Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1)

by Susan O’Brien

  “Hi, I’m Nicki. You probably don’t remember me, huh?” I said.

  “You look kinda familiar. But I don’t remember nothing.”

  “Well, you were a little busy when we met.” His lips turned up at the corners. “Did they tell you why I’m here?”

  “Yeah.” He stared out the window, which from our angle displayed threatening clouds. Then he glanced at me. “So thanks.”

  “I was worried about you. How ya feeling?” I glanced at the machines connected to his body. Pulse seventy-five and rising. Respirations fifteen. Several IV bags dripping clear goodness into his veins. If someone hooked me up to those monitors, they’d see my pulse racing and know I was holding my breath—all in fear of saying the wrong thing. I was talking to a gang member after all. A possible kidnapper or murderer. The birth father of Kenna’s baby. Holy crap!

  “No pain, long as they keep giving me this shi...stuff.” He raised an arm toward the IV bags. I wished I could take a hit off them. “They say the bullet just grazed me, you know? But I got some bleeding in my head, so I gotta be observed for a while. Get antibiotics. Then I’m outta here.” He looked around the room as if considering an escape.

  I blew out a sigh of relief. “Wow. I’m so glad you’re okay.” I pictured his car’s interior. Where had the bullet actually landed? I didn’t remember any damage, but the car was a dump, and I’d been preoccupied. “Is it okay if I sit down?”

  He shrugged. “If you want.”

  I settled into a blue vinyl chair and crossed my legs. If the kids had been there, they’d have laughed at the noises it made when I shifted to face him.

  “I don’t want to bother you, Marcus. I’m just worried about what happened. Last night was crazy. Do you know who did this to you?”

  He shook his bandaged head almost imperceptibly. We were so close I could see black specks in his cola-colored eyes and arm veins pushed to the surface by bulging muscles. A mustache and stubble added to the misimpression he was a man, not a teen.

  “All I know,” he said, “is somebody’s gonna pay.”

  How was I supposed to respond to that? Obviously, he had general ideas about the shooter, since he was planning revenge, but he didn’t give specifics. It all seemed pretty gang-ish and intimidating. Part of me, though, saw past his tough-guy shell. He was really a kid. Alone in the hospital. Shot in the head. Sorry, but that had to be scary, even for a gangster.

  “I really hope the police figure it out,” I said. “Has your family been able to visit yet?”

  “No. I talked to my ma. But her car’s messed up now. I guess I hit something. You see that?”

  “Yeah. You hit a car and a pickup truck that were parked. Not your fault, of course.”

  “Well, now she ain’t got a ride since it got towed.”

  “Maybe the police kept it for evidence.”

  He bit his lip at that. Could there be proof of other crimes in there? Crimes beyond underage drinking? A light bulb went off in my head. Not exactly an Oprah “aha!” moment, but close enough.

  “I could give your mom a ride if that would help. She must be anxious to see you.”

  “Cool.” He recited their phone number, which I dutifully wrote on scrap paper from my purse, although I already had it at home. I used what was always handy, a fat children’s marker that inevitably left me with stained fingers. I returned the day’s selection—grape-scented purple—to the depths of my purse with the phone number, noting the predictable splotches on my fingers. If the only malady I caught at the hospital was purple marker spots, fine by me. But I did need to add “notepad” and “grown-up pen” to my shopping list.

  “Is there anyone else I can help you see? Friends? A girlfriend?”

  “Nope.”

  I was about to stand when Marcus looked me up and down and lifted his chin. “What were you doin’ there anyway?”

  “I was totally lost,” I replied, sounding exasperated with myself. He seemed to buy it.

  Frankly, life had me feeling a little lost. If my father were alive and in my shoes, he’d go flying, where nothing and no one stood in his way. The closest I’d come to that feeling recently was a bubble bath.

  I gave Marcus a last once-over too. I wondered if he ever let a vulnerable feeling show. Maybe surviving a bullet would give him something to brag about, something akin to a scar from a dangerous sports stunt. What about killing someone—specifically a pregnant ex-girlfriend? Hopefully that would be a sign of cowardice, not bravery, to his gang buddies.

