Recovering Dad

by Libby Sternberg

  In the kitchen that evening, at the family computer, I cruise some college web sites and find a bunch I like, quivering as I look at their SAT requirements, hoping against hope that mine will squeak past their finish lines. While I’m online, I hear from Brenda. Her Mom can get me the info, after all. But unlike me, she has scruples, or at least a healthy sense of self-preservation. There’s no way she’ll copy the file. Her mom could lose her job. She can only give me the info that’s already common knowledge — probably stuff we already know.

  “Okay,” I e-mail Brenda back that evening when I get her missive on the topic. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

  I’m surprised a few minutes later when Brenda sends me something with an attachment. Her note says that, after school, she was able to call her mom at work and explain the situation, so her mom has already done some snooping. I download the file — geez, it takes forever when you have dial-up — and I’m disappointed to see it’s a short story. I suddenly remember that Brenda wants to study writing in college. As prepayment for the intel, does she want me to critique it for her?

  I’m about to tell her I couldn’t bring the attachment up on my computer when I notice something. This isn’t just any short story. It’s a short story about a cop who’s investigating something big— something dangerous.

  I sit up straight at the computer and lean forward. Brenda’s giving me the scoop without giving me the scoop. No files are copied. No real names are used. “It’s all pure fiction, Your Honor. Any resemblance to real-life characters is purely coincidental.”

  Connie, who’s been gone most of the day, including dinner, comes into the kitchen, taps me on the shoulder, and touches the computer screen.

  “I need to get on,” she says.

  “Just a sec.”

  “C’mon, Bianc. Tony says you’ve been on for an hour.”

  That traitor.

  “Homework.”

  “Baloney.”

  “Why don’t you get your own internet connection? What happened to your wireless browser?”

  She says something unintelligible. I know what happened to her wireless browser. She dropped her laptop last week and the browser, along with some other programs, are kerfluey, and she’s probably not making enough money to get it fixed.

  But I don’t want her reading over my shoulder, or annoying me into getting off, so I hit “print” and let the machine spit out Brenda’s story. It’s five pages, double-spaced. I grab the papers as Connie brushes past me to sit in my still-warm seat.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “You know.” She raises her eyebrows and nods her head toward the living room, where Mom is watching the news.

  “I told you that’s the wrong strategy,” I whisper. “We need to look at … you-know-what, not you-know-who.” Solve Dad’s murder first, not investigate Paluchek. Even so, I’m eager to see if Brenda’s story touches on where Officer Paluchek was that night. I want to read it quickly, and not for entirely selfish “I-solved-it-first” reasons. I want to be able to soften any blows for Connie.

  “Look, you-know-who is the reason you-know-what happened,” she says.

  “You have nothing to substantiate that.”

  “You-know-who was supposed to be there when you-know-what took place.”

  “So maybe you-know-who was the target. That doesn’t make him guilty of you-know-what.” This is getting frustrating. A commercial comes on and Mom mutes the television, making our coded conversation even more difficult.

  When Connie’s e-mail program pops up, she dives into her mailbox.

  “Hey, I thought you said you were investigating you-know—”

  She shoots me a look which means, Shut up, Mom could be listening.

  “I’m looking for some e-mails. Some lines I put out.” She leans toward me. “Friends of you-know-who’s ex-wife,” she says so softly I can barely hear her.

  “Why not just call the ex-wife?”

  “Unlisted number.”

  “Don’t you have access to databases and all?” Geez, I thought that would be PI-101 stuff — finding an unlisted number.

  “I told you — I’m having trouble with my browser.” Translation: I am behind in paying my bills for access to the Big Fat Database. “Besides, I have other ways.” She scrolls through spam messages about viagra and other pharmaceuticals before landing on whatever she’s looking for. “Bingo,” she says, opening the note.

  Ambient noise fills the vacuum as Mom unmutes the TV and Connie reads. In a few seconds, Connie leans back in her chair.

