“No problem. I’m glad for a break. You brought pizza?”
“I did. And salads. Is that okay?”
“Love it. Have a seat.”
I set everything to his left, skipped the chair between us, and sat down. My hands were a little shaky, but I busied myself arranging the meal while he flipped on lights, obliterating the projector’s soft, forgiving glow with fluorescent-bulb brilliance.
“So your email said you’re helping a friend look for a missing person. I assume the police are already involved.” He helped himself to a slice of pizza.
I told the story as he plowed through three slices straight and dug into his salad. I guess I didn’t need to worry about my looks. He only had eyes for the food. All those muscles probably needed a lot of fuel.
He paused to ask a couple questions: “What does your friend’s gut tell her happened?” (“Something bad.”) And “Aren’t you hungry?” (“I’m too worried to eat.”) Getting lettuce stuck between my teeth was among my concerns, but he didn’t need to know that.
He launched into a mini-lecture on missing persons while I took notes. Some things I knew (time was of the essence) and some things I didn’t (police have to notify the FBI when someone under twenty-one is missing). He handed me a stapled sheaf of papers, and I couldn’t help noticing even his hands were well defined. I stopped myself from imagining what they could do.
“We won’t cover this stuff for a couple weeks. But I thought it would help now.”
I started flipping through it. Skip tracing. Internet resources. Runaways. That’s when I noticed my nails. Nervous picking meant they were barely there, and I’d forgotten to file what was left. I tucked them under the pile’s edges. “Thank you so much, Dean.” I stood to go.
“Sure you’re not going to eat?” he asked. We glanced at my untouched food.
“That’s okay.” I waved toward the pizza and salad, grazing my water, which cascaded across my notes and over the table’s edge. Dean caught it too late and set it upright. I grabbed some napkins and dabbed the notes, and then knelt to work on the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” I said from under the table. I was looking at the mammoth spill but concentrating on my mammoth ass, which was poking out toward Dean. Thank heaven for thongs. Nothing worse than a mammoth ass with panty lines. When the puddle was reasonably dry, I wiggled out backward. Lovely. I stood, straightened my pants, and managed to look at him sideways. He was grinning. At least he wasn’t screaming in horror.
“No problem,” he said. “It’s just water. Are your notes okay?”
“I think they survived.” My dignity, not so much. I dropped the sopping napkins into a bag-lined trash can along with the bottle. “Whoops. Do you recycle?” The kids begged me to help save the environment, and I was trying to do my part, no matter how inconvenient it was.
“We do,” he said. “I’ll take it for you.” I retrieved the bottle and handed it to him.
“Thanks. And I’ll leave the extra pizza for you,” I said, collecting my drippy papers.
“At least take your salad.” He handed it to me and stepped toward the door. “Let me walk you out.”
Relaxed khakis and an oxford shirt couldn’t contain his muscles, everywhere from his triceps to his glutes (words I’d picked up from Kenna). I followed them back down the hall toward Amber.
“Good luck with your presentation tonight,” I told him. I waved goodbye to Amber.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll see you in class, but keep me posted. Email or call if you need to. Okay?”
I agreed. He held the door while I stepped into a heavy, warm blanket of air. Outlines of everything from trees to cars were obscured by steaminess. My thoughts were fuzzy too. So much to do, confusion about where to start, and a separate priority: mommying. It’s times like these that call for a husband, a partner, a helper. Heck, I’d even take a part-time nanny.
I glanced at Dean to say goodbye and got stuck in his turquoise stare. It was like visiting an exotic beach. Clear, blue waters beckoned, made me want to gaze and eventually dive in. Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I tried to turn away before he’d notice.
“Thanks again,” I called as I hurried toward my minivan. I had less than two hours to finish one more critical task, alone.
Here’s my opinion. Every stay-at-home mom’s car deserves to be pimped with a retractable roof, thumping speakers, Sex and the City DVDs, and a valium dispenser. It’s not right that our excitement-deprived lives have to include boring rides.
I try to make up for it with a monster sunroof that douses me with sun and wind. The minute the kids hop out, it slides back, and the tunes go in. I don’t don a backward baseball cap and gold chains or anything, but a little Nelly distances me from reality. I just have to remember not to blast 50 Cent in the carpool line.
Today I was in need of support and inspiration. I slipped in a CeCe Winans gospel CD, double checked that my cell was on, and headed for Washington.
I know it’s overprotective, but I hate to be more than a few miles from my kids. Driving twenty minutes to Beth’s school was uncomfortable but necessary. If I was ever going to be a PI, I’d have to separate from my kids as easily as they separated from me. Maybe I needed a transition object, like Super Teddy riding shotgun.
I exited in the ritzy downtown section of King County. It was odd to imagine throngs of stroller-clad moms lunching and shopping there. Upscale stores were never in my budget. I barely had an outfit nice enough to shop for nice outfits.
The skyline rose in graduated steps, from low-slung car lots to oversize stores to high-rise luxury hotels. There was a sudden dropoff where the county meets 495, and then a sense that opulence might never make it across the highway. Strip malls and squat apartment complexes gave way to a mix of older homes, renovations and dilapidated businesses. I’d always wanted to stop at a place advertising psychic readings, but I didn’t have the courage, and I wasn’t focused on my future today anyhow.
