What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1)

by Catharine Riggs

  June 30, 1990

  The doctor confirmed what the box tests said. I’m pregnant and healthy as a horse. Healthy as a horse? Does he say that to the thin women or just to the chubby ones? The point is there’s little chance I’ll lose the pregnancy, and I’m not sure if that makes me happy or sad. Now that I’ve gone and done it, I’m actually scared to death. I don’t think Rich will change his mind, but I won’t have an abortion. I WON’T! He can’t make me. Or can he? Just in case, I’m going to keep my pregnancy a secret for as long as I possibly can. I won’t even tell Aunt Genny. If I wait long enough, Rich will just have to accept it. There will be nothing he can do.

  Crystal

  March 11, 2016

  It’s been two months since the FBI arrived, and I’m one frustrated snitch. A few people have gotten burned, but not as much or as fast as I’d like. Two board members have resigned. The controller’s been fired. Kevin’s been reassigned to postfile review. Yet Rich struts about like some cocksure rooster. I don’t get the attitude. Who’s he paying off?

  There’s an information gap, one I can’t breach. Lots of gossip flowing—mostly fake news. George has ordered us to keep our heads down and go about our business, but with corruption rumors dogging the bank, customers have scattered like rabbits from a fire.

  With Eric out sick and Dipak on vacation, the Stable is extra quiet today. I won three of my ten solitaire games. So when I happen to see Rich slipping out the door, I decide to be a Friday-night snoop. He doesn’t notice the invisible girl, of course. Plus he has his cell phone glued to his ear. When he skirts the bank parking lot, I start to get excited. Maybe there’ll be a Vanessa hookup, and I can document their sins for the feds.

  But Rich has his own master plan. He saunters past the downtown bars and winds up at the scene of my crime. My heart begins to thrum. Casa Bella. This could be even better. I follow him through the project shadows, where mounds of dirt and rocks loom overhead. He climbs the steps to the shed and bangs on its metal door. After a moment, he slips inside, and I stealthily close in. Crouching beneath the open window, I catch some undecipherable mumbling followed by Rich’s angry voice.

  “You swore you wouldn’t contact me.”

  There’s a muffled response, and then Van Meter must move near the window because his words abruptly ring clear. “Should I have stopped at the bank instead?”

  “Of course not. You know the feds are crawling up my ass.”

  “I do. They paid me a visit last week. They were asking a lot of questions about the investors. They found it strange that so many were your neighbors and friends. Even stranger that a handful were bank customers.”

  “You didn’t say anything, did you?”

  “Not yet. But I might.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Van Meter chuckles. “You’re a bright boy. Guess.”

  “Stop playing games and tell me.”

  “All right. I want money.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Of course. But your situation is better than mine. You’re still being paid a salary, while I’ve lost my shirt and more.”

  “It’s not my fault you dug in the wrong place. I lost a million on your mess.”

  “Mere pennies to me. I’ve lost more than that.”

  “Not my problem.” Rich’s voice is getting screechy.

  “You can make it your problem, or I’ll talk. I’m sure the feds would love to hear about the commissions. I doubt you reported them as taxable income.”

  “You willingly paid me under the table. If you spew, you’ll incriminate yourself. You’ll be the one to go to jail.”

  “Not if I turn state’s evidence. They’ve offered me immunity.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  I can’t help but swallow a chuckle. Rich must be wetting his pants.

  “You’re a motherfucker,” Rich says.

  “That’s a poor choice of words.”

  There’s a long pause. “So how much do you want?”

  “You stole half a mil from that old lady. How about you give me half of that?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You’re free to leave.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “And maybe I’ll spill.”

  Rich stays silent for a few beats of my heart. “All right,” he says. “I might be able to get you something.”

  “That’s fine, assuming ‘something’ means half by Monday.”

  “That’s impossible. I can’t get to that money right now.”

  “Then our discussion is over.”

  Rich doesn’t say anything for so long I wonder if he’s left by a back door. When he finally does speak, he sounds like a pouting child. “Okay. I’ll get you your money, but I’ll need at least a week. It’s been stashed away, and it’ll take me some time to get it back.”

  “You have until Monday.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “It’s Monday, or my lawyer arranges a meeting with the feds.”

  “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  “So we have a deal?”

  Rich hesitates. “I suppose.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you at the bird refuge parking lot at nine p.m. sharp. Bring the money.”

  “You want to meet near that homeless camp? Are you crazy? I’m not going there at night.”

  “You have a better idea?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Then we’ll do this my way. The camp’s been cleared out, so it’s dark and quiet. No one will see or hear us.”

  “Hell . . .”

  “Agreed?”

  “I guess.”

  My back is aching, so I straighten up, thinking I’ve gotten enough scoop for one night. The rest can wait for Monday. There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I jump.

  “Hi there. Remember me?”

  Holy shit. It’s the homeless girl. I put my finger to my lips.

  “I’m Mimi.”

  “Shush.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  I wave her off and race away as fast as I can. There’s a shout, and I hear the men tumbling from the shed.