  “Wow,” she says under her breath. “According to this neighbor, you-know-who’s ex vanished a year or two ago, right after a visit from you-know-who.” She turns to me, wild-eyed. “Don’t you think that’s suspicious? We can’t let her” — she shrugs toward the living room — “marry this guy.”

  I stretch across my bed, a mass of confused feelings. Just because Steve’s ex-wife is hard to find doesn’t mean anything bad happened to her, right?

  Right?

  Right?

  To quell my fears, I read Brenda’s story. Maybe there’s something in it that can help. The cop in Brenda’s story is working on a case involving “coyotes” — people smuggling illegal immigrants across the border. A local gang brings in illegals, but charges exorbitant fees, and when the family in the story, the one the gang smuggled in, falls behind in payments, the gang starts charging interest — sometimes as much as 50 percent. And when the family can’t pay, people get hurt. If the family rats the gang out, more people get hurt.

  Officer Depp, the cop in her story — it’s kind of sweet that Brenda would give my Dad’s character Johnny’s name — makes a connection with one of the families, and is on the verge of getting some good evidence when disaster strikes. He’s killed outside the downtown post office during a routine patrol, with a gun that can’t be found.

  My throat goes dry as I read the details of when the call came in, what his partner said over the air, how long it took for the medic to get there, and when he was pronounced dead — all the details you want to know but nobody tells you. The details make it real. They practically put you there with him.

  I’ve got stories of my dad, as told to me by Connie, Tony, and Mom. I’ve heard how he liked to take Tony fishing, and how he took Connie on a Ferris wheel five times in a row at a church carnival. How he sent money to his own widowed mother until she passed away. But at this moment, none of those stories seems as real as Brenda’s “made-up” tale about an officer named Depp.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BRENDA’S STORY, unfortunately, contains no intel on where “Officer Depp’s” buddy Paluchek was the night of the murder. Yeah, I can say it now: “Murder.” It helps me to think of it as a story. For all I’d said to Connie about focusing on the murder first and Paluchek second, I have to admit I’m now just as eager to get the answers on where he was that night and what happened to his wife.

  The next day, as I get dressed, I start to ponder how exactly I’ll do this.

  Tuesday is a no-uniform day — we get them from time to time as a “reward.” This one’s because some sports team made it to the finals. I don’t follow sports, okay? Not even girl sports, or my school’s sports. But I’ll take the reward all the same, thank you very much.

  I planned my outfit the night before. Figuring out what to wear takes more time than actually putting it on, so best to get the planning out of the way so you don’t have to deal with it early in the morning. I’ve planned so well, in fact, that I’ve even ironed the black tee I’m pairing with my Gap Outlet jeans.

  Yeah, I ironed a tee. So sue me! But after Kerrie’s talk about clothes not puckering, I’ve decided that I can depucker by ironing. She means well. And sometimes Kerrie’s suggestions contain a kernel of good advice.

  I throw on my clothes and stare in the mirror. Hmm … no puckers, but a curious lack of shape.

  Connie waltzes by, hairbrush in hand, while I turn this way and that in
front of my mirror.

  “Is that new?” She points to my ironed tee.

  “Nope.”

  This sisterly exchange is not the last we have this morning. Connie is the designated driver today. I moan and groan about this for several reasons, mostly because she made me get ready early because she has some “breakfast appointment.”

  In the car on the way to school, Connie stares sullenly ahead, not saying a word. Translation: Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen.

  “Why don’t you ask Mom for a loan, Con?” Mom works at the DA’s office.

  “What?”

  “Well, I thought since your browser wasn’t working and you haven’t gotten it fixed, maybe you needed … something to tide you over until your clients pay up,” I finish tactfully.

  “I’m getting it fixed,” she says. Translation: I’m sinking fast. “I might not be one of the Molinowsky heirs, but I’m doing okay.”

  She’s referring to a story in the Sun a couple months back. When some dude in the neighborhood — older fellow, lived alone, something of a recluse — died, his estate was valued in the millions. He had squirreled away part of it in suitcases under his bed. Ever since then, Connie and I have been wondering if we could find some family connection with him.

