by Wendy Tyson
She called Mia’s house next, but her former mother-in-law didn’t answer, either. Allison glanced at the clock. It flashed 10:14. Early, but Allison had a lot planned for the next day. She decided to turn in for the night.
She remembered Francesca’s small bag. She unzipped the top and peeked inside. Everything was neat and orderly. Clearly Vaughn didn’t get too far. Allison chuckled at the thought of Vaughn refusing to look through an older woman’s underwear. For someone with such a tough exterior, he was a softie underneath.
Allison laid a towel on the bed. One by one, she pulled the items from the bag. Five pairs of white women’s underwear, neatly pressed and rolled, sat on top. She placed them, still rolled up, on the towel. Underneath were jars of Olay, Noxzema face wash, a loofah, hand cream, toothpaste, an electric toothbrush, and a hairbrush. A small Bible, empty of any personalization, and a Rosary had been placed in a side pocket. She laid everything out on the towel and turned the bag upside down, searching for hidden compartments.
That was it. No papers. No secret diagrams or diaries or tracking devices. Nothing but an older woman’s personal belongings. Allison felt a little guilty rummaging through Francesca’s things, as though she were violating her privacy, however pure her motivations. She started to put everything back in the order she’d removed it. She was placing the second pair of underwear in the bag when she felt something hard inside the cotton. Slowly, she unfolded the garment. A small, silver key fell out.
Well I’ll be damned, Allison thought. Could this be what Alex was looking for?
She might have felt smug, except that she had no idea what the key opened. No idea at all.
It was nearly eleven o’clock at night and Mia’d had no luck tracking down Michael Jiff. The address Jason had provided turned out to be a foursquare home in Kingston, Pennsylvania, only a half hour’s drive from Scranton. It was a beautiful Mission-style house in a neighborhood of sprawling Bungalows on small but manicured lots. But when Mia knocked, the door was answered by an older woman who was quite adamant that no Michael Jiff lived there.
Not convinced, Mia had sat in her car, parked a few doors down, and watched the house. Through lace curtains, she saw the woman sitting on a couch, watching a cooking show on a large, wall-mounted television. At 10:22, the woman turned off the television. At 10:48, she turned off the downstairs lights and went up to bed.
Frustrated and tired, Mia sat in the darkened truck and scrolled through her emails. Nothing relevant, other than a note from Jamie reminding her to be careful. She called her home voicemail and heard Allison’s message from earlier. It was too late to call her back now.
Mia rested her head against the seat. She thought about her call with Jason. She wished him the things every mother wished for her child. Love. Happiness. An end to his restlessness. Once upon a time, she’d blamed Allison for not soothing Jason’s demons. She realized now that only he had the power to do that. And sometimes he was ignorant of his own blind spots.
Mia smiled. Like mother, like son.
Mia started the truck. She’d grab a hotel for the night and would try again tomorrow, before heading home. She was a retired divorcee, after all. She had all the time in the world.
Mia was pulling away from the curb when her phone rang. She glanced down, saw an unlisted number, and answered, “Hello?”
It was then that an old brown Audi pulled in front of the Mission-style house.
A voice on the phone said, “Mia?”
A guy got out of the car. The watery streetlight silhouetted a hulking man with a loping, tired gait.
Mia pulled the car up next to him. She held her hand over the phone and said, “Michael Jiff?” Even in the dark, she saw panic in the enlarged whites of his eyes.
The voice on the phone repeated, “Mia?”
The guy on the sidewalk shook his head.
Mia said to the man, “I really need to talk to you.”
Another head shake. He started toward the house, his head tucked down as though to hide his face. Mia glanced between the phone and the stranger on the street.
Finally, she said, “Michael, please. There’s a child’s life at stake.”
The guy stopped. The voice on the phone said, “You’re being watched.”
Mia froze. She looked at Michael Jiff, for she was certain that’s who this stranger was, then at her phone. “Hold on,” she said to the voice in the phone.
“Please,” she said again to Jiff.
