Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

  She dabbed at the errant polish with a tissue, then finished the fingers on her left hand.

  “Remember me?” I asked, in competition with a radio commercial for Pizza Hut. “I’m the woman who spoke with you last week about your daughter.”

  Carla looked up and squinted again. “That’s right. I thought you looked familiar.”

  “Any word from her?” I took a seat one step below. Carla fanned the wet nails and took a long swallow of beer. “You want one?”

  I shook my head. “Thanks, though.”

  She reached over and turned down the radio to a level that almost permitted conversation. “No word. The police sent her description out over the wire. They’ve got some kind of network, and they’re checking with her friends, that sort of thing. But they say it’s mostly a waiting game. Nobody fitting her description has taken a bus out of here lately. ’Course that doesn’t mean much. Cheryl’d be the type to hitch a ride anyway.”

  Carla recapped the polish, shook the bottle and then began on her right hand. I was fascinated by the process. My nails are relatively short, more square than tapered, and almost always bare. Not by choice, but because I’ve never mastered the art of doing them myself and have neither the time nor patience for trips to a manicurist. Carla made it look so easy. I thought maybe I should give it another try.

  “She took my money, you know. Money I was saving for a new dishwasher. The one we’ve got has been busted almost a year.”

  “Did she leave any kind of note?”

  “Nope, nothing. Just took some clothes and stuff, and ran off like she was Miss High-and-Mighty. That’s the way she is, always has been.”

  I listened for the fear in her voice, for the anxiety you’d expect from the mother of a missing girl. If it was there, it was buried deep beneath the anger.

  “Aren’t you worried?” I asked.

  Carla had finished with the right hand and held it out to dry. “Yeah, a little. But I’m also fed up. You don’t know what it’s like, having a daughter like that. There’s things I go without ’cause of her, breaks I can’t take advantage of, but does she appreciate it? No. She thinks the world revolves around her and her alone.”

  “Hey, Poochie,” a male voice called from inside the house.

  “I’m out front,” Carla called back, then turned once again to address me. “And the lies! Every Thursday night, sometimes more, she’s off to drama. Stays out real late too, but I figure what the heck, she’s involved in something means something to her. Come to find out she’s never even been to one class. God knows what she was doing out until all hours. Trouble, that’s for sure.”

  I’d forgotten about the drama class.

  “She’s run away before, a couple of times.”

  “Where’d she go then?”

  “Once to a friend’s, once to my sister’s in Reno.”

  “You’ve checked with your sister?”

  “Yeah, she hasn’t seen Cheryl since that time she ended up there last year. My sister’s hardly someone you’d want to run to. I think Cheryl figured that out pretty quick.”

  “Hey, Poochie.” The voice was at the door this time. “I need twenty bucks for the ...” He saw me, and his voice trailed off.

  Carla yelled over her shoulder. “There’s money in my purse, but don’t you go taking more than twenty. You owe me enough as it is.” Then she finished off her beer, lit a cigarette and began painting her toenails. “Seems sometimes like everybody thinks I owe them a living.”

  I couldn’t speak to her relationship with Mr. Charm, but I thought she had overlooked the fact that she did owe Cheryl a living, and a whole lot more. But I could understand her frustration, too.

  “Mothers and daughters usually have a rough time of it,” I told her. Although, interestingly, my own mother and I hadn’t. I liked to think it was because of the kind of person she was, but it may simply have been that she died before I’d reached a difficult age.

  “Other people have nice things to say about Cheryl. As a mother, you probably get most of the grief and none of the good.” What I was trying to say, diplomatically, was that Carla’s take on her daughter was probably skewed.

  “What good things do they say?”

  “Mrs. Walker, her English teacher, thinks Cheryl is a hard worker. And Eva Holland’s mother . ..”

  “Eva, now there’s a good one. Last year Cheryl was over at Eva’s every chance she got. Wasn’t until this fall I find out Eva’s a retard. Can you believe it, my daughter’s best friend is a retard? Now that says something, don’t it?”