  Anyway, I tell Connie about Brenda helping us out. I don’t give away the story — not because I want to lord it over her later. I just know some of the details will hurt.

  Whatever. It does the trick. After a few moments of silence, she twists her mouth to one side and spills: “His ex had a record.”

  “What?”

  “Petty theft.”

  “Get out.”

  “Shoplifting mostly.”

  “Maybe she ran away from her record,” I offer. Good reason to disappear.

  “Maybe her record was connected to his.”

  “Petty theft?”

  “Could be the tip of the iceberg.”

  We ride in silence for a few moments. Or rather, silence punctuated by me blowing my nose. My cold has petered out to the runny-nose stage. I’m sure it makes me especially appealing.

  Now that Connie’s in a sharing mood, I catch the wave and divulge just what Brenda told me — not the details Connie doesn’t need to hear, but the fact that Dad, before he died, was investigating an illegal immigrant-smuggling ring.

  “I know.” She says nothing for a while, then lets out a sigh. “I’m meeting Jimmy Winslow’s widow this morning. That’s my appointment. Winslow was Steve’s partner. He was with Dad that night.”

  I knew that. In Brenda’s “story,” Officer Depp’s partner’s name is Timmy Window. Not very subtle, but I opted not to delve into literary criticism.

  “Widow?” I say. “When did Winslow die?”

  “About a year after Dad. Car accident.”

  I look at my watch. If she drops me off now, I’ll be at school nearly an hour early, and I have study hall first thing in the morning.

  “Take me with you.”

  She shoots me a pursed-lips look. No translation necessary.

  “C’mon, Con. I don’t want to sit around St. John’s for a couple hours. I might be able to help. I can take notes!”

  This seems to appeal to her, having me play her “secretary” at the meeting.

  I throw in a sweetener. “I’ll even type up the notes for you. For your file.”

  Using her sister as slave labor? Priceless. It does the trick. With not much more than a nod, she agrees to take me along.

  “It’s on the way anyway,” she says, turning a corner. “But you be quiet. I’ll do the talking. I’ve got lots to cover.”

  The meeting place is a coffee bar on the edge of our neighborhood, an independently-owned joint trying to compete with Starbucks and Seattle’s Best. Even though it’s all gussied up in sophisticated black and whites and shiny coffee machines, it still has the feel of a backwoods relative trying to impress.

  Only two people are in the place when we arrive — a businessman ordering an espresso and a sad-looking woman sitting alone at a wrought-iron table by the window.

  Virginia Winslow.

  When she sees Connie, she looks confused, probably because there are two of us. To make sure Connie doesn’t regret bringing me, I play the role of social smoother, holding out my hand and smiling, handling introductions, thanking her for meeting us. By the time we sit down, Virginia has returned to a slightly fragile comfort level.

  She’s a little younger than Mom, I guess, with dark shoulder-length curly hair that frizzes around her temples. Lines crease her forehead and wrinkle the corners of her brown eyes, which are partially hidden by wire-frame glasses. Her mouth looks as if it frowns more than smiles. She wears jeans and a tee, and I see a dark blue apron folded on top of her purse. She’s on her way to work.

  “So,” Connie begins, “just what were your husband and Steve Paluchek being investigated for …”

  Aw, jeez! That’s subtle. Virginia straightens as if slapped, and I see her reaching for her purse.

  “I thought you wanted to talk about your father,” she says. So that was the bait Connie used. “I never would have agreed to—”

  “Where do you work?” I say quickly, nodding toward Virginia’s folded apron.

  She names a lunch place downtown, but still fingers her purse as if ready to leave.

  “I’ve been there with some of my friends from St. John’s,” I say, then asking her about her shift. She works days, and gets off at four, which means she’s home when her daughter gets back from school. When I ask about her children, her fingers uncurl from her purse strap. She has a daughter — her youngest — who’s my age, but she goes to another school. I mentally calculate the years.

  “So she didn’t know her father,” I say, remembering that Winslow died a year after Dad. “Like me and my dad.”

