by P J Parrish
Hispanic?
“Did she describe him to you?” Louis asked. “Tell you anything about him?”
The man shook his head “I think she call him...”
He looked at his wife and asked her something in Spanish.
The woman hesitated. “Papi chulo," she whispered.
She called him papi chulo,” the man said.
“What does that mean?” Louis asked.
“It is something young people say. It means he was handsome, a hunk you would say.”
He took a drink from his beer. His face was hard when he put down the can.
Louis looked at the woman. Her expression had changed too. Now she looked sad, not so much like she was remembering what Angela said but what any woman could remember feeling about any young man. She disappeared into the back.
Louis gathered up his photos, stacking the papers and folders. “The file says her father reported her missing,” he said. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“I heard he died last year in Texas,” the man said. “Angela had no one else.”
Louis closed the folder and stuck out a hand. “Thanks for your time.”
The man wiped his palm on his jeans then shook Louis’s hand.
Louis went out, pausing in the hot sun, watching the kids playing around his Mustang. He was surprised when the woman came out to stand next to him.
“Can I see the picture?” she asked softly.
Louis pulled it out of the file and handed it to her. The woman’s face seemed to slowly cave in on itself. She brushed at her eyes.
“She did not like to be called Angela,” she said. “I did not call her that.”
“What did you call her?” Louis asked.
“Angel.”
She was quiet for a long time, staring at the picture. “When Angela became fifteen, she started working with her father in the fields,” the woman said. “The same age I was when I started.”
She looked toward the children playing around the Mustang. “It is hard work,” she said. “You wake before the sun is red and you walk the three miles to the bus so you can be chosen to work. In the fields, you run and grab a bucket and start picking. You pick as fast as you can so you can eat.”
The woman brushed a hand over her hair. “You fill your bucket with tomatoes and the man gives you a ticket. You put it into your pants because it is precious, worth forty cents. When the sun goes down, you take your tickets to the house and you get your money. Then you get back on the bus and walk home. You take a cold shower because the hot water is all gone by now. At eleven, you eat then go to bed. The sun comes up again the next day and you do it again.”
The children were beeping the Mustang’s horn. Louis let it go.
“I was lucky to marry a good man,” the woman said. “I didn’t have to work in the fields long. I hoped Angel would be lucky, too.”
“You were close to her?” Louis asked.
She looked up at him, then down at the picture in her hand. “She was like my daughter. We used to talk at night when the store was quiet,” she said. “Angel say she would get away from here someday, that she would never have her children here.”
The woman paused. “I told her that she should go and never come back, not even to see me. I want to believe that is what she did.”
Louis couldn’t think of anything to say so he nodded.
“Thank you for your help, Rosa,” he said.
She hesitated then held out the photograph. It was just a copy, not even a good one.
“You can keep it,” he said.
She smiled.
“If I find out anything about Angela —-”
Rosa shook her head. “No,” she said softly, clutching the picture. “Don’t come back here. If you come back it will be to tell me she is dead. Don’t come back, please.”
CHAPTER 22
Louis slid into the old wicker chair on the porch and propped his bare feet on the small table. In his hand was a Heineken and in his lap was the baby skull.
It was hot again tonight, the black velvet air hanging heavy and dark over the still gulf waters. The cottage next to his was empty, eliminating any nearby lights. Far out in the blackness he could see a twinkle of white. A ship. A low star. He couldn’t tell.
All the girls were on his mind, but it was Neil Fielding who nagged at him, closed up tight in that tin-can trailer, waiting to die.
He took a long slow drink of the cold beer.
How long did it take for guilt to kill a man? How long could you live with the stink of your failings until the bitterness ate away your soul?
Cliff Parker had sexually abused his step-daughter Emma. Neil knew it and couldn’t stop it and then couldn’t stop himself from leaving when it got to be too much.
Just go, Emma had told him.
And I did, Neil said.
Louis took another drink of beer. It had taken the entire drive back to Fort Myers for the stuff inside him to finally ooze its way to the surface. Maybe if the drive hadn’t been so long or if Neil Fielding hadn’t been so pathetic, he himself wouldn’t be sitting here now holding a baby’s skull and thinking about that gray February afternoon eight years ago when Kyla had appeared at his dorm door.
He closed his eyes. It used to be easy. Easier. It used to be easier. Easier to keep the lid on the box where he hid these things. The box had been there inside him for as long as he could remember, since he was little. He could even see it sometimes, a hard black metal thing with a rusty hinge and bolt. He could even feel it sometimes, a cold lump wedged somewhere up high in his ribs, so high that it made breathing hard. The box hurt but it worked. It held fast.
Until now. Now things were breaking out, getting loose and flying around inside him. Screaming in his ear, making him sweat at night, the loudest voice screaming, You should have done better, you should have been better.
He opened his eyes and looked down at the skull.
Isabella Maria Carreira de los Reyes. He had memorized the name, even looked it up in a Spanish dictionary. It meant “of the kings.” Such a grand name for such a short life. Somebody’s daughter. Vios con Dios, preciosa angelita. Go with God, precious little angel.
