I texted Jack: I’ll be out today.
I figured he could guess why. I started to type more, but I couldn’t decide what to say, so I stopped and hit send.
Then I wrote a quick email to Rich, whom I prayed had flown home last night: Went straight to ER after your visit. Lost baby. I’m sorry. Appreciate no further correspondence.
I hit send, and then a new email appeared in my inbox. I didn’t recognize the address: [email protected]. I opened it.
Sofia mentioned a man she called Antonio.
That was it, and there was no name at the bottom.
Antonio. The same first name as the man who had rented the apartment Sofia and Valentina lived in, per Wallace. Could this Antonio be the same person? It seemed highly unlikely he wouldn’t be. I hit reply.
Thank you for contacting me. Who are you? Can we talk?
I clicked on send.
I sat stock-still, hand on the mouse, thinking. Who could have sent the email? It had to be someone who was involved with Sofia or Valentina and knew that I was, too. Maria Delgado. Michael Q. Scott. Victoria. The employees I’d interviewed at the hotel. For that matter, Wallace, Melinda, Jack, or someone from the jail. Any of them could have sent it.
Who would have my personal email, though? Or who could have found it? But then I remembered something. I pulled up Google and typed in my own name. Several entries came up. My LinkedIn profile. My Facebook profile. And my old blog, Just Emily. I hadn’t posted on it in over a year. I clicked through to the “About” page. I read my bio:
Wife, daughter, legal professional, and rodeo enthusiast. I’m many things to many people, but underneath it all, I’m really just me, just Emily.
Wow, that needed an update. Beneath the bio, my email address. The one I’d just heard from AmarilloMama on. So it could be anyone. Truly, anyone.
My insides churned. For twelve hours, I’d thought of nothing but myself, and nothing of Valentina, while she was out there somewhere, captive, or, God forbid, victim. If nothing else in my life had been real, I knew this little girl and her plight were. My heart pounded a call to action. Someone had contacted me, because they believed I was the right person for this information. That I was the one Valentina could count on. Not the police. Not CPS. Me.
If I’d wanted to find Valentina before, now I was consumed by the need—like a terrible thirst. Well, I wasn’t at work today. Jack couldn’t tell me no. I pulled a piece of paper out of the printer and started making two lists: 1) Facts and 2) Questions. The list of my questions was twice as long as the facts.
It was past time to get serious about finding this girl.
***
I was hard at work when Nadine spotted me, making up for lost time on volume consumption of caffeine. The round Roaster’s logo haloed her head as she walked up to my table, and she neatly blocked out its picture of a bright red mug. It made her look a little angelic, except for her facial piercings and dark arm tattoos. Well, those, the Harley outside, the pack of Pall Malls in her shirt pocket and her biker boots and chains. But, still, more angelic than it probably sounds. She was right on time, and I was early. I’d camped out in Roaster’s Coffee two hours ago, sitting with my back facing the window and my front toward the counter service and its blonde wood veneers, and a great view from my seat of the trophy pronghorn antelope mounted on the wall.
“Emily?”
“Hi, Nadine.”
“Hey,” she said. “I’m just going to grab a coffee and be right back.”
“Sounds good.”
She joined the long line at the counter. I looked for a stopping place on my research and made a few quick notes. I’d spent the last two hours trying to find Antonio Rosa and Harvey Dulles. So far, I didn’t have much to show for my effort, especially with Antonio. Sure, I’d found some people with the name, but no mention of any in Amarillo in the last ten years—except from the mouth of Michael Q. Scott and the email of AmarilloMama. There was no reason the Antonio I was looking for couldn’t be from elsewhere, though. I found one in Lubbock: deceased. One in prison in Oklahoma: not promising. One in Houston: long shot. One in Billings, Montana: also deceased. I tried looking for an Antonio in conjunction with the names Sofia and Valentina, and that didn’t add a single thing to my results. I even tried him with ESL and ΣSL. Zero, zip, nada.