  Virginia nods a sad agreement and looks again as if she wants to bolt, so I ask about her other kids. Her oldest is going to Essex Community College, studying to be a nurse, and her middle child is working as a paralegal. Speaking of her children with pride, she relaxes again. I tell her we know firsthand how hard life is without a father and how our mom has struggled, too. I’m talking fast — I have to, to keep Connie from jumping in and making Virginia leave.

  “We know your husband was with our dad the night he died,” I say, cutting Connie off.

  Virginia looks down. “I … I didn’t want to talk about that.” She looks up, sucks in her lips. “Jimmy was never the same after. Something broke in him. I think that night was why—” She stops herself, shakes her head. It’s clear she was going to say “why he died.”

  “Where was Steve Paluchek that night?” Connie snaps, unable to control herself any longer.

  Virginia’s face shoots up. She looks from me to Connie, evaluating something. “What has Steve told you?”

  “Not much,” I say.

  “Everything,” Connie barks.

  An odd look — almost relief — comes over Virginia’s face. She knows Connie’s bluffing — thanks to me, I realize.

  “Steve helped me after Jimmy died,” she says. Then, as if to make a point, she says, slowly and quietly, “And I haven’t done anything wrong. You can tell him that.” She begins to stand. But I reach out my hand and press it on hers.

  “Please, Mrs. Winslow. We do want to hear about our father. Your husband knew him. Did you know him, too?”

  This softens her, but she stays on her feet. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a photo, which she hands to me. It’s a picture of Dad, dressed in a Santa suit, a huge grin on his face as he stands in front of a Toys for Tots sign. She looks at me, not Connie.

  “I thought you’d want this.” She hands me the picture. “Your father was a good man,” she says. “They all were. Deep down, they all were.”

  “You said you were going to take notes!” Connie huffs in the car a few seconds after Mrs. Winslow has left.

  “That’s before you practically chased away your source!” I ha
rrumph back at her. Connie doesn’t seem to realize how out-of-control she’s become. Maybe she’s not the world’s greatest detective, but I’ve never seen her act so unprofessionally. A tingle of irritation courses through me as I realize I’m going to have to keep an eye on her. She’s supposed to be the big sister, not me.

  Upset, I stare silently at the photo. I wish I’d known that man in the Santa suit.

  Connie interrupts my thoughts: “She didn’t want to talk about that night.”

  “You can understand that,” I say. “Her husband was there. It must have been pretty bad for him, knowing he was the man on duty the night his patrol partner gets it.”

  “Yeah, but what was that business about Steve helping her out afterward? And she wanted us to tell him she hasn’t done anything wrong? What does that mean?”

  “Cops stick together,” I improvise. “Could just be he looks after her the way he helped out with Mom when Dad died.” Still, something makes me feel uneasy.

  Connie snorts out her doubts. “It was more than that.”

  I hate to admit it when Connie’s right, so I don’t. Virginia Winslow seemed afraid we would “tell on her” to Steve. What was she afraid of?

  Connie drops me at school a few minutes later, and asks if I need a ride home. At first, I’m shocked by this kindness, then quickly nod and ask her to pick me up around 3:30. As she drives away, she nearly scrapes a yellow Volkswagen in the right lane. The driver leans on the horn, and I see Connie shake her head but not her fist. Wow, this case has really thrown her!

  The thing about no-uniform day? The girls get to see who’s got it and who doesn’t: money, bod, fashion sense. Yeah, I complain about the uniforms. They’re dorky. They’re dull. They’re every uncool thing you can imagine. But they’re good cover. Because of the requirement to wear the same thing, nobody has a chance to flaunt family advantages. All us girls become equals in those plaid prison jumpers.

  Without them, though, you see who can afford Abercrombie & Fitch, who’s got wondercurves to go with their wonderbras, who’s too poor to afford anything but mock-offs in odd colors with disturbing details (curly-cue rosettes in sequined embroidery on jeans?) and who’s just a chicken-liver, opting for the non-uniform uniform — nondescript tees and Gap jeans. Uh, yeah, that would be me.