His shoulders slumped. He nodded.
“Who is this?” Mia said into the phone.
“They’re watching you. I’ll help you. But you have to do what I say.” The voice sounded deep, echo-y, but she recognized it as Svengetti’s.
Torn, Mia met Michael Jiff’s gaze. “I’m listening,” she said into the phone.
“Get the reporter into your car and head toward the Cross Valley Expressway. Route 309, north. I’ll guide you from there.”
Thirty-One
Allison couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed, thinking. Jason had called her back just minutes after she went to sleep, and his forced cheerfulness and lack of direct questions were almost as disconcerting as his previous over-concern. What was up with that? And where the hell was Mia?
Allison rolled over. She clutched one down pillow to her chest and breathed in the smell of fresh sheets, but even the feel of 400-thread count cotton against her skin couldn’t ward away the creeping sense of disquiet. This inn was as large as the Benini estate, yet it felt warm and welcoming. The Benini estate had felt like a tomb. Was that part of the equation? That damn house?
Allison’s mind hop-skipped to Gina’s diary.
Asylum.
Gina said she’d wished they’d sent Francesca to the asylum. Who was they? And why an asylum? And what had Francesca done that she needed to be sent anywhere?
Allison considered Simone Benini’s call soon after Francesca disappeared. Francesca’s sister-in-law had theorized that Francesca bolted, maybe even killed herself. Had Simone had good reason to think that? Had Francesca been mentally ill, sent to America to live with her caretaker brother, an unstable woman with no prospects of her own?
What about Maria’s call? And the word Gina written on that bathroom wall? How in the name of all that was holy did Gina’s death—or life—fit into this equation?
And then there was Tammy “Swallow” Edwards.
Coincidence?
Coincidence. The last line of Gina’s diary. Allison was caught up in a mystery, slugging through possibly unrelated clues to find the nugget of truth that tied everything together. Is it possible that Gina had been looking into a mystery of her own?
Reluctantly, Allison crawled from beneath the warm comfort of the blankets and flipped on the bedside light. The clock read 11:06. Her body felt tired, but her mind was suddenly alert to new possibilities.
What if Gina had stumbled across something? Something that led to a depression so severe that she took her own life? Or, more implausible perhaps, what if someone had been responsible for her death? The idea made Allison shudder. She reached for a throw from the closet and opened her laptop. While she waited for her computer to boot, she poured herself a glass of spring water from the complimentary bottle on the desk. She wished it were wine.
The glow from the computer cast shadows in the darkened room. Allison turned on every light, welcoming the sudden brightness. Even thinking about the Benini household was depressing. She pulled up a search engine. She did yet another search on Francesca Benini. Nothing new. No luck with Gina, either. She tried typing in Gina’s brothers’ names, John and Enzo Pittaluga. Then their business, Fireside Bakery. She found a reference to a fire that had happened not long before Gina died. It was a comment in a food blog dedicated to Ithaca’s dining options:
Too bad Fireside’s not still around. Best bakery between New York City and San Franci
sco. Never did catch the bastard who started that inferno. Guess there’s irony in a name, after all.
So the Pittaluga’s bakery had burned down? Allison made a note on the inn’s letterhead to check into the fire when she visited the microfiche room at the library. This family seemed to have a cloud hanging over it, and Allison suspected that cloud was somehow related to her client’s disappearance.
It was now almost midnight. Allison still didn’t feel sleepy, so she decided to do another search. She plugged in Tammy Edwards’ name and turned up nothing new. She logged into Facebook. Tammy’s Facebook page hadn’t changed. Same profile picture Allison remembered seeing the first time. And the girl’s security setting still blocked Allison from further access. Allison navigated to Tammy’s boyfriend, Kai’s, page. As before, his page was open to the public. Today’s status read: Insanity runs in the family. Thirty-six friends had commented; none of the friends was Tammy.
