Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1)

by Susan O’Brien

  “How’d he look?” Another effort to lighten the mood. I ran with it to make her laugh.

  “Doable.”

  Three

  Kenna and I made some crazy-ass decisions. I don’t know what gave us the courage—the beer, desperation, or a history of making prank calls as kids. First, we called every Gomez near Woodridge High and asked for Marcus. Kenna had confirmed Marcus was a senior, and Marcus Gomez was the only senior “Marcus” in the yearbook.

  We would have called all the Johnsons, asking for April, but there had to be hundreds. We got the expected variety of responses: Who? Wrong number. Click. And finally, He’s not home, in a drowsy woman’s voice. That was perfect, because we didn’t want to talk to him. Not yet. I wrote down his address along with Beth’s, which we found using her parents’ first names from the adoption application and her last name from the yearbook. It felt like a good but slow start.

  So we took it a step further. Kenna agreed to stay at my house while the kids slept. I agreed to do my first stakeout. I’d hardly sipped my beer, but I gave it time to wear off anyway, hoping that would change my mind. Meanwhile I gathered a camera, fill-in-the-blank stakeout forms from PI class, a juice box, and organic animal crackers. Not high-tech surveillance supplies, but better than nothing. Someday I’d have cool stuff like night vision goggles and hidden microphones, which I was pretty sure they sold at Toys “R” Us these days.

  That brought something to mind. Hadn’t binoculars come in a Scholastic books package for Jack? Had they been part of a Scooby-Doo club? I crept into his room and dug through his toy chest as quietly as possible. Each time I lifted a toy, it sounded like a muffled avalanche.

  “What are you doing?” Kenna whispered from the doorway.

  I spotted Jack’s collection of detective supplies. A flashlight. A magnifying glass. A notepad. I held the binoculars triumphantly over my head.

  “What in the world?” Kenna said. For some reason they were designed to look like a square jigsaw puzzle. I had to extend the pieces to make them work.

  “Binoculars,” I told her, doing my best not to wake Jack. “Undercover. They might come in handy.” I put them to my eyes. I went from seeing Kenna’s whole body to seeing her waist, where khaki shorts, a white T-shirt and a cute polka dot belt met. The toy worked. I grabbed the flashlight and notepad for good measure.

  “I think I’m prepared. But I have to pee.” I’d heard more stories about PI pee than necessary. They all shared a common moral: Peeing in a car is annoying for men and nearly impossible for women. I’d never admit it freely, but when my kids were potty training, I’d rigged a decent travel system using a kiddie toilet and plastic bags—good enough for an adult to use in an emergency. When you’re a single mom with curious toddlers, bathroom stalls are not your friends. I still had that potty somewhere, bleached and ready for the next road trip.

  “Anything else you need?” Kenna asked when I was ready to go.

  I looked at my bulging backpack. Leave it to me to over prepare. Heaven forbid I’m stranded without wipes or an extra outfit at the appropriate moment. I had so much stuff that I’d have trouble finding what I needed. “A gun?” I joked.

  “You’ll be fine,” she said. “You’re just taking a look. And the neighborhoods aren’t that bad.”

  That bad? I hadn’t been worried about the neighborhoods. Aren’t that bad meant kind of bad. Too late now. I threw on the pack, wiggled my feet into Nikes, and reviewed the directions I’d printed out. They made sense, but I’d probably screw them up somehow.

  “If Marcus goes anywhere, remember the turns so you can find your way out,” Kenna cautioned, as if reading my mind.

  “Great idea.” I tried to remember where I’d stashed my pen.

  “I feel so much better knowing you’re doing this,” she added. Well, that made one of us.

  I walked out the door saying I’d check in frequently, a promise I wouldn’t keep.

  My first stop was Beth’s townhouse. I expected it to be rundown, showing outward signs of whatever family trouble might exist inside. Instead, the end unit looked prim and proper, with its trimmed mini-lawn and bushes, brick façade and flower boxes brimming with orange fluffiness. Behind it was a neighborhood tot lot.

