by Hester Young
“And Sanchez was just there. With a camera,” Pam observes.
“It was Serena’s phone.” McCullough’s leg jigs furiously as he speaks. “I don’t know what she did with all the photos, but she gave Jasmine that memory card way after the fact. Just to be a bitch. She said Jasmine had prints, too, but we can’t find them.” He turns to me, unable to meet my eyes. “Did you take them? From Jasmine’s apartment?”
“Me?” The suggestion surprises me.
“Sanchez said you found some pictures in there. That you were going to give them to someone.”
Now it all makes sense, Sanchez’s concern when he saw me at Jasmine’s apartment with the envelope of photos. They’re not for me, I told him, which must have set his worried mind into overdrive.
“I took a few photos from Jasmine’s room,” I concede, stifling a laugh, “but they were for Micky. Pictures of her family, not amateur porn.” These guys went to such comical lengths to avoid any appearance of man-love, I almost want to see the incriminating snapshots for myself.
“Explains why Sanchez was following you,” Pam tells me, her thoughts running parallel to my own.
McCullough, meanwhile, has been reduced to begging. “Please don’t let this get out. The guys at work—you don’t even know.”
“Is Serena blackmailing you?” Pam asks. “We could slap her with extortion charges, get her off your back.”
“It’s never anything direct.” McCullough twists his napkin. “She just . . . she’s been asking for stuff, you know? Like, she wanted me to take her to lunch today. This place.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand as if to indicate the extravagance of her request. “I’ve been scared to say no to her. Scared of what she’ll do.”
I no longer care about McCullough and Sanchez and the uncomfortable aftereffects of their sexcapades. “You don’t think Serena killed Jasmine, do you?” I ask.
“No,” he grants. “She’s crazy, but not homicidal. And she’s scared of guns.”
We’re wasting time here. Jasmine and her dubious friendships have been a red herring all along. Donna is the key to these murders. We should be uncovering all the details of her life, not her daughter’s. Yet even knowing this, I can’t refrain from satisfying my perverse curiosity. “Why were the three of you getting busy in Jasmine’s apartment, anyway? Where was she?”
“She had a lot at the bar that night.” McCullough stares at the table, rakes a hand across the back of his head. “She passed out in her room. It’s stupid. The only reason I was there was ’cause I liked her, and then . . . this other stuff happened.”
Pam licks a bread crumb from her index finger. “Alcohol will make a person do stupid things. We’ve all been there, buddy.”
I should’ve come in my own vehicle. Now I’m stuck here waiting on Pam, who looks only too ready for a three-course meal. As I’m devising a polite way to get her out of the restaurant, my phone blurps with a text alert. I tear through my purse to get a look.
Not Noah, but Vonda, and I don’t have time to feel disappointed when I see her message. Micky had rough nite yesterday, she writes. Seemed to be remembering stuff from when her mom/gramma died? Just want to warn you before your visit.
My eyes widen, and I curse under my breath. What the hell does remembering stuff mean? This is not the kind of thing you just send someone in a text.
“What?” Pam demands. “What is it?”
“Micky’s foster mother. It’s nothing.”
Before I can stop her, she’s snatched the phone from me. Her face darkens as she scans the message. Pam slides the phone back across the table.
“Call her,” she says.
“Call who?”
“Micky,” Pam says. “See what she knows.”
“I’m going to see her in an hour,” I object. “It can wait.”
“No,” Pam insists. “It can’t. Call this Vonda person. I want to know what Micky told her. If the kid saw or heard something that night, I want to know about it now.”
McCullough goes rigid when he realizes what we’re discussing. He leans forward, a little too ready to start kicking asses and taking names.
“Shouldn’t we just let Detective Vargas handle this?” If only I had my car, some way to make a quick exit. “No offense, guys, but this isn’t your case.”
“If this was a police issue, the foster mom would’ve contacted them already, right?” Pam sounds perfectly reasonable, but I remain uneasy. “Micky found her mother dead—she must have a lot of nightmares about that. It’s probably nothing. But we need to be sure.”