Kai had posted what looked like two or three new albums-worth of party pictures since Allison had last visited Facebook. Photo after photo of drunk teenagers. Some pictures had been taken in a wooded setting, some were in what she recognized as Kai’s father’s apartment, some were in a house Allison didn’t recognize at all. Always, Kai had a half-grin on his face and a cup in his hand. The life of the party. Not a worried boyfriend, that was for sure. Assuming these had been taken recently.
After sifting through what felt like a million uploads, one of the pictures caught Allison’s attention. A girl, laying on the couch, barely noticeable behind five teenagers hanging on each other in front of the camera. The other teens were grinning, arms entwined, drunken glazes on youthful faces. One was giving the cameraperson the finger. But behind them, the girl on the couch was looking down, her face shadowed by a blue baseball cap. Allison thought about Tammy that day at First Impressions, when she had escaped to the parking lot and sat folded up on herself, long arms wrapped around gangly legs. The girl on the couch was Tammy, Allison was certain. Same lanky body, same hair hanging from beneath that hat, and even the strong line of the jaw matched the Tammy of Allison’s memory.
Allison opened a new window and pulled up the YouTube video of Tammy’s television try-out. She paused, zoning in on Tammy’s face. Yep, she was sure the kid on the couch was Tammy.
But so what, Allison thought. This picture could have been taken months ago and posted only recently. Again, Allison went through the pictures in this set. Stained beige carpeting, light-colored furniture. The pictures on the wall hung askew, which told Allison it probably wasn’t Kai’s mother’s house. She remembered Joanne Berger as being an exceptionally tidy woman with compulsive tendencies. Stained carpeting and tilted pictures didn’t seem her thing.
Allison went through each picture in the album several times, looking for nonexistent clues. Frustrated, she was about to close the window when another picture caught her eye. The cameraperson had taken a shot of a laughing, half-dressed girl standing in the threshold of the room. Behind her, Allison could just make out the edge of the white couch to the right. But what interested her was the small desk wedged up against the wall, on the left side of the picture. The girl had her hand on the desk, next to one of those Far Side daily calendars.
Allison saved the picture to her laptop. She opened it anew, using her own software, and enlarged the calendar page.
August 9 of this year.
After Tammy’s disappearance.
So Tammy Edwards was alive. And Kai Berger knew where she was.
The man sitting beside Mia had coffee-colored skin and a mop of unruly black hair. He looked at her through drooping brown eyes, taking her in with the impartial candor of a camera. Mia guessed him to be in his late thirties, although he had an ageless quality that made his years hard to pinpoint. The intelligence in his expression said he was no fool; the slumped shoulders said he had a lot on his mind.
Mia said, “Thank you. For coming with me.”
Jiff nodded.
Mia merged onto the Cross Valley Expressway and headed north, following the directions of the man on the phone. He’d hung up hastily, telling her which way to drive and promising to call back in a few minutes. Mia was surprised at how calm she felt given the situation. She thought of her daughter Bridget’s death, the phone call that shattered Mia’s world. She supposed that loss had marked her. She didn’t fear death. She didn’t fear much of anything these days. Other than harm to more loved ones. Including Vaughn.
And Allison.
But her concern for her own safety was limited. So she waited through the silence of the stranger next to her and waited for the call of another stranger, careful to drive the speed limit, watching for the deer that inhabited these roads late at night.
Mia felt oddly happy. In some ways, she hadn’t felt this alive in years.
“Svengetti told me you’d be in contact. So your voicemail wasn’t a surprise.” Jiff’s voice interrupted her reverie.
“But you ignored it anyway?”
Jiff grunted.
“You know Svengetti well?”
“Well enough.”
“The woman at your house, is she your mother?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Mia shrugged. She switched on her high beams and squinted at the road. “I’ll cut to the chase. What can you tell me about the Gretchkos and their connection to the Russian Mafia?”
Jiff looked at her with jaded eyes. “Who wants to know?”
“Me.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t Svengetti tell you that, too?”