  I parked in a nearby visitor spot to get a better feel for the place. I imagined Beth going up and down the cement sidewalk or driving up the asphalt driveway into the garage. I didn’t get a cheery feeling from the house, but I couldn’t find anything wrong with it either. The windows were dark and the curtains were drawn, which was normal at 11 p.m.

  The surrounding houses were similarly quiet and well tended. Neat landscaping. Coiled hoses. Empty driveways. Some had flags with summer themes. The messiest yard held scattered plastic toys, a tricycle and a kiddie pool. If I lived nearby, that would probably be my favorite neighbor—the parent who couldn’t pull it together before collapsing into bed. The street felt safe, as though any disturbance would stand out.

  After twenty minutes of uneventful observation, I put the car in drive. Off to look for a gang member.

  Marcus’s neighborhood was fabulous if you appreciate fixer uppers, BEWARE OF DOG signs, and loud, customized cars. I drove just fast enough to avoid being a target for potentially bored, armed teens. As I neared his street, I had to slow down and get my bearings. I resisted the impulse to wave at three guys on the corner. Instead I stared straight ahead and hoped they didn’t notice me.

  I turned right, and three blocks later I parked across from Marcus’s ’70s-style split-level home. I doubted its window bars had been an original option. It was surrounded by a chain link fence perfect for little ones or pets. (No running into the street!) But here, maybe it kept people out.

  I shut off my headlights and sat in darkness. The ignition emitted a tiny green glow I’d never noticed before, probably because there are street lamps galore in my neighborhood, something I’d taken for granted. I left the keys in place for light and a quick escape.

  I felt around the backpack while my eyes adjusted. I wanted a surveillance log, which I’d forgotten to use at Beth’s house. After a minute of digging frustration, I dumped everything on the passenger seat and found one.

  I lowered my head to get a closer look, accomplishing hiding and writing at the same time. I listed details about the time and location, including license plate numbers on the cars around me. I noted that Marcus’s front door was open with only a screen door as a barrier. Did the house need fresh air? Was there nothing inside to protect? The hall light was on and the windows were dark except for a basement half-window in the rear corner of the house, which cast soft yellow light onto the weeds outside. I wanted to sneak up and look inside, but that was way out of my league.

  I was just starting to settle in and munch on animal crackers when I noticed something in the rearview mirror. The teens from around the corner were heading my way, and upon closer inspection, one had Marcus’s solid build and light mustache. I stuffed my notes under the seat, relocked the doors, and crouched down. Slowly, I squeezed between the kids’ seats to the back of the van, where I hoped tinted windows would shield me from view.

  As soon as I got to the third row, I wished I’d brought my cell phone. How many times had victims called the police while being carjacked? At least the van didn’t have a trunk for anyone to stuff me in. I pressed my face into the gray, brushed fabric bench. My outfit was dark and my tan was decent, so I imagined blending in, as if visualization would help. Anxiety and lack of air conditioning made the van uncomfortably warm and slightly stifling. I turned my face sideways and took a slow, deep breath. Voices were coming closer.

  “We need a ride,” one guy said.

  Footsteps moved past me and stopped.

  “Keys in the ignition,” said another. Uh oh. My mistake. “Lotsa shit in the front seat.” Oops again. Good thing the binoculars look
ed like a jigsaw puzzle.

  Someone jiggled the door handle, sending a zing of fear through my limbs and gut. What if I’d pressed unlock instead of lock?

  “Come on, man. We don’t need that heat. We’ll use my ma’s car.”

  I didn’t move until their voices faded away. Then I lifted my head just enough to use the rear passenger window. The teens, similarly dressed in baggy jeans and tight T-shirts, went into Marcus’s house and closed the front door. I waited nervously, thinking about him. If he’d done something to Beth, would he be walking around, socializing and laughing? Sure. Violence was a way of life for gang members. Sad to say, many of them had grown up with it.

  Finally they emerged, cigarettes lit, one carrying the remains of a six pack. I tried not to judge. If you watched a rerun of my teen years, many scenes would look like this. I didn’t smoke, but I was ready to party. Dad would have been transporting passengers somewhere, and Mom would have been home, asleep. Two clueless parents, one drunk teen. I still marvel that I survived.