“Right now?”
McCullough lays both hands flat on the table, and his thumbs begin to twitch. “Right now. We follow every lead.”
I inhale. “All right.” I dial Vonda’s number and hit the speaker button. We all listen to her phone ringing. Part of me hopes that Vonda won’t even answer, that we can sidestep this weirdness, but no.
“Hello?”
“Vonda, hi. It’s Charlie. I just . . . wanted to hear a little more about what’s going on with Micky.”
“Yeah, I’m glad you called.” Vonda briefs me quickly. “Micky had a bad night. Screaming, crying, calling for her grandma. She’s had nightmares before, but that was the worst I’ve seen. I’m going to talk to her doctor about sleep meds.”
“How’s she been today?” I ask.
“A little off,” Vonda reports. “This afternoon she was talking about the night her family died. It was hard to understand. She kept asking what happened to Grandma’s friend, but I couldn’t tell if she was talking about her dream or something real.”
“Grandma’s friend?” I glance at Pam. Her jaw tightens, but otherwise her expression remains inscrutable.
“I guess, you know . . .” Vonda seems uncomfortable broaching the subject. “Didn’t her grandmother live with a woman? A . . . friend? Anyway, Micky said she heard them in the apartment that night, Grandma and the—the friend. She heard them talking. I don’t know. Maybe it was part of the dream? And she said something about blood. All the blood in the dining room.”
McCullough and I exchange a surreptitious glance. In her awkward attempts to gloss over Donna’s lesbian relationship, Vonda has nevertheless divulged what could be a game changer.
Could Pam really have been there at Jasmine’s apartment? Did Micky hear her? But what about Pam’s poker game that night, her unbreakable alibi? For the first time it occurs to me that everything I know about this case has come from Pam.
“Anyway . . .” Vonda is eager to leave this conversation behind. “I’m going to check in with the investigator tomorrow to see if any of this matters. I just wanted to give you a heads-up in case Micky said something or seemed strange.”
“Thanks, Vonda,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
We say quick good-byes and then McCullough, Pam, and I sit around staring at the table. I wait for Pam to offer an explanation, to confirm or deny her presence that evening, but she says nothing. The nothing says plenty.
Maybe there was no poker game. Maybe there was no alibi. Maybe Pam has been the prime suspect all along, and I believed every lie she fed me.
“Well,” she says, standing suddenly. “I guess we all heard enough.” Pam studies us both for a few long seconds. Something strange passes over her face, an emotion I can’t quite identify. “Adiós, muchachos,” she says with a wave. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
“The other side of what?” I ask with a nervous laugh, but she’s already gone. I look to McCullough for answers. “What was that about?”
McCullough has removed his phone and holds it in his hand before him as if it weighs a hundred pounds. “I have to call Vargas.”
I swallow. “You really think—”
“If Pam was there . . . that changes everything. They’ve gotta question the kid again.”
“Maybe it was just a dream.”
McCullough’s leg has begun to jiggle again. “No,” he murmurs. “No, I think Micky heard her. She knew Pam. She would’ve recognized her voice. Vargas has been saying all along Pam was involved. I just thought . . . I mean, Vargas is such a tool . . .”
I don’t want to believe this about Pam, a woman I’ve spent time with, a woman I’ve come to grudgingly respect. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would she hurt Donna? Pam loved Donna.”
“Who the hell knows what goes on inside other people’s relationships?” The whole table quivers now with the strength of his jittery leg. “You’ve seen Pam. She’s sober now, but it wouldn’t take much to send her over the edge.”
I think of my father. “Donna couldn’t stay away from addicts. It’s like she had a sixth sense for them.”
“Well.” McCullough shrugs. “That’s how she and Pam met. Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“Pam told me they met at a church event.”
“Probably did. A lot of churches host AA meetings.” He picks up his phone and tosses some twenty-dollar bills on the table. “I have to make this call. Homicide’s gotta get on this pronto. And you . . .” His blue eyes move quickly over me. “You stay the hell away from Pam.”