“Svengetti told me a well-coifed woman of a certain age would come asking questions about the Russians. He told me I could avoid her or talk, but he wanted me to be forewarned.” Jiff raised neatly groomed eyebrows. “And to know that she was harmless.”
Hmm. A harmless woman of a certain age, Mia thought. The description made her cringe. And then she wondered why she cared what Svengetti thought.
The phone buzzed. Mia answered with surprisingly steady hands.
Svengetti said, “Get off at the next exit. Go straight through the first stop light, whether or not it’s green, and make the first right after that. Then the first left, and the first right. Sixth house on the right. Pull around to the back and park behind the garage. You’ll see what I mean. Stay in your car. Tell the reporter to do the same.”
Mia glanced at Jiff. He was staring straight ahead, lips pursed. He knows, Mia thought. He knows what’s going on.
Before Mia could respond to the voice, the phone clicked off.
Mia took a deep breath. She got off at the exit. The roads were dark. Outside, it was starting to drizzle. Mia’s headlights cut through a foggy haze. A traffic light loomed about three hundred yards from the exit. A car pulled onto the road behind her, from the same exit she had taken, and Mia accelerated, heading toward the intersection. As Mia approached the traffic light, it turned yellow, then red.
She gave a cursory glance each way and plowed through the light. Beside her, Jiff was still.
“Shit,” Mia said under her breath. As she made it through the light, she saw another vehicle speed through, coming from the crossroad. It had the green light. The driver stopped in the middle of the intersection, though, rolled down the window and seemed to be yelling at her from inside his car, effectively blocking the car that had followed her off the Cross Valley Expressway. That driver slammed on the horn.
Mia didn’t wait to see what would happen next. She focused on remembering the caller’s instructions. First right, first left, and then first right. Sixth house on the right.
The increasing drizzle made visibility poor. Mia slowed before the last turn, half expecting a car to follow her through the haze. But she and Jiff were alone. She wondered for a moment what she’d gotten herself into. But only for a moment. Because as soon as she found the sixth house on the right, it was déjà v
u.
Vaughn crept quietly through the apartment, more out of habit than necessity. Jamie kept odd hours and Mrs. T would be up, waiting for him. He stopped in the living room and listened to the sounds of his home. From here, he could hear the whir of Jamie’s respirator and the hum of the dishwasher. Mrs. T must have started it before getting ready to leave. He and Jamie occupied the top floor of the building, but below them, someone was watching a movie. If he really concentrated, he could hear the sound of simulated explosions coming from his neighbors’ surround sound.
But he couldn’t hear anybody in the hallway outside his apartment, and that’s what he was really listening for.
Vaughn walked to the window and peeked through the blinds. The living room was dark, so anyone watching from outside couldn’t see him. His eyes flitted across the parking lot as he watched for movement, light, anything that would give away a tail. He hadn’t seen a white Honda while driving home from Ithaca, but it paid to be careful.
After a moment, he was satisfied that even if someone was out there, he wasn’t going to see him. As he let the blinds fall back into place, a voice behind him said, “Christopher, what in the good lord’s name are you doing?”
Vaughn smiled. “Thanks for staying, Mrs. T.”
Mrs. T flicked on a lamp. In its soft glow, she looked younger than her fifty-some years. Today her hair was held back in a bun. Around her neck, she wore a gold cross adorned with diamond chips that sparkled against her dark skin. A floor-length black skirt and apricot-colored blouse skimmed a curvy body. She pointed a manicured nail in his direction.
“That boy is sleeping. Let him rest, Christopher. He was up all night researching God knows what on that dang computer. Had the look of the devil in his eyes. I don’t know what he’s up to for those police officers, but he’s driven to solve something.” Mrs. T shook her head. “I’m sorry I had to make you come home. Cousin Frida and her brood are in and they’re leaving in the morning. I couldn’t very well not be there after they drove all the way up from Atlanta.” She smiled. “You know how that is.” Another head shake. “I hope Angela is feeling better. A stomach virus is no fun at all. But we can’t have Jamie getting it.”