  “Have a dollar for dinner?” Mimi calls in her squeaky voice. She follows me, taking two steps for my every one. “Or maybe two? I can get a Big Mac combo with that.”

  I hurry around the corner. “I’ve seen you here before,” Mimi says breathlessly. “There’s a nice little cubby under the shed. It’s a great place to sleep. No one bothers me there. It’s small, but I fit in just fine.”

  “Go away.”

  “Just a dollar? Or fifty cents?”

  “Get lost.”

  “I saw you that night,” she calls out. “I saw what you did.”

  I stop and spin around, my heart hammering. “What?”

  She jogs up to me, her hair frizzing around her face. “It was late,” she says. “I was sleeping. You woke me up.”

  “You’re wrong,” I insist. “I’ve never been here before.” I want to break her into little pieces. Squash her like some bothersome bug.

  “I saw you put those bones in the pit. And the shells too.”

  Is it possible this homeless twit could mean death to my well-laid plans? I want to grab her. Shake her. Toss her into the street. But instead I just grind my teeth and flex my sweaty hands. “What is it you want?”

  “Have dinner with me.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “All right. But only this once.”

  “Great. But not McDonald’s. I want a real dinner with a yummy drink.”

  I stare at her hard. “Okay.”

  “Fun.” She twirls in a circle and tosses her duffel bag high into the air. It lands with a thump. “Where to?”

  A car cruises in our direction, its headlights blindingly bright. I raise my arm to block the glare. It’s Van Meter’s car. A Land Rover. I feel his wicked eyes fixed on mine.

  There can’t be many pla
ces I can take a homeless girl to dinner, so I rack my brain until I remember Gino’s. I went there once with Dipak to take advantage of a two-for-one dinner coupon. It’s mostly a dive bar, but there’s a back room where they serve decent Italian food.

  We set up shop at a tippy plastic table in a near-empty room and order drinks at the bar. The bartender doesn’t look at me twice, but he cards Mimi. The girl’s clothes are dirty, and her hair’s a ratty mess. Sweat and urine scent the air. He stares at her license long enough to write a short story. Then he hands it back and takes our order.

  “What can I get you?”

  “A Dirty Shirley,” Mimi says.

  The bartender makes a face. “Dirty Shirley?” he repeats.

  “Yep.”

  “What’s that?” I ask once we take our seats.

  “A Shirley Temple with vodka.” Mimi claps her hands together. “I hope it comes with real cherries. That’s my favorite part.”

  “Just how old are you?”

  “Sixteen.” She giggles.

  “No, really. How old are you?”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know. Thirty?”

  “Not even close.”

  When the drinks arrive, Mimi takes a sip from her tumbler, and her face lights up like it’s Christmas in March. “It’s been so long,” she murmurs, taking another careful sip. “I just want to savor every moment. This is a magical night.” She picks up the menu and reads.

  Maybe for you. Not for me, I think. It’s at least ten minutes before the waitress returns to take our order.

  “You ready?” the waitress asks. She’s pale and stiff and obviously not happy to have a homeless girl in the room.

  Mimi licks her lips and continues to scour the menu.

  The waitress rolls her eyes and taps her foot. “I don’t have all night,” she says.

  “Beef lasagna,” I say.

  “And you?” She points her pen at Mimi.

  “I guess I’ll have the spaghetti alla puttanesca, if you please.”

  “Aren’t you the elegant one?”

  “Why be mean?” I ask.

  “Why bring her to Gino’s?” she replies.

  “She has as much a right to be here as anyone else.”

  “Actually not.” The woman points to a sign on the wall. WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE.

  “I’m guessing that’s not legal,” I say. “I’d be more than happy to check with the city.”

  The woman’s nostrils flare, but she steps away without another word.

  Mimi giggles. “Thank you for that.”

  “She’s a bitch.”

  “I’m used to people being bitchy. Not so used to people being nice.”

  We don’t speak much until dinner arrives. Then I watch Mimi inhale her food. Well, inhale is not quite the right word. She eats fast but has near-decent manners. Twirls her spaghetti between spoon and fork.

  “Where’d you learn that?” I ask.

  “Cotillion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s where my mom took me to learn good manners. Like how to properly eat and dance. Your mom never took you to cotillion?”

  “I didn’t have a mom.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, my mom made me go there for six weeks every summer for three whole years.”

  It’s like Mimi has shape-shifted. Morphed from a homeless girl into someone else. “You from around here?” I ask.

  “Montecito.”

  “Really?” I’m betting she’s lying like she lied about her age.

  “Yep. I grew up in a mansion on Pepper Hill. Right off of East Valley Road. I went to Mount Carmel Elementary and then Bishop High for a year until . . .”

  “Until?”

  She takes another bite and smiles sweetly. “Until my stepfather raped me one too many times, and I stabbed him through the heart with a knife. Everything went downhill from there.”

  “You killed your stepfather?”

  She nods. “My mom wasn’t happy about that. I kinda screwed up her life. After the trial she remarried and moved to Taos. She said her new husband wanted nothing to do with me, so when I got released, it was into a group home. I didn’t like the other girls, so once my probation was up, I started living on the streets. I’ve been there ever since.”