I did a little better with Harvey. All I had to do was call the probation department for Potter County and ask to be connected with his probation officer. Two transfers later, I verified Harvey’s address and employment. Only I knew he wasn’t living at the address the crotchety old male voice had barked at me, which I wasn’t able to share with him because he hung up on me so fast. But I hadn’t known Harvey worked road maintenance for the Texas Department of Transportation, so the call had been worth it.
So I phoned TxDOT and learned that Mr. Dulles no longer worked there, a fact over which I expressed deep dismay, because poor Mr. Dulles’s father had died and I couldn’t find him to let him know. The very young-sounding woman with the high-pitched voice on the other end of the line told me that I should try the Polo Club, because that’s where his supervisor had found him when he hadn’t shown up for work.
“Leering at strippers,” she added. “And drinking al-co-hol.”
I had years of practice adapting to this line of conversation, in my own home, no less. “Oh no. It seems Mr. Dulles has strayed from the path.”
She dropped her voice. “I don’t mean to sound un-Christian, ma’am, but I’m not sure he was ever on it.”
We ended our call, and I pulled the Polo Club up online.
The interesting thing (to me) about this fine entertainment and libation establishment—besides that a strip club called themselves a Polo Club—was that they were mere blocks from my old high school, in a nice area of town, right next to the city Girl Scouts of America offices. Anyway, they didn’t open until four-thirty, but I would definitely be checking them out later.
A text came in from Jack, and it made me happy to see his name on my phone: Take care. Let me know how you are.
I wondered if it was a good idea that I was developing a crush on my impossible boss who was still hung up on his ex-wife. Probably not. And probably a rebound crush anyway. I needed to get over my divorce before I started thinking about other men. And then I needed to focus on something—someone—real.
I thumb-typed quickly: Headed to doctor now. I’ll let you know if I need to be out after today. Thanks for rescuing me yesterday.
Nadine set a foamy mug down on the table, the clack of the cup pulling me out of my work. She bounced into the seat at my three o’clock, bobbing and wriggling a few times to get comfortable. The small chairs weren’t quite enough for her ample curves, and her thighs and bottom spilled over the sides.
I slid my papers aside. “I am so glad you could come. I’ve kind of had a poopy last day or two, and this is a high spot.”
She peered across the table at me, a serious look on her face. “Whoa, if coffee with me is the high spot, then we need to get you laid or something, fast.”
If I’d had coffee in my mouth, she’d’ve been wearing it. “I think I need to hold off on that until we get my female medical issues straightened out.”
“Girly problems? Yuck.” She pulled the cigarettes out of her pocket and started rotating the packet in her fingers.
“Miscarriage. Headed to the doctor after this.”
“Mary, mother of Jesus!” she said. “I’m so sorry. And, of course, ignore me on the getting laid part. Nadine opens mouth and inserts her big, fat freakin’ foot.”
“Nah, you’re fine,” I said.
She put the cigarette pack on the table. “I had a miscarriage before I had my first son.” She inhaled, nodded, exhaled, like she was toking weed or something, which I had never done, but had witnessed Rich do repeatedly enough back at Tech. Maybe I had tried it, courtesy of secondhand smoke. “It happens. It’s awful. But I’m sure you’ll be pregnant again in no time.”
I hoped not soon, but someday. I changed the subject. “So, you worked at My Thai last night?”
“No, My Thai is my part-time day job. I take some late shifts as a bartender now and then.”
“I’ll bet there’s more money in bartending.”
“Especially where I work. I have to put up with a high douche-baggery-to-IQ ratio, but other than that it’s fine.”
Again she would have made me spew out my drink in shock. “Sounds interesting. Which bar?”
She grinned. “It is. The Polo Club. And no, I don’t dance. I just push the booze.”
My mouth dropped.
She saw my expression and said, “I know, I know. Objectification of women. Exploitation via the sex industry. Even working there perpetuates it. I’ve heard it before. But I prefer to think of it as a smart woman taking advantage of the weakness of men.”
I grinned. “No, I was thinking I had planned to go to there this afternoon, to track down a witness in a case.”
“Are you a cop?”
“Legal assistant. My boss is a criminal defense attorney.”
“You should give me a stack of his business cards. I could keep him busy from here to eternity.”