  She expected easy agreement, which she didn’t get, but my silence didn’t make a dent.

  “She’ll come home fast enough,” Carla said, “once she finds out there’s no one there to cook her meals and pick up after her.” She finished with one foot and began on the other. “You got news about Cheryl, or is this just a social call?”

  “Neither actually. I wanted to ask you about George Marrero.”

  The hand with the brush stopped mid-nail. It was one of those moments, those almost imperceptible flickers in time, when everything stands still. Then Carla gave me a bewildered smile and was suddenly absorbed again in her nail-painting. “Who?” she asked.

  “George Marrero. He owns The Mine Shaft.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “And Foothill Cleaning.”

  She shook her head again, but her face froze up. “Never heard of him.”

  “That’s funny, the two of you have a joint account at Great Northern Savings.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her eyes were riveted on her feet.

  “I think you do.”

  Carla straightened and recapped the polish. The little toe on her left foot was still bare. “I think you’d better leave. I have stuff to do.”

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but Eddie Marrero is dead, and his wife isn’t the one who killed him. He and his uncle locked horns over the tavern. I think George was trying real hard to keep Eddie from finding out what you two were up to. If he’s guilty of murder, there’s a good chance you’re going to get dragged into it. Maybe if you level with me, I can help.”

  She’d grabbed her pack of cigarettes and headed, barefoot, for the door, but she stopped short and turned to look at me. The expression in her eyes was hard to read, but whatever it was, it was genuine.

  “Who did you say was dead?”

  “Eddie Marrero, the coach. I spoke to you about him the other day.”

  “Great Jesus.” Her voice was a thin, flat whisper. “Marrero . . . I never . . . I didn’t . . .” The words came in spurts, as though she were having trouble breathing. Then she turned abruptly and went into the house without meeting my eyes. I heard the deadbolt slip into place behind her.

  So much for the easy, innocent explanation I’d half-expected. “Why, yes, George hired me to do their bookkeeping,” or, with a laugh, “Gracious, George’s wife and I are old friends, and we got this bee in our bonnet about starting our own cleaning business.”

  Not that I’d really expected it. But I’ve found that sometimes the quirkiest things are, in truth, quite simple. It was foolish not to look for those explanations first.

  Now I knew. It wasn’t simple. And I had the feeling it wasn’t clean. But I didn’t know much more than that And what was worse, there wasn’t a whole lot more I could do without invoking the powers of the law, which in this case were not mine to invoke. I could try leaving still another message for Benson, but I knew I’d have to wait until Monday morning when he was back at work.

  <><><>

  I had just kicked off my shoes and sprawled out on the couch for a moment’s rest when the phone rang. It was Ken.

  “When did you get back?” I asked.

  “Last night. I’ve been trying to reach you since early this morning.”

  Ken’s idea of early is some time be
fore ten. Remembering what I’d been doing at six, I was glad he wasn’t an early riser. “How was D.C.?” I asked.

  “You know how it is. I was pretty busy.”

  “Was this about the Quigley case?”

  “Not directly.”

  I waited. Ken is one of those attorneys who can go on and on about a case and think he’s had a meaningful discussion. But this time, apparently, he had nothing more to say.

  “I got your message,” he said, instead. “You’re sure you can’t come back for a couple of days?”

  “Not right now.”

  “I need to see you.” Ken’s words seemed to surprise him as much as they did me. He cleared his throat. “I mean, it’s been awhile.”

  I smiled to myself. He’d actually missed me. Then I remembered Tom, and felt a wave of guilt. I’d been trying all day to sort out my feelings. I hadn’t made much progress.

  “I’ll be home by your birthday,” I told him. “Think about what you’d like to do, and I’ll make reservations. I could throw a party if you’d prefer.”

  “At my age birthdays are best forgotten.” He laughed lightly, then lapsed into silence. “They have services that will come in and clean out the whole estate, you know. You don’t have to do it all yourself.”