  I shook his hand and wished him luck. It was comforting to know I’d return with his mom, so we could talk again.

  He combined an ultra-cool “Yo, thanks” with a wink and upward nod as I left.

  He’s charming when he wants to be, I thought. And that’s not necessarily good. Being charmed can be the same as being fooled.

  I stopped at the hospital phone on my way out, noting the display on a giant, digital wall clock: 2:05. The countdown before camp pickup was always a ticking time bomb. Get “everything” done in an impossibly short time and hope for the best.

  I called Marcus’s mom, but she didn’t pick up or have voicemail, which was a relief, since I needed a plan before I talked with her. I didn’t want to use my cell phone since she probably had caller ID. The first time Kenna and I called their house, we’d dialed *67 first to hide my home number.

  Before leaving, I washed my hands in a bathroom. Then I dashed to Whole Foods to stock up on necessities (such as ice cream and chocolate) and conveniences (such as bread and milk). Next stop was the library to check out bedtime stories and hope our old ones weren’t so overdue I’d be turned away. (The librarian was lenient with me.) Finally I stopped at home, set the books where no one would trip over them, filled the refrigerator, checked voicemail, left Kenna a long message, and whizzed to camp in time to see Jack and Sophie march outside with their classmates.

  Everyone was pink and sweaty, hauling art projects and heavy backpacks stuffed with soggy towels and bathing suits—all indications of a fun day.

  “How about pool and pizza?” I asked when they were buckled in.

  “Yeah,” Jack enthused.

  “Okay,” said Sophie. “Can I wear my new bikini?” I’d purchased her a modest two-piece—basically a stretchy half-shirt and shorts—since it allowed her to go to the bathroom without completely undressing first. Otherwise, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of bikinis for preschoolers.

  “Yep.” I was happy to oblige and keep her content as long as possible. This time of day could be challenging for Sophie. She’s maturing, I reassured myself, and I’m getting better at tantrum prevention.

  At home the kids raced inside, eager to put on bathing suits and head for the pool. I dumped their camp gear in the hall, immediately forming a junk pile I didn’t want to deal with. For that very reason, I forced myself to sift through it, carrying uneaten lunch remains to the garbage disposal and stacking various art projects on the kitchen counter to compliment later. The next day, with Jack and Sophie safely out of sight, I’d throw most of it away since I couldn’t save everything, but I also couldn’t bear to hurt their feelings. In a real pinch, I’d photograph adorable mementos for our photo albums.

  I could hear Sophie’s accusing voice upstairs. “Where’s my bikini top? Jack, did you take it?”

  “No, why would I have it? Gosh!” he responded.

  While I certainly didn’t want them arguing, I was glad they weren’t ready to go. I needed to prepare myself for the pool mentally and physically. I ran through bathing suit selections in my mind. The red tankini that didn’t hide butt fat well enough? The lime bikini that resulted in good tan lines but equated with wearing skimpy underwear in front of neighbors? An old reliable black one-piece? Fact is, no matter what I wore, I never thought I measured up.

  I walked
upstairs and past the kids’ rooms. Jack was in board shorts building something with Legos. Sophie had found her bikini top and was posing in front of her mirror, confident as a Victoria’s Secret model, lucky thing.

  She caught my eye in the reflection. “When are we leaving?”

  “Pretty soon.” Translation: It depends on a number of factors, including your ability to cooperate and my ability to get my act together and parent with authority. It could be sixty seconds, it could be tomorrow. I don’t know. I recalled hearing a joke that, thanks to parents, kids have a warped sense of time. It had to be true. I put off the bathing suit decision and headed downstairs for a quick Internet detour.

  I locked my office doors with a satisfying click and spun the power dial on the baby monitor beside my computer. Ahhh, the sweet combination of separation and safety. Located between the kids’ rooms, the monitor’s base allowed me to listen and respond with a walkie-talkie-like feature, issuing requests, commands, and threats if needed. Praise would be nice once in a while, too, I scolded myself.

  “Great job getting on your bathing suits, guys!” I said. “I have to do something in my office for a minute.”

