I roll my eyes at how cliché the whole scene is. My guess is the cops don’t even bother patrolling the area.
I’m not happy about needing to stay here for the night, but I need to be within walking distance to places where I’ll be able to get my shady shit done. I don’t drive and I’m not made of money so I can’t cab it around all over the place until I find a job. I have to blend correctly in case I’m spotted. God knows the Asshole could have a tail on me. Controlling piece of shit.
This is all part of the bigger plan. I just have to survive the night. I’ve survived worse. I can do one night in the slum standing on my head.
“Hey, lady,” Hobart says, then retrieves a card from the pocket over his heart on his T-shirt. He hands it to me with a grandfatherly look on his face. “If you ever need to go somewhere, you know, fast, call me. I’m usually around town. I can get here. Fast.” He looks back at the grimy scene. “I don’t want you standin’ outside waitin’ for no stranger. Not here.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. I slip his card into the front opening of my purse. “It was nice meeting you Hobart. Have a good day.”
He shakes his head at me, still disapproving of my choice in sleeping arrangements, but gets back into the cab and drives off.
The wheels on my bag crunch over the paved lot and when I open the door to register, there is no relief from the outside heat. Yet another place with no working air conditioner. I hope the rooms are fitted at least with window units; I’ll need the AC tickling my skin until the heat wave passes through and returns the weather to normal conditions. It should definitely be cooler this time of year than it currently is.
The man behind the bulletproof glass, Miguel according to his tag, is sweating profusely, making his dark hair stick to his head. He has a toothpick sticking out of his mouth, something another ex used to do. I hated it and still do. He scans my body up and down and curls his lip like a predator as I make my way toward him. I know his type—someone who sees a tiny, pretty little lady and thinks he can have his way with her. I’ve broken three noses in the last fifteen years and have no problem adding a fourth. My older brother Kenny taught me to push the bottom of my palm up from the nostrils to do the most damage. The instant blood, pain, and tears from the assailant give you ample time to run.
Confidently, I stride toward the glass and tap on it. Miguel doesn’t take his eyes off me. My insides bounce around and I feel like a teenager running away from Jason Voorhees at camp. “Hi. I need a room for the night.” Never let them see you sweat.
The scene out front has left me shaking. If I wasn’t so terrified of guns, I’d have one in my purse right now. I force myself not to look down and gaze with as much confidence as I can gather to meet Miguel’s eye. Thank God the heat hides the real reason for my sweat.
Miguel slides a piece of paper into a drawer and pushes it my way, and it comes to the other side of the bulletproof glass. It wants all the regular information. Name, address, all of that. I pull the name Gloria Goldberg, address 250 Main Street, Apt. 12B, Phoenix, Arizona out of thin air. He won’t ask for ID to prove it.
This is the type of place where cash is king, and I don’t need a credit card on file for incidentals—it’s not like I’m getting a steak with a 2005 Penfolds Shiraz delivered to my room from the kitchen. The “kitchen,” from what I can see, is a dive bar across the lot with broken neon lights that probably only serves beer from a dirty tap. I don’t even try to bargain the thirty-nine dollars a night even though I’m sure I can, and I take my key, an actual metal key on a yellowed plastic keychain, and go to my temporary Shangri-la on the second-floor corner.
Inside, the room looks like a casino and a garbage dump birthed a bedspread. It bothers me that it’s so ugly because I’ve pretended to be an interior designer for years, when all I ever really did was look at Pinterest and shop the looks that I liked at Home Goods. None of which encompassed the mismatched mess in front of me. It was exhausting always telling the Assholes that I’d just moved to town and I was trying to build a client base. Like I went to college or something.