Business cards—something I should probably get ahold of. If I was going to stick with this job, I needed cards of my own, too.
“I’ll bring you some,” I said. Then I reached into my bag and shuffled through papers for the picture of Harvey Dulles. I held it up and asked, “Does he look familiar?”
“Harvey? He lives there. Literally, for the last few weeks, he’s there every time I am. Sits at the bar and drinks Crown and Coke, slow and easy. Drinks and stares.”
I half-jumped to my feet in excitement. My abdomen chided me, and I sat back down very gently. “That’s who I’m looking for!”
She smiled, and it pulled one corner of her mouth up, like Jack, but without the dimple, and plus one nose ring. “Fun. Can I be of any help?”
I grabbed Spike’s picture and slapped it in front of her. “Have you ever seen him with this guy?”
A man’s voice spoke before Nadine could answer. “Emily?”
Inwardly, I shouted, Can’t you see we’re having a conversation here? Outwardly, I hit the tape mark on the stage, tilted my head, and flashed my pearly whites. Which reminded me that I really needed to pick up a pack of whitening strips at the store. Coffee, tea, and soda were not a friend to sparkly teeth. I greeted my mother’s boss.
“Pastor Robb. How are you?”
“Good, although worried about you. Your mother sent around a prayer request for you again last night.” He pulled at the collar of his sweater. His face was so florid I wanted to fan him with Spike’s picture.
“She must get a volume discount. Pastor Robb, this is my friend Nadine. Nadine, Pastor Robb.”
Nadine beamed. “Oh, we’ve met. Great seeing you, Eugene.”
His tomato-red face drained of all color in an instant. “Nadine, you said? Um, hello, yes, well—” he pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch, “—so sorry, church business, and I’m running late.” He scrambled like a dog on a tile floor toward the exit.
Nadine turned to me. “Eugene is a big fan of dancing.” She winked. “Now, where were we?”
I laughed and slid the picture of Spike an inch closer to her. “I love your job. Have you seen Harvey with this guy?”
She tapped the picture four times with her middle finger. “That’s the guy that got blasted off the balcony at the Ambassador, or whatever they’re calling it now. He came in with Harvey the day before it happened. Freaked me out when I saw him on the news.”
“Has Harvey talked about it?”
“No, but I asked him. And he said he didn’t know the guy. I wasn’t sure why he lied, but most of the slimeballs in the Polo Club do.”
“Did you hear Harvey and this guy, or Harvey and anyone, talking about a woman named Sofia, or hear of a little girl named Valentina?”
I handed her a printout of Victoria’s picture of Sofia and Valentina.
“I’ve seen the woman,” Nadine said. “But only on the news. She’s the one that popped Spike, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“No one mentioned their names around me.” She handed the photo back.
“Okay, how about someone named Maria?”
“There’s a dancer named Maria. Harvey talks to her sometimes.”
My Maria was definitely not a Polo Club dancer. “What about a tall white guy, shaved head, a tattoo like this?” I fished Victoria’s drawing from the papers and placed it over Spike’s picture. “On his arm, maybe the upper arm, or the inside of his arm.”
She moved closer to the table, which started her bobbing and wriggling again. “You mean other than Harvey?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Really? Harvey has this tattoo? Are you sure?”
“Not a hundred percent, because he’s been wearing long sleeves now that it’s getting colder. But he came in a few times this summer, and I saw a tattoo like this. I’m ninety-five percent sure, and I know I haven’t seen anyone else with it. As for tall white guys with shaved heads, I see a lot of them, in addition to Harvey.”
My pulse accelerated and I wanted to get up and break into the Cotton-Eyed Joe, my equivalent of a touchdown dance. My instincts had been right all along. Harvey was involved. And now I had an inside source.
Hold on, Valentina, hold on.
“How about you text me whenever he comes in, and I’ll come check him out myself?” Maybe I could find out where he lived. And who was keeping him in Crown and Coke.
“Yeah, sure. I’m working again tonight. He’s always there.”
“Awesome. Either I’ll come in, or my friend will. He’s a CPS investigator, Wallace—”
“Oh, I know Wallace. I volunteer for the Rainbow Room. He’s my favorite investigator.”