  Out of habit, I checked email first, which included junk surrounding a recognizable address, Andy’s. I frowned and raised my eyebrows. What had he sent me? I double clicked.

  Hi Nicki,

  You know how I feel about you and Kenna looking into things. But I couldn’t help checking social networking sites. Beth’s on one. Take a look.

  Best,

  Andy

  He included a link, and I clicked immediately. A lone photo graced Beth’s Facebook page, a black-and-white side view that caught just a touch of her features as she looked down to the left, sleek hair obscuring her face. It was her, though, based on the information blurb, which included Beth Myers and Woodridge High School.

  I kicked myself for not checking the sites earlier. In fear the page would somehow disappear before I read the whole thing, I copied it into a file, saved it, and hit “print.” Only then did I focus on Beth’s words.

  Sadly, she wasn’t a blogger type, but she did have a list of online friends, photos and all. April was among them, but Marcus wasn’t. Weeks earlier, she had posted benign references to the weather, summer school, and a song she liked.

  I wanted to look up every friend and read every word on every page. And while Beth’s profile looked sparse, I needed to go through it with a fine-toothed comb, scrutinizing every detail. This was going to take a while, longer than Jack, Sophie, or the pool trip could wait. I sent Andy a thank-you reply, logged off, and marched reluctantly back to my room and bathing suit decision, which, in the midst of the latest developments, didn’t seem to matter a bit.

  We walked to the closest pool, flip flopping our way down an asphalt path, laden with kickboards and noodles. I wore my black one-piece covered with a fuchsia cotton dress. I could pull off the dress if needed, but I hoped to keep it on and lounge by the pool, thinking, while the kids splashed around.

  My favorite thing about our house is its proximity to everything. We live next to Kenna, of course, but we can also hit the pool, tennis court, and park without crossing a street. The elementary school is about a mile away. Stores and churches are a mile and a half. If we couldn’t walk, we could bike. Maybe after I learned to trust my kids crossing streets on foot, we would.

  “Check before you cross,” I reminded them when we reached the pool parking lot. Happy screams emanated from the pool area and made me wonder if any neighborhood pals were there. If they weren’t, we’d probably make new ones. Families make fast, if fleeting, friends.

  Jack and Sophie dutifully swept their heads from side to side until they were sure no one was pulling in or backing out. Then they bolted for the entryway where a lanky teenage lifeguard waited to take our passes. His eyes never met mine as he filed us under V and muttered “Thanks.” Was he bored? Insecure? Depressed? Angry? With teens, it could be so many things. I guess it’s like that with anyone, any age. You never really know.

  I thanked him and watched his bronze face and hazel eyes, a touch of sunburn on his cheeks, turn away, looking back toward the pool.

  Jack and Sophie ran ahead through the women’s locker room. Jack was really too old to be there, but I wasn’t sending him into men’s rooms alone, and I certainly couldn’t go with him. I wasn’t sure how to handle this problem as he grew older without a dad. Then again, it would probably be the least of my concerns.

  “No running,” I reprimanded as I stepped quickly to keep up. “Pull over!” I knew the out-of-place expression would get them to giggle and obey. I added a siren sound effect.

  “Ha ha, Mom. The pool police.” Jack dropped his shark kickboard and red noodle on a lounge chair. He kicked off his flip flops and held out a hand. “Goggles,” he stated as if I were a surgical assistant.

  “Goggles,” I repeated while digging in the summer supply bag. The tips of my fingers identified anti-fog, UV protective goggles with a soft, foam lining. I handed them over and surveyed his look. Cool blue goggles, Hawaiian print shorts, adorable bikini-clad sister in a flotation vest, water toys galore. At times like these, when for a shining moment life looks perfect, a combination of awe, thankfulness, and guilt can strike. Is it right to have so much when others have so little? Is it wrong to savor abundance or wrong not to? The answer had to be about balance, but I hadn’t found a comfortable place on the lifestyle spectrum yet.