The bathroom smells of mildew but looks surprisingly fresh—looks can be deceiving—and has a small sink and stall shower. I have the sudden urge to scrub the place sparkling clean. Immediately, I remove the bedspread and swear that my next stop is Target or Walmart for a new, cheap pair of sheets and some rubber gloves and bleach. Even though I’ll only be in this place for a night, I can’t live in complete squalor. That was left behind with Foster Home Number Three, when I was fourteen and everything got bad. That was when I heard the twins took off from a different foster home, Kenny knocked someone up for the first time and left me, and Christopher did his premiere stint in juvie, which I know was just practice for the real thing.
All of them still had it better than I did there.
First things first: Time to blend.
The darker hair dye is hidden in my belongings, so I apply that, wait a half hour, and wash it out in the shower. The towel is slightly stiff, and I vow to add towels to my Target list. I certainly don’t want “housekeeping” coming in and going through my shit. My skin crawls at the thought of them transferring one set of sheets to another room, unwashed, over and over. A black light in this room would probably make it glow like a Christmas tree.
After I dry my hair, I razor-cut three inches off, just because. It has a fun little uneven edge, just like me. I also give myself proper bangs again. It fits. Asshole didn’t like the bangs and made me grow them out. Said I looked like a twelve-year-old.
I retrieve a pair of baggy jeans with holes in the knees and a ribbed tank from my suitcase and slip them on, and finish with foam flip flops that I got at the dollar store. My face is freshly washed from the shower, and I don’t reapply my makeup. I need my bruise for Part Two.
Locking the door behind me, the stares at the fresh meat are obvious. Walking down the stairs, I get called vulgar names in Spanish as well as English, and I’m offered a “pick me up” from one of the men with cornrows who I saw making a deal earlier. I ignore them all, head up, crossbody bag strapped to my midsection, and set out on foot.
I know the ID place I’m looking for is less than a mile from here, a straight shot up the highway. It’s still hot, still daytime although the sun is lower than it was when I arrived, and I curse the jeans that are sticking to my sweating legs, so I stop and roll up the baggy bottoms to let some air circulate. Just shy of a half hour later, I’m opening the door to the place and thankfully I see a young kid, twenty-one or so, at the register. He smiles at me.
“Hey, yo. Can I help you?”
“Hi.” I smile, the really big Yes You Can Help Me smile, because it’ll make him feel like my savior when I go into my sob story. He notices my black eye and I fake embarrassment and hold my hand over it, just for a second. “Yes, I’m really hoping you can help me.”
“What do you need, honey?” He’s chewing gum, his mouth wide open, and he has no game, yet he’s trying to be sympathetic. It’s what I’m counting on.
“Well. I—I just escaped a pretty bad situation a few days ago.” I wince, like I’ve just been hit. I’ve certainly had practice perfecting the motion. He notices my fear as I dive headfirst into a speech I’ve given many times when I assumed half a new identity. “I need to get a job, and I need a picture ID. But the thing is, I left with nothing. I never had my birth certificate because I left home when I was sixteen, after my mother’s boyfriend—never mind that. I had to leave.” The tears well up, as I let him believe I had a bad stepdaddy. The truth was worse, but he doesn’t need to know that. The less detail the better. “The only thing I have is my Social Security card.” My real one. Tessa Smith. Real number too. Go me.
The kid, Daniel, shifts uncomfortably, knowing he’s being asked to make a fraudulent document. Not really fraudulent, but without the proper identification that the state requires to prove my identity. I need a head start on getting my life together. I need this ID. My stories hav
e worked in the past.
“I know these IDs you make here have a state seal,” I continue, “and I’ll need that to prove my identity for when I finally get a license. It’s all such a Catch-22. I need this ID to get a job so I can afford a place to live. I’ll need proof of residence on a bill or something before I can even get a license. I just need a little bit of help.” Puppy dog eyes. Even the bruised one. “I’m staying over at the Empire Motel right now. I don’t want him to find me. I don’t know where to go.” If telling him about that shithole doesn’t illicit a sympathetic response, nothing will.
