to chase away the sorrow her nostalgia had conjured up.