The Janes

by Louisa Luna

  She went to the fridge in the small kitchen, saw some kids’ drawings scrawled with crayons and school photos of the artists, Vega assumed, a boy and a girl with Mia’s round cheeks. Vega left them where they were. She opened the door, counted ten or so filled Tupperwares, a Domino’s pizza box, three boxes of Entenmann’s donuts, a twelve-pack of cherry Coke, and on the door bottles of coconut water and Gatorade. On top of the fridge full bags of kettle corn and Doritos.

  Everyone has a thing, she thought, and Mia’s was food. And maybe also weed. Vega found her affection for Mia unfettered by knowing this. You can’t order a person like you order a sandwich, Perry would have said. Take this, hold that.

  Vega took two bottles of coconut water and shut the fridge. She went to the living room and sat on the couch, set the waters down on the square table. She checked her phone, saw a text from Cap: “Circling. Text for backup.” She opened her email to see if the Bastard had written her back with anything else, and there was nothing yet. She placed the phone in her lap and looked out the glass doors to the sun setting, the sky blurry and melting with color.

  * * *

  —

  Cap sat in the car while McTiernan went in the taco shop. After they’d left Mia’s block, Cap realized he hadn’t eaten since the morning and had been running on the fumes of fumes for some hours now. McTiernan pulled over at the first opportunity.

  Cap’s phone buzzed with a text from Vega: “OK.”

  Cap shut his eyes and opened his mouth, just to hear the sound of his own breath. He found himself squeezing his eyes closed and tried to relax the lids, but it wasn’t working, so he opened them again. He picked his phone up from his lap and started typing a text to Nell: “Hey just checking in. Everything cool here.” He hit Send with his thumb and waited, saw the three flickering dots.

  Then came Nell’s response: “I’m fine. What’s happening with case???”

  Cap looked away from the phone, toward his reflection in the side mirror, and angled his face so he could see the burn on his temple. He shook his head at himself and wrote back to Nell: “Crawling along. Might have break soon.” He tapped Send and thought as long as he didn’t talk to her on the phone, she wouldn’t hear his voice and know something was wrong. Really very wrong.

  She sent back: 

  Cap looked up and saw McTiernan walking toward the car holding two paper trays of food stacked and a paper bag under his arm. Cap flipped his phone over on his leg and reached across to open McTiernan’s door.

  “Thanks,” said McTiernan, getting in.

  He handed Cap the bag and one of the trays and pulled the door shut.

  “Two shrimp a la diablas,” he said.

  “Thanks, man,” said Cap, picking up a taco.

  It appeared to have two shells—one crispy, and one soft inside of that, and the shrimp was glossy and grilled, a zigzag of red sauce down the middle. Cap held it with both hands and took a bite. The hot sauce woke him up and suddenly he felt possessed—he couldn’t get the taco into his mouth fast enough. He paused for only a second before swallowing the other one.

  “My goodness,” said McTiernan, only halfway through his first.

  Cap wiped sauce from the side of his mouth and then felt the burn, a few seconds delayed. It was everywhere in his mouth at once—tongue, cheeks, gums. Cap fumbled for the paper bag and pulled out a bottle of water.

  “Yeah, that’s habanero sauce, you need to pace yourself,” said McTiernan kindly.

  Cap drained the bottle.

  “I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” he said, gasping.

  “It’s been a motherfucker of a day,” said McTiernan, staring straight ahead. “You hear from Vega?”

  Cap glanced at the phone and shook his head.

  McTiernan swallowed a bite and said, “If we don’t get the jump…”

  He didn’t finish.

  “Look,” said Cap. “If there is a thing to find out from Otero’s wife, Vega’s gonna find it out.”

  “We can’t keep rolling with no lead,” said McTiernan.

  “Give her an hour,” said Cap, hitting his chest lightly with his fist to speed the digestion. “She’ll make that room smaller and smaller like a magic trick.”

  Then the digital radar beeps returned, and Cap twitched. McTiernan took his phone from his breast pocket.

  “She better,” he said, showing it to Cap.

  “COMM. OTERO” read the screen.

  The second call.

  * * *

  —

  Vega waited on the other side of the door. She’d just removed her thumb from the buzzer, letting her guest through the front door of the building, and now was waiting for her to come up in the elevator. She leaned her head back and caught sight of herself in the mirror over the bathroom sink. She smiled, a perky exclamation point of a smile.

  Then there was the knock, three in a row, light, hesitant. Vega kept the smile pasted on and opened the door and took her in: blond hair, blue eyes, teeth as white as they come. Designer jeans with a couture tear above the knee. Ballet flats, a small white rolling suitcase at her side, leather tote purse over her shoulder.

  “Hi? Alice?” she said.

  “Yeah, Palmer, right?”

  Palmer Otero appeared beside herself with relief that she was in the right place. She pumped Vega’s hand.

  “So nice to meet you,” she said.

  Vega nodded and showed her in.

  “Thanks for coming so late and last minute,” she said, attempting to sound flustered. “It’s sort of an emergency.”

  “No worries,” Palmer said, wheeling her suitcase into the living room. “Literally happens all the time. I see most of my clients weeknights. May I?” she asked, gesturing to the table.