He doesn’t exactly say no, so I up the stakes. “I have a hundred dollars for you if you do this for me. Cash. I can give it to you right now. You can use my Social Security card, right?” I produce my authentic card and let it fall on the counter. It is really mine, but this kid knows I could’ve swiped it from any old granny’s bag. “I’m just trying to stay alive. Get back on my feet the right way.” For once, the truth. Mostly—it’s hardly the “right” way.
He picks up the card and inspects it, probably used to seeing a hundred of these a day. His face is drawn, and I know I’ve won him over.
“Two fifty,” he says.
Little shit. I try not to show excitement. “Oh my God, really?” The tears fall. Grateful tears, even if I fake them to make him feel like a hero.
Yes, I’m grateful. This ID card, with the state seal, is verifiable. It will have my full name, Social Security number, and picture, and works as a valid ID for pretty much anything. The best part is, my real Social Security number has three ones and two threes in it. That’s always been helpful to me.
I fill out the form with the blue pen he provides, and he double-checks my card, again, then hands it back to me. Now is when I have to pray that he doesn’t have the memory of an elephant, but something tells me he wasn’t on the honor roll.
“I really can’t thank you enough for this,” I say, attempting to sign my name at the bottom. Then I shake the pen uncontrollably. “Crap. This one is out of ink. Can you grab another one for me?” I flash the million-dollar smile again.
“Sure,” he says with a smirk and turns around.
It takes me literally two seconds to turn the ones on my Social Security number into sevens and the threes into eights. Smith quickly becomes Smyth. Not my first rodeo.
Daniel hands me a new pen, and I sign the form. He says he has to take my picture, and I ask him if I can use some makeup on the bruise, explaining that I don’t want my permanent ID to remind me that I’m a punching bag. He obliges, and I dab concealer around it quickly. I wait five excruciating minutes for the photo to upload while he pecks my info, fake number and all, into the computer. He should’ve inspected my card closer and realized nothing matches anymore, but my guess is many people around here don’t exactly graduate magna cum laude, if they graduate at all. It prints out, and he laminates it. He hands it to me over the counter, then swiftly pulls it back from my open hand.
“Two fifty.”
Little shit! But I smile as I peel back the bills, not letting him see the wad around it. “You saved my life.”
He may not know he’s been conned, but he really did save my life. Because now, I can try to have one again. This one better not include falling in love in 2.5 seconds. Better yet, this time I just want to know that I am loved.
I’ve been to plenty of battered women support groups. In secret, of course. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the women are afraid of men, afraid of relationships, and afraid to date again. Looking over their shoulders. Hiding. Scared. This is the only time of my life I’m ever in the one percent. Off the pharmaceutical smack for over a decade, bad men are still like a drug to me. I don’t know if they sniff me out or if I sniff them out, but every relationship I’ve been in, one of us has been a goddamn hound dog.
That stops now.
I tug one of my burner phones out of my bag and send a text to someone who’s going to help me make Asshole a suspect in my disappearance.
Got the ID, all went as planned. Did you put that stuff in the house yet?
I wait. I get the answer in two minutes.
Not yet, but I will. He hasn’t told me you’re gone yet.
5
James
James swerved right into the police station and parked his blue Altima in a spot close to the front, one of the ones reserved for people on official police business. Trying to locate his missing wife counted, as far as he was concerned.
The heavy glass doors slid open automatically as he approached and there was a woman at a counter in the front. Her name tag said Sally Rosen, and she looked like a Golden Girl, set hair and all. Her glasses hung around her neck from a tortoiseshell chain against her long-sleeve black sweater, which James didn’t understand in the surprise end-of-September heat. She typed into a computer as she cradled a phone between her ear and her shoulder, giving out instructions to someone new to town, asking about holiday garbage pickup.
People bothered the cops with the stupidest things.
“Can I help you?” she asked as she hung up the phone.