  “I know, but I want to do it. Besides, that’s not all that’s been keeping me busy.”

  “You’re not still rummaging around in that murder business, are you?”

  Silence.

  “Isn’t that a job for the police?”

  “Except the police seem ready to pin it on my friend.”

  “They must have their reasons.”

  “Cops make mistakes, Ken. That’s what the legal system is all about.”

  Ken humphed. “They don’t make mistakes very often.” As a litigator, Ken knows things are rarely black and white. Like many of his colleagues, however, he tends to forget that fact when it comes to issues of criminal defense.

  We talked for a few minutes longer, about baseball, the weather, the cut of his new suit. I hung up feeling disjointed and unsettled. Or maybe I was simply tired.

  Before I could make it back to the couch, though, the phone rang again.

  “I think you should get over here,” Mrs. Holland whispered. “Right away.”

  Chapter 21

  “I found this in Eva’s room,” Mrs. Holland said, handing me a large manila mailing envelope. “She said Cheryl gave it to her last Saturday. For safekeeping.” Mrs. Holland’s voice had a tight, breathless quality to it. Her usually expansive face was pinched and stiff. She looked from the envelope to my face, and then back to the envelope again.

  “I could tell there was something bothering Eva the moment I mentioned Cheryl’s name. Eva’s almost childlike in that respect. Hasn’t learned to guard her thoughts or feelings the way most us of have. But she wouldn’t tell me what it was until today. Even then I had to pry it out of her. Cheryl made her promise not to tell anyone.”

  I turned the envelope over and looked at the front It bore the official Silver Creek High School logo and return address, but was otherwise unmarked.

  “It was sealed,” Mrs. Holland said, twisting her hands in nervousness. “I opened it when Eva was in the other room. I thought it might be important, but I never expected anything like this.”

  Opening the tab, I slipped out the contents — a collection of eight by ten full color photographs. They weren’t actually pornographic. By Penthouse standards, they were probably even tame. But they weren’t family album snapshots, either.

  There were six photos in all. Each of a unclothed pubescent girl in a suggestive pose.

  “That’s Cheryl,” Mrs. Holland said, pointing to the photograph on top.

  The expression on Cheryl’s face was so different from that of the photo Nancy had given me, that I’m not sure I’d have made the connection on my own.

  “What about the others?” I asked. “Do you recognize any of them?”

  “Only one.” Mrs. Holland pulled a second photo from the pile. “Janet Harrington. She was a couple of years ahead of Eva and Cheryl. I knew the family because I used to baby sit for the younger brother. They moved away last year. The boy was a hellion, but Janet was so shy she wouldn’t look me in the eyes when she said hello.”

  “This isn’t a recent picture, then?”

  “No, I’d guess it was taken a couple of years ago.”

  Sickened, I slipped the photos back into the envelope. I’ve looked through my share of girlie magazines, and while I wouldn’t pose for one myself, I don’t fault those women who do. But this was something altogether different.

  These were girls. Maybe not children exactly, but not grown women either. Not in body; not in mind. Despite the provocative stances, there was an innocence about them, a wide-eyed vulnerability that made the pictures especially offensive.

  I turned to Mrs. Holland. “Did Cheryl say anything to Eva about what was in the envelope?”

  She shook her head. “Not that I’ve been able to determine. She just told Eva to keep it for her, that it was a secret, and that she’d be back for it soon. Would you like to speak with Eva yourself?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “She doesn’t know about the pictures. You’ll be careful what you say?”

  I assured her I would, then followed her out back. A young girl sat on the grass, her head bent over a drawing board.

  “Eva, honey, this is the lady I told you about. The one who’s a friend of Cheryl’s.”

  Eva looked up and smiled shyly. She was like a storybook nymph, slight and fragile, with pale skin and fine wispy hair so blonde it was almost transparent.

  “She wants to ask you a few questions, honey. You just answer the best you can.”