  The story sounds an awful lot like the plotline of one of my true crime books. “You ever see your mom?” I ask.

  “No,” she says cheerfully. “But she sends a card to me through my ex–probation officer each and every Christmas. Sometimes there’s a hundred dollars inside. Sometimes not a single cent. I think she’s still angry with me for messing with her life. I’m clearly not the daughter she’d hoped for.”

  Clearly.

  Mimi licks her lips. “Are you going to finish your lasagna?”

  “No, you can have it.” I push my plate her way. “So what happened to your finger?”

  She gobbles a forkful of lasagna and shrugs. “I got attacked by this homeless guy’s dog. At least that’s what the police told me.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No.”

  “You think you would.”

  Her face grows sad. “It happens to me sometimes. My mind just wanders away. Sometimes for days. Sometimes for weeks. When I wake up, people tell me about the things I did, but I never know for sure. For instance, I have no memory of killing my stepfather. I’m sure I did it, but there’s no picture in my head.”

  “Probably a good thing.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “Are you on meds?”

  “No. I don’t like how they make me feel.” She finishes up my meal with an extra lick of her fork. “How about dessert?”

  “You’re still hungry?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Not really. But you can order dessert. I’ll wait.”

  Mimi mows through a chocolate pudding. Then an apple pie with vanilla ice cream piled high. By the time she’s done stuffing her face, it’s nearing ten, and the dining room is empty. Drunken laughter billows from the bar. I ask for our check and pay the bill. I’m hoping the food has been enough to shut the girl up.

  “I want to play the game,” she says, her voice lowering. She’s morphed again. Her eyes have narrowed; her air of silliness is gone. There’s a look about her, as if she’s part fox.

  I’ll have to be as careful as I can. “Game? What game?”

  “The one you play at the construction site.”

  My heart skips a beat. “I don’t play any games.”

  Her head falls back, and she laughs. “Don’t be a liar pants. Of course you do. And now I’m your friend, so I want to play too.”

  There’s a dribble of ice cream coating her chin. Bits of dried food stick in her hair. Her foul scent seems to grow stronger, and suddenly I want to retch.

  “I’m tired,” I say. “It’s been a long day. I’m still in my work clothes. I want to go home and get some sleep.”

  “I have something to show you.” She digs in her duffel bag and slaps her four-fingered hand on the table, leaving a small shell behind. “You know the game I’m talking about. It’s the one where you wear funny glasses at the library and tuck your hair into a hat. And then you dress in black and visit the construction site in the middle of the night. You look both ways. You climb into the pit. You dig a hole with a shovel. Then you drop in a bunch of bones and shells and cover them up. You climb back out.”

  I swallow, my throat gone dry. If it’s been this easy for her to figure me out, then what will stop someone with a brain? I’ve been sloppy. I’ve been stupid. Mimi jabbers on.

  “So the next day the tractor man starts up his motor, and it’s just about the first place he digs. He tells the pretty man about his find, and they argue for a long time before they put the bones in a bag. But you’re smarter than they are, so when the city people come, they find the spot in the corner where you hid som
e more.”

  My mind whips up and down and around dark corners, searching for a way out of this mess. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s the hour. Nothing comes to me. “Let’s say there’s a game. Why would I want to include you?”

  She suddenly looks older. Harder. Her voice deepens. Her pale eyes glitter like diamonds. “Because we’re friends, of course.”

  “I have enough friends.”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “You’ve been following me?”

  “When I’m bored.”

  “Get a life.”

  She leans forward and rests her chin in her hands. “If you don’t let me play the game, I’ll tell a policeman what you did. A couple of them hang with us a lot.”

  I think about Marco’s job. Doesn’t he work with the homeless? “Are you threatening me?”

  “I don’t mean to. I just want to play.”

  It dawns on me that there’s more than one Mimi sitting across the table. There are two or even three living inside that shrunken head. She’s a schizo or psycho or maybe something worse. But I can’t just flick her away. “What do you want from me?” I ask. “Money?”

  She leans back and shakes her head. “I want a friend to play with. I want to play your game.”

  “What if I tell you the game is over?”

  “I heard the men tonight. I know what they said.”

  I stare into Mimi’s eyes. What is the worst? The very worst? But the worst has already happened to Mimi. There’s nothing more I can do.

  “All right,” I say, crossing my arms and dropping my voice. “I’ll admit it. I have been playing a sort of game. It’s a game of good people versus bad.”

  “And you’re a good person?” she asks eagerly, speaking like a child again.

  “Of course. But it’s way too dangerous to talk about here. The bad people could be listening.”

  “They could?”

  “Yes.” I flick my gaze toward the grumpy-looking waitress. She’s slumped against the far wall, pecking at her phone. “Check out the waitress.”

  Mimi looks around. “Yeah?”

  “She’s a bad guy.”

  “Really?”

  “She’s probably relaying information right now.”

  Mimi’s eyes grow wide, and her voice drops to a whisper. “Are you telling me we’re surrounded by spies?”

  “They’re everywhere. They’ve even infiltrated the police.”