  I crawled to the second row for a better view. The guys were sauntering toward a red Grand Marquis with impressive patches of rust. Marcus took the driver’s seat while the others surveyed their surroundings before hopping in. The car was a few spaces from mine, but its stereo might as well have been on my roof. Hardcore rap pulsed through the van, vulgar and packed with enough lingo to confuse most adults. I waited for them to drive two blocks before pulling out with my lights off.

  I fumbled around, hoping to write down the new street name, but I was too slow. I’d have to remember it. Left on Baylor. Wait. Coming back, it would be a right on Baylor. Right on Baylor, right on Baylor. Left on Willow. Right on Payne. Ahhh! I lost track. I had the sinking feeling they were heading deeper and deeper into the neighborhood. Maybe they were cruising gang territory.

  That theory was nixed when I noticed heavy traffic and a lack of parking spots. Teens marched down a sidewalk like ants to an anthill, toting drinks to a crowded front porch and dimly lit home. I squinted at the disheveled abode and its neighbors, trying to determine the address, but it was too dark. I wasn’t even sure the houses had numbers. They might have peeled off with the paint.

  Marcus was three cars ahead, creeping along, with no place to fit his boat of a vehicle. One pal leaned out the passenger window, gesturing toward the party. I slid down my window to hear what he was yelling. Instead I heard several loud cracks. The Marquis veered right, scraping the front of a shiny sedan, and then came to rest against a black pickup’s bumper, while mayhem erupted on the porch. Teens ran screaming to and from the house, car doors slammed, and kids tore down the street using all forms of transportation, including a skateboard.

  Two cars were stuck behind Marcus, whose angled car was oddly still, blocking both lanes. I couldn’t see the other drivers, but judging by how many passengers they’d stuffed in their back seats, they were either kids or clowns.

  I had three desires. I wanted to call 911, but I didn’t have a clue where I was. I wanted to help Marcus in case he was shot, but I was afraid to get out. I also wanted to back up and get the heck out of there. It was time to get creative.

  No one was behind me, so I gave an extended honk, hit reverse, and heard the contents of my front seat fly forward. I continued backward until I reached the corner, where I threw my wheel to the right and parked under a street sign that identified my location. Not bad. The cars in front of me backed up too and fled the scene.

  I felt frantic, but everything was in slow motion. All I could think of was Marcus. I threw open my door and dialed on the run. I have no idea what information was requested or given, but I babbled all the way to his car, where the sight of him slumped over the steering wheel, perfectly still, stopped me. He was alone, apparently abandoned while his friends ran for cover. I was too afraid to confirm it by looking around. If anyone was nearby, particularly with a gun, I didn’t want to know.

  I crouched, hauled open the car’s enormous door, and looked at Marcus’s chest. I thought it was rising and falling.

  “I think he’s alive,” I told the 911 operator. Then I noticed the dark stain on his lap, growing as drips fell from somewhere above. “But he’s not okay. He’s definitely not okay.”

  Neither was I, although my discomfort was nothing compared to Marcus’s suffering. I’d never seen so much blood, and the thought of finding its origin was scary. I rose slowly and leaned behind him. Supported by the back of his seat, I peered around to the other side of his face, where a bullet had struck his temple. The open flesh reminded me of the time Sophie cracked her chin on a counter, and the gash looked like cut, raw meat, something my vegetarian brain wasn’t used to. Just like with Sophie, I thought I should cover the wound for both our sakes.

  I didn’t have any spare cloth, and I didn’t think I should waste time checking Marcus’s trunk. I wavered between ripping off my shirt or pants and then had a brainstorm. I’d use my cotton bra. (Socks or underwear seemed unsanitary.) It wasn’t huge, darn it, but it would do. I unhooked the clasp, pulled it through a sleeve, and pressed a B-cup to his head. He moved, and I yelped. His eyes flew open, slid toward me, and closed again. Sirens rang in the distance, and I thanked God. Repeatedly.