Twenty-Seven
There’s no time to internally debate Pam’s guilt or innocence; she’s left me without a ride. Before I can go begging Noah, however, I receive a call from someone who will not be joining my fan club anytime soon.
“This is Andrea Rincón of Mexikids. I’m looking for Charlotte?” Her tone makes me wonder what exactly she has planned for Charlotte, should she find her.
“Speaking.” I scramble to recall Andrea Rincón, to determine what she wants from me.
“I’m the adoption attorney,” she reminds me with ill-concealed annoyance. “Teresa King put us in touch. We were supposed to meet half an hour ago at the Sonora Hope office. To discuss Michaela Ramos?”
“Oh! Andrea! I’m so sorry!” I have some recollection of scheduling this appointment, although I didn’t write it down. Why didn’t I write it down? “I must have . . . lost track of time. Are you at the office? Can I still come by?”
“I guess so.” She sounds understandably grumpy.
“Listen, while I have you on the line . . . can I ask you a weird legal question?” It’s been bothering me since I received the text from Vonda. “If Micky witnessed something the night her mother died—like, heard someone she knew in the apartment—would she have to testify in court?”
Andrea lets out a low whistle. “This is Donna DeRossi’s granddaughter you’re talking about?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. I wish I could help, but that’s really not my area of legal expertise.” Her only advice is not the least bit lawyerly. “Get the kid some therapy. A whole lot of therapy.”
As soon as we’re off the phone, I call Noah. He sighs when I explain my scheduling screwup, which now conflicts with our Micky outing.
“You want me to call Vonda and cancel?” he asks.
“No, no. You go ahead and get Micky, and I’ll take a cab over to Sonora Hope,” I advise. “That lawyer lady was pissed. If I bow out now, we won’t get another meeting with her.”
We both know that Micky would rather see Noah than me, and I wasn’t looking forward to the visit anyway. Not with his studying the interaction, looking for signs that I’m an insufficient parent. Just jump this next hurdle, I tell myself. Tonight, there will be time for Noah and me to address our fight, to talk about the things that matter. Like whether we can raise our own child together, much less someone else’s.
I wait for the taxi, my heart full of questions.
• • •
ANDREA RINCÓN IS CIVIL but brisk when I arrive. “You just missed Teresa,” she announces, and it feels like a reprimand for my lateness. “She sends her regards.”
A husky woman in her forties, Andrea possesses a sharp nose and an equally sharp attitude to match. She herds me through the lobby, past Teresa’s office with its shiny gold nameplate, past a few empty cubicles and Albert, who greets me with a startled expression.
“No baby?” he asks, and I realize that the last he heard of me, I was making a beeline for the border, claiming to be in labor.
I give him my best Oops face. “False alarm.”
Albert sees Andrea tapping her foot impatiently and waves me on with a smile. “It happens.”
Andrea and I land in a small conference room where, without ceremony, she launches into the legal minutiae of adopting Micky. For twenty minutes, she outlines the legal barriers I’ll encounter should I pursue custody of Micky and estimates how ridiculously long each step might take. She echoes Daniel Quijada’s advice that securing custody will be a far easier, faster process if Ruben Ramos terminates his parental rights.
The thought of Micky’s father wasting away in a Mexican prison only intensifies my feeling that our trip to Arizona has done more harm than good. Who are we kidding, Noah and I, trying to pretend we’re stable enough to take on another kid? Still, I nod and listen and try to ask Andrea good questions. Try to look like the calm and competent parent I wish I were instead of hyperventilating at the number of documents we’ll need to file.
No wonder there are so many children in foster care. Adoption really does require the stamina of a marathon runner.
When she’s finished her piece, Andrea scribbles down some names of Tucson-area child psychologists who specialize in post-traumatic stress disorder. “I have a meeting with a client I need to get to now,” she says, handing me the slip of paper. “Good luck with all this.” She gathers up her briefcase and we head out of the conference room. As we pass Albert, Andrea pauses. “I almost forgot. Teresa wanted me to tell you. There’s a box of stuff from your mother’s desk on that table behind you if you want to go through it. Otherwise, it’ll all get thrown out.”