  “Please do.”

  Palmer pushed the handle of the rolling suitcase down and unzipped it, removed two soft leather cosmetics bags, one black and one tan. She set them on the table in front of the couch, and then they both sat, side by side.

  “You said in your email you were looking for a hydrating foundation?” said Palmer.

  “That’s right.”

  Palmer unzipped the tan bag and opened it, brought out four small tubes of cream.

  “So,” she said, “these are all tinting foundations and we can do a small skin test to see which matches your tone. Now, you said you run fair to tan depending on the season, right?”

  Vega nodded.

  Palmer continued: “And you said you’ve never used BeautyMark products before?”

  “Nope,” said Vega, rolling her shoulders up and down in a quick shrug.

  “Then you get to hear my intro,” Palmer said, touching Vega’s arm playfully.

  She reached into the black bag and pulled out a small bottle of lotion.

  “All of BeautyMark’s products are made from all-natural ingredients. No dyes, no harsh chemicals, and absolutely no animal testing.”

  Vega nodded solemnly to match Palmer’s dedicated tone, as though animal testing were the deal breaker.

  “Natural cosmetics for natural beauty,” said Palmer. Then she smiled earnestly. “That’s BeautyMark. So I highly, highly recommend moisturizing with our twelve-hour day cream before applying any foundation to your face.”

  She handed Vega the small bottle.

  “That’s a tester,” she said, leaning forward to pull a mirror from the tan bag. “You can try some on your cheeks or your whole face if you like. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  Palmer turned her body to face Vega and held the mirror in her lap, angled up at Vega’s face. Vega flipped the top on the bottle and squeezed a drop of lotion onto her finger. She rubbed it on her cheek in circles.

  “Do you have an event tomorrow?” asked Palmer.

  “No,” Vega said, a little forlornly. “Just a work thin
g.”

  “Boo, that doesn’t sound fun,” said Palmer, adding a cute frown of commiseration.

  “It’s not all bad,” said Vega, applying another drop of lotion to her fingers and rubbing it around her forehead.

  “Well, that’s good. What is it you do?”

  “It’s complicated,” said Vega, then said, “Not trying to offend you, I’m sure you would understand, but it just might be boring for you to hear the whole thing. TMI.”

  “We’ve got some time,” Palmer said, grinning. “Our experts recommend letting the moisturizer settle in for at least ten minutes before applying foundation.”

  Vega handed the bottle back and leaned down to look at herself in the mirror. She placed a hand on her cheek.

  “Now that’s soft,” she said.

  “Trust me, you use this every day,” said Palmer, holding up the bottle, “your skin will get even softer. It’s made from naturally sourced oils and plants. You can see on me, I’ve been using these products for two years. Right now I’m wearing just the minimum amount of foundation, because my complexion is just that clear.”

  She held her hand next to her face but didn’t touch it.

  “Amazing,” said Vega.

  “Isn’t it,” said Palmer. Then she got a look like she suddenly remembered something. “Let’s look at lip color while we’re waiting for the cream to set.”

  She went back into the black bag and pulled out three lipstick tubes.

  “These are all lipsticks, but we also do a gloss and a liner. Just no lip stain because—”

  “It’s not natural,” Vega said, finishing her sentence.

  “You got it,” said Palmer, smiling, proud of her student. “I think, for work, a slightly darker nude than yours would work best for you.”

  She handed the lipstick to Vega and tilted the mirror up again. Vega pulled the cap off the tube and twisted the base. She brought it to her bottom lip first, back and forth, watching her reflection.

  “So go on, about your work,” Palmer said gamely.

  “Okay,” said Vega, applying the lipstick to her upper lip. “I find missing persons. Children mostly. Missing children.”

  “Oh my God,” said Palmer in awe, placing her hand to her chest. “That’s…incredible. I had no idea. That must be such a hard job.”

  “It is,” said Vega, pressing her lips together. “Do you have a tissue?”

  Palmer grabbed one from the tan bag and handed it to Vega.

  “So do you have, like, a presentation or something for tomorrow?” Palmer asked, genuinely interested.

  “No,” said Vega, folding the tissue in half and flattening it on her leg. “Not really. But I’m in the middle of a case, and I need all the help I can get.”

  Palmer laughed nervously.

  “Of course. Look, I totally get it if you can’t tell me anything else. My husband’s in law enforcement—I understand the sensitivity of these things.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Vega. “I can’t tell you everything, but I can tell you that I was hired to find a group of girls who are being trafficked for sex work.”

  “Oh my God,” Palmer uttered, stunned.

  “Yes. And I found them this morning.”

  Palmer’s mouth dropped open.

  “You did? That’s wonderful.”

  “It was,” said Vega slowly. “But then I lost them again.”

  Palmer’s lineless face grew confused. She didn’t speak.

  “Well, I didn’t exactly lose them,” Vega said, correcting herself. “Your husband put them on a bus and sent them somewhere.”

  Vega blotted her lips on the tissue.

  Now Palmer’s eyes turned wild with the terror of ambush.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  “Alice Vega,” said Vega. “Same as before.”