  It was almost 1 a.m. when my shaking hands turned the deadbolt at home. The night had been everything terrible: scary, shocking, disappointing, sad, disgusting. I flipped on lights for the illusion of warmth as I moved through the foyer, bathroom (where I washed my hands twice), family room, dining room, and kitchen. There was no sign of Kenna, but apparently she’d been busy. Our beer bottles were in the recycling bin. The popcorn bag was trashed next to an empty pint of soy ice cream and a crinkled dark chocolate candy bar wrapper. No foul play here, just a stressed out aerobics instructor with a high metabolism.

  I walked back to the front of the house and heard familiar shuffling. I peeked up and saw Jack clutching Super Teddy on the landing.

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes honey?” I jogged upstairs.

  “Why is Auntie Kenna here?”

  I wanted to pick him up and snuggle, but I hadn’t inspected myself. There might be blood on me. I ruffled his hair and patted his shoulder. “I had to go out sweetie, so she babysat. Where is she?”

  “She was with me because I had a bad dream. Now she’s in Sophie’s room.”

  Poor Kenna. She’d had to play musical beds. No matter what I tried, my kids woke me up with complaints, knowing I was a sucker for sleeping with them, and they disturbed each other in the process. You never knew where anyone would be in the morning. I needed someone to Ferberize me.

  I guided Jack past Sophie’s room, where Kenna and Sophie snoozed on their backs, Sophie’s head in the crook of Kenna’s arm. I tucked him back into bed with assurances that I wasn’t going anywhere else. He drifted off in seconds.

  I took a shower and dumped my clothes in the washer. (My bra didn’t make it home. Hopefully it wouldn’t end up in court as evidence. Talk about being tempted to lie under oath.) Dressed in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, I tapped Kenna’s arm and whispered her name. She rose without disturbing Sophie.

  “What happened?” she rasped. “You didn’t call, and you didn’t answer, either. I was freaking out!”

  “It got a little crazy.”

  Despite the hour, she wanted to hear everything, including what I’d told the cops. Thinking about it nauseated me. I was an honest person. I respected law enforcement. And I hadn’t been straightforward.

  “I was so scared of messing up your adoption. I told them I was lost and what I’d seen. They asked if I knew ‘Marcus Gomez,’ and I said no. I mean, I was lost, and I don’t know him.”

  “I can’t believe you saw him. And he’s shot! You probably saved him.” Her mouth hung open.

  I was afraid probably not. Yes, he’d been alive enough to scare me silly and rush off in an ambula
nce, but he’d been shot in the head. How often did people survive that?

  An image from the past filled my mind. I was working on a hospital psychiatric unit. It was my first post-college job, so I was the lowest on the totem pole: a psychiatric technician. I did everything from take blood pressure to conduct “suicide checks”—monitoring patients’ safety every few minutes. One woman was admitted for shooting herself. She’d survived just fine and walked around the unit, pleasant as can be, with a telltale bandage around her head. It was bizarre.

  The image switched to Marcus’s injury, which in retrospect seemed rather small. Then I saw police officers fanning out, knocking on doors, questioning me. Why hadn’t I been truthful? Could I have hurt Beth by holding back? If they questioned me again, would it be too late?

  “I can’t believe any of this,” I replied.

  “We should sleep on it,” Kenna said.

  “We should, but we won’t.”

  We rehashed everything until my eyes closed involuntarily, right after watching Kenna walk home safely.

  Four

  You can’t watch or listen to the news with kids. Not unless you want to explain things like murder, sexual assault and, despite the weather guy’s prediction of thunderstorms, the necessity of wearing sunscreen to camp.

  Yet I had to turn it on. So when Sophie poked me awake at 6:45, I put on the Disney Channel in my room and stumbled downstairs to watch a local report. Good thing, since Marcus’s shooting was the lead story at seven, complete with video of his car surrounded by officers and flashing lights.

  Officials say shots were fired outside a King County party last night. An eighteen-year-old victim is in serious condition, and neighbors say the shooting may have been gang related. No arrests have been made. Anyone with information should call the number on the screen.