Eventually I turned left into Woodridge’s asphalt lot, peppered with sensible sedans and bumper-stickered hand-me-downs. I parked between a curb and a dented, rusty Explorer—probably some teen’s precious ticket to freedom. Many of my best adolescent experiences had been in junkers. Cruising with friends to LL Cool J, sneaking off to the beach when my parents were out of town, making out. Privacy was so hard to come by that location didn’t matter. An ugly car was paradise compared to no place at all.
I wished the reflection in the rearview mirror matched my teenage self better. I still had skewer-straight black hair and big brown eyes. But my starter wrinkles and thinning skin were giveaways. I’d never pass as a student.
Butterflies filled my stomach, maybe because a police cruiser was in the lot, or maybe because high school affected me the same way it did decades ago—it made me feel inadequate.
A man leaving the main entrance held the door for me and nodded hello, apparently okay with an unfamiliar woman entering the building. Did I look like a teacher or, horrors, someone old enough to be a teen’s mom? I smiled politely and kept moving. Don’t ask where the library is, I thought. He might ask questions, and then I’ll have to lie.
Being misleading (“pretexting” in PI talk) is simply part of an investigation. But it’s completely unnatural to me. Usually I let morals—combined with fear and guilt—dictate my life. Maybe pursuing a risky, sneaky career was a sign of trouble, desperation, or insanity. Something to ponder when I had more time. Or a therapist.
I spotted the library after wandering through walls of colorful lockers and white-painted bricks. I even peeked into classrooms and the dreaded cafeteria, where a few kids and teachers were hanging out.
That really made my heart race. Who could forget walking into a room teeming with students, feeling on display and judged? Kenna and I had been semi-popular. I could scarcely imagine being ostraci
zed or worse.
Thinking of Kenna jolted me back to the present. I entered the library and was relieved not to see anyone else. The place was so still I thought it might be empty.
Yearbooks lined a back wall beneath construction paper letters that announced “Woodridge—A Tradition of Excellence.” I ran my finger down the line of leather-bound volumes, finding the last four years. I lugged them to the nearest chair and hunkered down.
I scoured Beth’s eleventh-grade class, comparing each girl’s portrait to hers. Finally I reached the letter M, and there she was. Beth Myers. I let her name sink in. Then I flipped through the other books to find her again.
Beth had entered high school just like I had: gawky, with braces and breakouts. Four years had smoothed her skin, lengthened her hair and straightened her teeth. But she didn’t look any happier.
Each year she’d joined the diverse and attractive dance team. In every photo, she stood next to the same girl, April Johnson. She was pretty too, with light blue eyes and shiny black hair that belonged in a commercial.
I looked for Marcus and found three junior Marcuses and one senior, Marcus Gomez. I recorded all four names, but instinct told me it was Gomez. He had an indefinable charismatic quality. I tried to put my finger on it. Confidence? Cockiness? An impressive physique? He had broad shoulders, dark eyes, bronze skin, a fuzzy mustache and sharp features. I could imagine Beth being overwhelmed by him. Just looking at his picture drew me in.
On the way out, I stopped at an information rack and picked up a school calendar. I was surprised sports tryouts and practices started in the summer, not the fall. I couldn’t help checking an old cafeteria menu too. Pizza and French fries were still staples, but so were encouraging options, like hummus and zucchini. I had one foot out the door and was about to escape lie-free.
“Excuse me,” a woman said. Damn.
“Yes?” I turned and saw her at the front desk. Either she’d beamed herself there or librarians really know how to be silent.
“I noticed you by the yearbooks. What are you looking for?”
I hated and loved how fast my answer flew out. “I’m a sports reporter. I don’t want to miss any events or misspell any names.”
“Oh.”
Before she could continue, I hightailed it out of there, sweating long before I reached the afternoon heat.
It wasn’t until I pulled out of the parking lot that I realized the lie wasn’t necessary. The truth might have been helpful. I’m looking for a girl named Beth Myers. She’s missing. Do you know her? How about April Johnson? What about Marcus Gomez?
I recalled that at one time in life, I was good at telling lies, and I hadn’t minded at all. It was in high school. Few things had mattered more than having fun and staying out of trouble. Something to remember when investigating kids.
I made my way back toward downtown, retrieved my phone from its cupholder storage spot, and eyed the drivers around me. A turbaned man in an ancient Chevy. An Asian woman in a champagne SUV. A shirtless guy in a yellow Jeep. Everyone appropriately focused on the road. Normally I didn’t make calls while driving, but if I waited until Jack and Sophie were home, I’d end up saying “What?” and “Hold on a second” endlessly, so I compromised by waiting for a red light, speed-dialing Kenna and using my Bluetooth speaker.
“I just left the high school,” I told her. “The birth mother’s name is Beth Myers.”
“Really? It’s so weird to know that.”
“I’m sorry. You were going to find out anyway, right?”
“Yeah. Our adoption was semi-open, so we didn’t share last names and addresses and stuff, but we were going to eventually. I just wasn’t quite ready.”