  Palmer’s chest rose and fell a little quicker. She glanced toward the floor where she’d set her purse down. Vega admonished her in her head: You never look at the thing you’re about to grab.

  “Don’t,” said Vega, holding her hand out. “Just don’t.”

  Palmer clutched the mirror in her lap, her fingers white. Vega straightened her back and squared her hips the best she could in a seated position, ready to cross-jab if she had to but all she had to do was look at Palmer’s face to know she was too freaked to fight.

  “Are you going to hurt me?” Palmer asked, her breath choppy.

  “I don’t think so,” Vega answered honestly.

  “Then what do you want?”

  “You ever met a guy named either Christian Boyce or Mike Mackey? Work for the DEA?” said Vega.

  Palmer shook her head. Vega could tell by the rapid response it was the truth.

  Vega began: “Your husband and those two paid me cash off the books to find these girls. Like I said, I found the girls. Now the girls are gone. Everything I’ve heard about your husband is that he’s honest, clean, knows exactly which tie he’s wearing when he wakes up in the morning. That’s the impression I got when I met him. That sound right to you?”

  Palmer nodded emphatically, still holding the mirror. Vega could see herself speaking.

  “So why would he get involved in something like this?” she asked.

  Palmer quickly blinked a few times.

  “He wouldn’t,” she said indignantly. Then a little more confident, added, “You’re lying.”

  She seemed to realize just then she was still holding the mirror and pushed it off her lap to the corner of the couch.

  “I’m not,” said Vega calmly. “I can prove it. Would you like me to do that?”

  Palmer stared at her, unable to speak.

  Vega pulled her phone from the pocket of the hoodie and found the voice mail. She pressed the arrow and played it on speaker. Here was Otero’s voice:

  “Hi, Ms. Vega. I just wanted to thank you again for taking this job, and for your discretion.” There was a pause; Vega had figured he was searching for the precise word. “I believe this is important work, helping these girls. And I appreciate your…flexibility with the unconventional circumstance. That’s all I wanted to say. Thank you.”

  Palmer bit her lips, her eyes batting back and forth in distress.

  “That could mean a lot of things,” she said breathlessly.

  “Maybe,” said Vega, feeling an urge to give her the benefit of the doubt. “But probably not.”

  Palmer shook her head rhythmically and didn’t stop. It was slow, though, the pendulum in a grandfather clock.

  “He didn’t tell me anything,” she said.

  “Does he usually tell you about his work?” Vega asked.

  “When it’s important.”

  Palmer pressed her hands together and lifted them to her lips.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why did you have me come here?”

  “I think Boyce and Mackey have something on your husband. Something personal.”

  Vega let those words hang for a few seconds.

  “Do you know what that might be?”

  Palmer shook her head.

  “I don’t. I swear, I don’t know.”

  “I believe you,” said Vega. “But you may know something and not know that you know it.”

  Palmer wrinkled up her nose in bewilderment. She peered past Vega’s shoulder toward the door.

  “I’m not going to trap you,” said Vega. “You can walk out of here and call your husband and tell him all about me, and maybe you’ll get a straight answer from him and maybe you won’t.”

  Palmer’s face changed. The lines flattened out. Her expression became steely.

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t,” said Vega. “And you don’t have to. But I think your husband’s in trouble, and you
might be able to help him, you see?”

  Palmer thought about it. Vega didn’t think she was dumb, but she also wasn’t bleeding all her cards just yet.

  “I think he’s in trouble, too,” Palmer said finally.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “My husband doesn’t get nervous,” Palmer said, smiling a little. “He’s the steady hand; I’m the high-strung one. When our kids were little, I was the helicopter mom. He was the one who suggested I start doing this,” she said, gesturing to the bags. “The BeautyMark stuff, so I could keep myself busy and not micromanage the kids’ lives and clean the house constantly.”

  Vega smiled agreeably, felt a familiar painful twinge; she thought of her mother and the incapacitating anxiety that made a meal of her neural pathways for most of her life.

  “But recently I noticed, he’s missing a step. He just seems preoccupied.”

  Vega didn’t nod or speak, thought she’d let Palmer get to the bones of it on her own.

  “You know, we’ve been married twenty years and he’s been a cop longer than that, so I’m used to him working a lot of hours, but he usually leaves it at the office. But the last few days he hasn’t been around a lot but when he has, he’s been, well, a nervous wreck.”

  “How so?” asked Vega.

  “Spilling every glass he’s holding, taking a lot of work calls, more than usual. I honestly don’t think he’s been to bed in a week or so. I caught him dozing on the couch downstairs the other night. He just said he’s working on a case and it’s intense.”

  “But he’s worked on intense cases before.”

  “All the time,” said Palmer. “He keeps it distant. He’s very good at that, but not lately.”

  “And you’d say this has been the past week?”

  “I think so.”

  “Why didn’t you ask him about it?” Vega said, being sure to clear any note of judgment from her voice.

  Palmer shrugged and let out a tense sigh.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t want to make it worse. Also, our son is starting his senior year of high school next week, and I didn’t want to introduce any more tension in the house than necessary.”