“Yes. I’m James Montgomery. My wife disappeared last night. I was hoping to talk to—”
She held her index finger up to stop him, then pressed a button on that space-age-looking phone. He didn’t know if it was a switchboard or the key to running the galaxy.
“Detective Solomon, a James Montgomery is here for you.” She hung up and pointed to a fake leather sofa near the door. “Wait there.”
So she’d heard of him already. In a small town like Valley Lake, a missing woman was probably taken very seriously. Especially one missing under these circumstances. A kidnapping or, God forbid, a murder, only happened in those small suburban towns in those damn Lifetime movies Tessa occasionally made him watch.
And in those movies it was always the husband.
James plopped onto the brown pleather couch, keeping a good distance between him and another woman about his age, who no doubt had been directed there as well. The woman held her purse on her lap and looked him up and down. He squirmed, thinking he was recognized, but earlier he’d checked the online police blotter and Tessa’s disappearance hadn’t been released yet.
Another male officer opened a door from behind the counter and whispered to Sally, then they both looked at James. Whispered again. Snickered.
“Mr. Montgomery?” he called from the other side of the room. “Can you come with me please?” He pointed to a door at the far end of the hall.
James stood, his tired legs wobbly, and walked to a door. He tried to turn the knob, but it was locked. Two seconds later there was a vibrating buzz and the door clicked and gave way. He opened it and the officer stood right in front of him.
“Mr. Montgomery. I’m Sergeant Lancaster. You saved us a phone call. Detective Solomon wanted to speak to you this morning.”
Terrific. If he’d kidded himself for even a second that they didn’t view him as a suspect, that idea was out the window.
He followed Lancaster down a long hall, narrow, with overhead fluorescent lights. The walls were light-gray or “ash” in Tessa lingo, and the doors on both sides were a faded blue, or “stormy sky.” At the end of the hall on the left, Lancaster waved a key card over a small electronic box and the door opened. James’s stomach tightened as he walked through the door.
Detective Solomon sat at a rectangular metal table and waved at a matching metal chair. James lowered himself into the cold, rock-hard chair, feeling like he was ten and had just got busted for nailing a classmate in the chops. Solomon had a stack of manila folders to his right and a single sheet of paper in front of him, which he stared at without making eye contact. He pushed the paper toward James.
“What am I looking at?” James asked.
“Tessa. We ran her current Social. And I say current, because it’s not real. That number isn’t even in existence.”
James swallowed heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, which he reali
zed too late made him look guilty. He knew the number on her ID card wasn’t real.
“That’s impossible. She has a state ID card.” That was the truth. Just the facts, ma’am. “I gave it to you last night.”
“Mmm. We can’t find her in the DMV records. No license?” Solomon asked.
“No. She doesn’t drive.”
Was that even true? He’d bought her story about why she never got her license. Did she not bother to learn, or her foster parents, who were only in it for the money, wouldn’t teach her? Too many other kids, they’d said. She was more comfortable walking anyway. That’s why Valley Lake, where James worked, was such an attractive option when they decided to buy a house. Main Street, where all the town’s industry was located, was less than two miles away. She welcomed the walks to get what she needed, and in this day and age, anything else they wanted could be delivered.
“A state ID can’t be faked, Detective. Right?” James doubted his own statement, for reasons.
“Gone through the proper channels, no, it can’t be faked, and her ID is real, which leads us to believe that she hadn’t gone about getting it the right way. But as you said last night, you really didn’t know much about her, did you?” He paused before he started with his real questioning. “Did Tessa come from money?” Solomon asked.
That question gobsmacked James, enough for him to chuckle audibly. “No.”
“Something funny, Montgomery?”
James straightened. “She didn’t have anything when we met. She’d just barely got her design business off the ground when… when this happened.”
“So basically, you married a woman you didn’t know much about, took her word for who she was, and now she’s gone?” Solomon asked. “Gone, and left behind all that blood? Actually, come to think about it, we haven’t even verified that it’s her blood yet.”
His Missing Wife Page 3