“I’m sorry. I feel awful. I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. I’m hurrying because I’m at a red light. Do you want me to give you some time and call back in a little while?”
“No. It’s okay. Keep going.”
I told her what I knew and agreed to touch base after dinner. I wanted to review Dean’s advice, and she needed to consult Andy.
It always struck me when people had to run something by a spouse. I didn’t have that responsibility—or that luxury. I always got my way, but it was a heavy burden to make every decision, and I still had to compromise with myself. I wanted to ask Kenna, my go-to advisor, Is it okay to be dishonest for a good cause? What about invading Beth’s privacy? Am I being horribly insensitive to everyone involved? But she needed my help, not my confusion.
Uneasiness drew me like a magnet to the kids’ camp and their sweaty, sunscreened faces, stories about the day, and nonstop needs. They make it impossible to focus on anything else. A challenge, yes, but also an incredible blessing.
The minivan went from empty to full. Backpacks and lunch bags crowded the kids’ feet. Art projects made their way forward and sprinkled glitter on the empty passenger seat. The silence was broken by Sophie’s, “I’m thirsty!” and Jack’s, “Reggie said atomic wedgie today. What the heck is an atomic wedgie?”
I fished a water bottle out of the summer “supply” bag between the front seats, a disorganized tangle of goggles, lotion, drinks, pool passes, dive sticks and half-read magazines.
“I want to go home,” Jack said. “I’m pooped.” This was his new favorite expression, since it involved legitimate use of a bathroom word.
“I’m pooped too,” Sophie laughed. “Can we listen to Aladdin?”
“Yes. Buckle up.”
Both kids struggled into seatbelts and made song requests. I uncapped the water, handed it to Sophie, found the Aladdin CD, negotiated an agreement on song twenty-three, gingerly defined atomic wedgie, prayed my definition would not be tested, and headed home.
By eight o’clock, I was pooped. I’d just tucked the kids into bed when the doorbell rang.
“Who is it?” Jack yelled from upstairs. I hoped Sophie wouldn’t come running down. I needed the peaceful miracle of bedtime.
I peeked out the doorside window and saw Kenna.
“It’s just Auntie Kenna, sweetie,” I called softly to Jack. Maybe Sophie had already conked out. “Relax and go to sleep.”
“I have to relax,” Kenna said when I let her in. She pushed two beer bottles toward me. “Got an opener?”
“Of course.”
We walked into the kitchen and she rummaged in the fridge while I cracked the beers. Another benefit of being neighbors—no driving home.
“Ugh,” she said. “Don’t you have any junk food?”
“Look in the pantry. There are cookies,” I defended myself. “And there’s ice cream in the freezer.” No need to mention it was low fat, soy, and more “ice” than “cream.”
“Never mind. I need something that goes with beer.”
“Popcorn then. You know where it is.”
Kenna found the organic, no-oil-added popcorn and stuck a bag in the microwave. I caught her rolling her eyes as she read the label. For an aerobics teacher, her diet was surprisingly all inclusive. One of the perks of her job, I guess.
Popping kernels filled the room with an aroma better than any taste could be. I wondered whether it would soothe Jack to sleep or lure him downstairs.
I got the feeling Kenna’s casual presentation was self-protective. Nothing could be more emotional than what we had to discuss. Children. Motherhood. Loss. It was nothing new to her, and that was the problem.
I poured popcorn into ceramic bowls and we crunched away.
“So.” I gave her an opening.
“I think I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.” That was a brave start.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve hit my limit. I can’t stop crying. I have chest pains.”
“Chest pains?”
“Stabs of anxiety. Every time I think of Beth on her own.” Her hand
on her heart was proof.
“I know those. They’re awful. I got them after Jason and my Dad.” I still didn’t like saying died. “Is Andy being supportive?”
“Yes, but he’s less worried about Beth than about getting our money back for another adoption.”
“You could lose the money you invested in this one?”
“It’s more like we’d have to pay some fees again. I don’t want to get into that, though.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I want to find Beth.”
“How does Andy feel about us looking for her?”
“He thinks she’s running from the adoption, so to him it’s pointless.”
“But he didn’t ask you to stop?”
“No. He must be too scared to ask. He knows I’m over the edge.” She laughed.
“And he loves you.”
She tugged a folded paper from her back pocket. “Here’s everything I could think of about Beth. I took notes during our conversations so I could remember what she said. You know, in case the baby wants to know someday.”
“That’s so nice.” I skimmed them, and random details stood out. Argues a lot with mom. Only child. Loves Disney World. Scared of snakes. The more I knew about Beth, the more I sensed her vulnerability and knew I couldn’t give up on her, even if it meant making questionable calls.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all the little stuff about Beth before,” Kenna said. “It’s just that if I let it out...” She looked around as if searching for words. “It would have made it so real. There would have been so much more to take back...”
“It’s okay,” I said. “You did what you needed to do to protect yourself. I totally understand.”
I gave her a hug and pointed to a stack of papers on the kitchen table. “That’s everything I learned today. Or everything I need to learn.”
“From Dean?”
“Yup.” By now most of it was dry, albeit a little wrinkly.
Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) Page 3