  I sat down on the lawn opposite Eva. Mrs. Holland pulled an aluminum lawn chair over to the side and sat, too.

  “You and Cheryl are pretty good friends, am I right?”

  Eva nodded.

  “Your mom told you that Cheryl left home without telling anyone where she was going?”

  Eva nodded again.

  “We were hoping you could help us find her.”

  Eva looked over at her mother, then back down at the drawing board. “Is Cheryl going to get in trouble?”

  “It depends. But I want to help her. So do others. We’re worried about what might happen to her while she’s away.” I too looked over at Mrs. Holland, and she gave me a reassuring nod.

  “Sometimes when kids get angry or upset about something,” I continued, “running away seems like a good idea. But it’s hard to make it on your own. It can be dangerous as well. We want to find Cheryl before anything bad happens to her.”

  I thought again of the photos, and wondered at the meaning of bad.

  “Cheryl said there might be trouble.”

  “Trouble how?”

  Eva shook her head. “Trouble, that’s all I remember.”

  “I know Cheryl asked you not to tell about the envelope she gave you. She may have asked you not to tell other things, too. Sometimes, though, we have to break promises in order to help our friends.”

  From the next yard over came the squeals and laughter of children. I wondered if Eva was ever invited to play with them.

  “It’s like when you’re in school,” I continued. “You aren’t supposed to speak out in the middle of class. The rule is you raise your hand and wait for the teacher to call on you. Right?”

  Eva nodded.

  “But if you saw that something dangerous was about to happen, a fire for instance, or something about to fall, it would be better to break the rule and yell out a warning, wouldn’t it?”

  Another silent nod.

  “It’s like that now, with Cheryl. It’s okay to tell us what you know, even if she told you not to. It’s a way to help her.”

  Eva picked up a colored pencil and went back to her drawing. I wasn’t sure she’d understood what I was getting at.

  “When she was here last Sa
turday, did Cheryl say anything to you about leaving or going away?”

  Eva took her time erasing something in the corner of the page. “She had to leave to go home,” Eva said at last. “She couldn’t stay because she had to be there for the call.”

  “The call?”

  “The phone call.”

  “Did she say who was calling her? Or what the call was about?”

  Eva thought, then shook her head. “She had to be there, though. So he could tell her what to do.”

  “So who could tell her?”

  Eva looked at me and sighed. “I told you, I don’t know who.”

  “Did Cheryl ever mention a Mr. Marrero?” At that point I didn’t know if I asking about George or Eddie, but I figured either one would be something.

  “I’m not very good with names,” Eva said. “I have trouble remembering things.”

  “How about teachers at school? Did she talk about them at all?”

  “No, but they don't treat you like babies, Cheryl said. I wish I could have gone to Silver Creek, too.”

  I offered a sympathetic smile. “About the envelope Cheryl gave you. Did she say where she got it, or what she was going to do with it?”

  Eva’s face clouded over. “She’s going to be mad at me, I know. It was very, very important, she said. It proved she wasn’t stupid.” Once again, Eva looked at her mother. “Cheryl kept talking about how dumb she was, but she isn’t dumb. Cheryl is smart. I’m the one who’s dumb.”

  Mrs. Holland gave her daughter a gentle smile. “You’re not dumb, honey. I’ve told you that. People are all different.”

  “Then how come everybody says I’m dumb?” Without waiting for an answer, Eva threw down her drawing board and ran into the house.

  I looked at the drawing, a unicorn in a field of brightly colored flowers. It was surprisingly good. “I’m sorry I upset her.”

  Mrs. Holland shook her head. “It’s not you,” she murmured, her eyes following her daughter. Then she sighed deeply and turned her attention back to me. “So what do you think it all means?”

  It was my turn to shake my head. It was obvious Eva didn’t know anything about the photographs or about why Cheryl had run away, but that was only one piece of the puzzle. There was also the connection between George and Carla, whatever it was, and the fact that Carla’s daughter, now missing, had been with Eddie only hours before his murder.