I peer over my shoulder and spot a large cardboard box labeled DONNA in red marker. My heart beats a little faster. “Shouldn’t that go to Pam?”
“Pam and Teresa aren’t on the best of terms,” Andrea says drily. “And I’m sure there’s nothing valuable.” She slips from the office, leaving me with these remnants of the stranger who happens to be my mother.
I look around, worried Albert might be observing my reaction from his desk, but he’s lost in his computer screen. The box sits, a mundane testament to Donna’s employment here that inexplicably frightens me.
It’s been hard enough to visit my mother’s home, but her presence there was at least muted by Pam’s. Something about sorting Donna’s possessions—items that belonged to her and her alone—terrifies me. It’s what a daughter does when her mother dies. If I take this box, however trivial the contents, I am acknowledging what I have lost. There will be no reconciliation, no chance for her to apologize or explain or tell me that she’s proud of who I’ve become in her absence. That door has closed.
I remove the first item from the box, ears burning. A file folder with photocopies of receipts, request-for-reimbursement forms. I flip through: gas, mostly, from Donna’s frequent drives down to Nogales. Looks like she was there two or three times a week. I work my way through the rest of the box. A canister of tea. A stuffed rabbit. A paperback romance novel with a hunky hero on the cover that seems to suggest Donna never lost all interest in men. No office supplies—someone must’ve taken those. And then, not halfway through, a slim white box that stops my heart.
The label is clear and unapologetic: Rohypnol, 2 mg. 30 comprimidos.
I open the box, noting the Spanish on the label, and find three sheets of untouched pills inside. What the hell were you up to, Donna? I glance over at Albert, but he’s sitting at his desk, brows knit, his mind elsewhere.
Didn’t the police come here? Surely they must have searched Donna’s desk, her personal belongings. How did t
hey miss this?
I take a deep breath. Remind myself I have no idea what Tucson Homicide knows or doesn’t know. You’re going to have to tell them. I drop the pills back into the box and sink down into a chair. I wanted to believe in my mother’s sobriety. I wanted to believe that people can change, that they can overcome their personal demons, yet after finding these pills, I’m forced to reevaluate.
I cover my face with my hands, not sure why my disappointment is so acute, why the actions of a woman I never knew should matter.
Whatever Donna was doing with Mexican date-rape drugs in her possession, it can’t have been good. She was involved in something, something that got her killed. Maybe Pam was involved, too, was present that night and knows more than she’s telling.
I remember what my aunt Suzie said when she broke the news of Donna’s death: The police think it’s drug related. No surprise there. Nearly forty years without speaking to Donna, and Suzie still had her pegged. Because people don’t change. My selfish, shitty mother remained selfish and shitty. And she brought her daughter down with her.
The unfairness of Jasmine’s death hits me hardest. Everyone has assumed that she was somehow to blame, and yet this wasn’t her fault. She was supposed to be out with McCullough, not home getting slaughtered over some stupid drug deal. Jasmine may not have been much of a mother to Micky, but she didn’t have to die, didn’t deserve to die.
My phone rings, startling me from my thoughts. It’s Noah.
“Hey,” I say, trying to swallow the hopelessness I feel. “What’s up? Did you get Micky?”
“No,” he says, and his voice is from another planet, breaking with each word. “She’s gone, Charlie. Micky’s gone.”
Twenty-Eight
“Gone?” It’s a strange word, one with so many shades of meaning, and I can feel some part of myself detaching, hardening against bad news. “What do you mean Micky’s gone?”
There are numerous ways, I’ve learned, to be gone. You can be gone like my son, alive one minute and dead in the next. Or gone like my mother all those years, cutting yourself from the lives of those who need you with the swiftness and precision of a scalpel. Or gone like my father, physically present, but lost in his own relationship with alcohol. Which kind of gone is Micky? I wonder distantly. What new loss will I have to accommodate?