I should have expected she’d know him, in a town where everyone knew everybody. “Yeah, he’s great. And you—two jobs, kids, and a volunteer gig? You’re like Wonder Woman.”
“You know it.” She flexed an arm, then leaned toward me. “Seriously, the Rainbow Room helped me, once upon a time. I owe ’em.”
I stood up. “I’m going to refill my coffee. Need anything?”
“I’m good.”
I filled my cup, dumped in a packet of yellow stuff and a splash of Half & Half, and returned to the table.
After I sat down, Nadine spoke in a soft voice. “Um, Emily, I think you’re bleeding.”
“Oh my, where?”
“It’s on your pants. And a little on your chair. I saw it when you walked over to the coffee. It’s not like really bad or anything. But, with the miscarriage and all, I figure it’s not your monthly visitor.”
No, please God, no. I didn’t need more of this stuff now, not when the trail to Valentina was getting hot. I stood up and craned my neck to see the back of my pants, but all I saw was stars as I slumped back into my chair.
Chapter Nineteen
Nadine’s discovery put an abrupt end to our coffee. She insisted on helping me to the bathroom, even though I was sure I’d only gotten lightheaded because I stood up too fast. I assessed my bleeding problem from the stall and found that I’d forgotten to put a maxi pad on before I left home. Not smart. Definitely, I was bleeding, but I was also only an hour away from seeing my doctor, and I wasn’t bleeding profusely. Not enough to run to the emergency room. I’d just go to the doctor’s office a little early and maybe they could work me in.
We exited Roaster’s into a twenty-five mile per hour grit-filled wind—double the speed I’d found unpleasant earlier. Nadine mother-henned me all the way to my car. I opened the door to the Mustang and the wind caught it, pushing it to its furthest point. I got in and had to use both arms to pull it closed again, even with Nadine pushing from the outside. The sky had turned to the color of dust, and trash tumbled across the parking lot—not just the paper and bags of a normal windy day, but cardboard boxes and g
lass bottles. I waved goodbye to Nadine and headed quickly toward my obstetrician’s office, careful to dodge the projectiles that whirled past one of Stanley Marsh’s signs (Road Does Not End) across the street in front of me. It seemed all the Marsh signs I saw followed a similar, creepy theme. Gusts pushed my car in and out of my lane.
While driving, I realized that it wasn’t too terribly out of the way to drive past Maria’s again. I tried to assume the best of people and, right now, that theory told me that there was always a chance Maria had softened. That if I could just look her in the eye as I held up a picture of Harvey and ran the name Antonio Rosa past her, I’d at least see a flicker that would tell me whether she knew something—anything at all. Heck, I could show her Valentina’s drawing. Yeah, it was a long shot, but something about it seemed right. Plus, I didn’t feel bad and I wasn’t really bleeding very much and it was way too early to show up at my doctor.
Thinking of Valentina’s drawing reminded me of something I’d dreamed. I tried to pull it back into my consciousness, but all I could remember was that I’d seen Valentina over and over, not where or when or what she was doing and with whom. But there was a similarity between my dream and her drawing, just out of sight, just out of reach, like the fireflies that I would try to catch each summer when they’d light up, only to grasp at nothing as they darkened and buzzed away.
I didn’t bother hiding my Mustang down the street this time. I parked in front of Maria’s house and opened the door only to have it ripped from my hands by the wind. It had gotten even stronger in the last ten minutes. The sky around me was in full-blown brownout. I strode to the door, leaning so far against the wind that if it had died suddenly, I would have fallen face-first to the ground. I used one hand for my purse and the other to hold my hair out of my mucous membranes. That left none to cover my mouth and protect it from grit, so I breathed through my nose with my head tucked down, trying not to suck too much dirt down my windpipe, and feeling really glad I hadn’t worn a full skirt or flimsy blouse. When I got close to the house, its bulk somewhat blocked the gale. I straightened up and pulled errant hairs away from my eyes and mouth. Nothing like a windstorm to strip a woman of her dignity and professionalism.
Heaven to Betsy (Emily #1) Page 19