  “You guys can hop in,” I said. They disappointed me by making a beeline for the deep end. No relaxation for me. I never knew when Sophie was going to pull a Houdini and free herself from the zipped, locked floatation device in seconds.

  “Keep that on,” I reminded her, pointing at the jacket, “or we’ll have to go home.” That was a threat I didn’t want to carry out. I was desperate for the kids to have exercise and entertainment.

  She smiled up from the sparkling water and called out an agreeable, “Okay.” It was all in her tone, but something made me trust her. I could read my kids’ nonverbal cues as if they had subtitles. I hoped as a PI I’d be as perceptive.

  The kids swam for a few minutes and then climbed the ladder near the diving board. I sat on the side, hitched up my dress so its rear wouldn’t get soaked, and dipped my legs in, allowing them to sink a few inches below the surface. Jack ran off the diving board and tried unsuccessfully to douse me with a cannonball. Sophie followed and failed too.

  “Whoa! Good tries!” I encouraged. They kept it up while I envisioned the night ahead of me. I’d go online again, but if possible, I wanted the freedom to go out and investigate too. Plus, what if Marcus’s mom wanted a ride to the hospital pronto? I needed a babysitter.

  My mother, who lived in a condo not far away in Arlington, was scheduled to babysit the next night during PI class. I hated to ask her for two nights in a row, especially when she’d have to face rush hour traffic, but I couldn’t think of anyone else who could stay late except Kenna, and I didn’t want to add stress to her day. Sending Jack and Sophie to a friend’s for the night wasn’t an option either. They weren’t comfortable spending the night alone in their own beds, never mind in another home.

  I trotted over to our beach chairs and retrieved my phone from the pool bag. Keeping an eye on the kids, who had started a cannonball splashing contest with three unfamiliar boys, I dialed Mom. I tried her cell first, still thankful she had one. Like Kenna, she resisted technology until someone practically staged an intervention.

  “Hi sweetie!” she answered. Clearly she’d mastered caller ID. “You’ll never guess where I am.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “With Aunt Liz!”

  Well, babysitting was out. Mom’s sister Liz lived in Siesta Key, Florida, so Mom must have flown out to see her. I couldn’t imagine why she was there or how she’d get back in time to babysit tomor
row. Before I could ask, she answered.

  “Now don’t worry about tomorrow night. I’m flying back tomorrow afternoon and can be there by six, as long as you pick me up at Dulles. My flight gets in at five. But listen, I had to fly out to see Aunt Liz last minute. She broke her ankle playing tennis, and she had a million obligations. I insisted on coming out to help.”

  How Mom was going to help Aunt Liz with her obligations, I couldn’t fathom, since Liz is a priest and my mom can’t substitute at church, handing out communion, preaching, and doing funeral after funeral.

  For me, visiting Aunt Liz was like escaping to another world, and I’d done it anytime my parents would let me. She lived alone in a rectory by a tiny beachside church, where I spent hours daydreaming in creaky wood pews, deciphering stained glass windows, skipping rocks in the waves, sniffing salty air and asking Aunt Liz questions I couldn’t ask anyone else—and actually getting answers. I’d never become a churchgoer, though. Maybe because nothing compared to the peace I felt with Aunt Liz. Or maybe just because I was lazy.

  “Is she okay?” Aunt Liz was petite but hardy. The fact she’d broken her ankle worried me. I hoped it wasn’t a sign of aging or things to come.

  “Oh, you know Aunt Liz. Nothing stops her. We got her crutches and everything she needs. Problem is it’s her right foot, so she can’t drive. But the congregation has been wonderful. She’ll be well cared for.”

  “I can’t believe you flew down there,” I said. But then again, I could. Mom was a practical, take-charge person. “I’m glad she’s okay. I wish I was there too.”

  “So does Liz. She keeps saying how long it’s been. Sophie was a baby last time she was here. We were looking at pictures.”

  Guilt flooded me from head to toe. I looked at Sophie waiting her turn at the diving board as Jack jumped off. They had changed so much since Liz saw them at Dad’s funeral—Sophie from a toddler to a little girl, Jack from a preschooler to a kindergartener. They’d love a trip to Florida, and so would I.