Car lights swept the south end of the porch and Louis drew his feet off the table. He set the skull down and moved to the screen. He was surprised to see a Fort Myers police cruiser pulling in.
The headlights went out and a tall thin man got out of the passenger side. Louis knew immediately it was Mel Landeta from his arrogant walk. The second man emerged and Louis recognized the young deputy who had helped him with the skull the day after the storm.
“Wait in the car, Strickland.”
Louis watched as the young cop stopped, let out a sigh, and got back in the cruiser. Shit, now what? Had Landeta commandeered his own personal chauffeur?
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” Landeta asked, coming onto the screened porch.
“I went down the road to eat,” Louis said.
Landeta was looking through the open door to the living room. His eyes swept across the porch and back up to Louis. He ignored the skull on the table.
“You get down to see Fielding yet?”
“Yeah, come on in.”
Landeta paused just inside the door. He was taking in the worn rattan furniture, the small kitchen, the bookcase. He focused finally on the two old prints of the cockatoos that hung over the sofa.
Louis moved past him and put the skull back on the shelf amid the mementoes. “You want something to drink?”
“You got a Diet Coke?”
“Dr Pepper.”
“Water. No ice.”
Louis went to get a glass. When he came back out, Landeta was sorting through the books that Louis had left out on the table. They were the books on runaways he had checked out of the library that first day he had met Frank Woods. After leaving Neil Fielding’s place earlier today, Louis had started skimming through them, trying to find some insights into the girls’ psyches
.
“Here,” Louis said.
Landeta took the water. “I went to get some files today,” he said. “Wanted to take a look at the reports on the other missing girls. Funny thing was the records clerk said you already went through them. I told you I would take care of that.”
“You didn’t seem anxious to do it,” Louis said.
“I don’t like people going over my head, Rocky.”
“I don’t like to be kept waiting outside your door.”
Landeta stared at him then took a drink of water. “I ran some background checks on them. All of them, including Emma Fielding.”
“And?”
“They no longer exist,” Landeta said. “Not one has filed a tax return, used her Social Security card for a job, applied for a credit card, or even gotten married. There’s not even a driver’s license renewal for any of them.”
Gone. Just vanished. Louis thought about what Rosa in Immokalee had told Angela, that she should go and never come back.
Landeta wiped his brow. “Fuck, it’s hot in here. Don’t you have air in this place?”
“Welcome to paradise, as you called it,” Louis said. He went over and switched on the wall unit. It clattered and wheezed and finally sent out a weak stream of cool air. Landeta took his glass of water to the sofa.
Issy saw him coming and jumped down, settling into a chair across from him. Landeta sat down stiffly on the sofa. He sipped the water, his eyes on the floor.
Louis went to the kitchen and brought back a fresh Heineken. “You didn’t come all the way out here to chew my ass about those files. Why are you here?”
“The girls aren’t the only ones without a past. Frank Woods doesn’t seem to have one either.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, there are no records. No birth certificate, no marriage license, no school records. Nothing before 1952. Everything after that says Frank Woods, friendly librarian.”
Louis took a drink, thinking. “He told me at the campground he went to high school in Sarasota. You checked that out, right?”
Landeta nodded. “Of course I did. He didn’t attend school there or anywhere else we can find. He lied to you.”
“What about Diane’s mother?” Louis asked. “Can’t we trace her?”
“You know her maiden name?”
Louis shook his head. “Call Diane.”
“Oh, yeah, she’s real cooperative. Let me tell you what happened today.” Landeta finished his water in one gulp. “After we finished searching Frank’s house, we went to hers.”
“Why?” Louis asked.
“Well, according to you, she has a coral ring. That’s evidence. But according to her, there is no fucking ring.”
“What?”
“We tore that apartment apart. She just stood there and watched us. We didn’t find shit. So now we’re trying to get a warrant for her office.”
“She’s a principal. You know what’s going to happen if you go charging in there?”
Landeta shrugged. “That’s her problem. All she has to do is give us the damn ring.” He looked up at Louis. “If it exists.”
“I saw it.” Louis leaned against the kitchen doorway. “I suppose you want me to try.”
“You still working for her?”
“Well, I haven’t been officially fired. Yet.”
“Does she like you?”
Louis wasn’t sure he wanted to tell Landeta that Diane still had hopes of him bringing Frank Woods in for questioning quietly. Landeta was looking at him, his eyes steady behind the yellow lenses.
“No, she doesn’t like me,” Louis said. “I’m not sure she likes anyone.”
“Well, we need the ring and she knows you, at least. While you’re at it, find out the mother’s maiden name. Convince her it’s for her father’s own good.”
“I’d be lying to her.”
A small smile spread across Landeta’s face. “I can’t believe you actually said that. We lie all the time.”
“Not to families. At least I don’t.”
“As far as I’m concerned, she’s half the problem in this whole case.”
“What’s the other half?”
“You. You don’t want to admit that Woods is probably a serial killer and his daughter is a paranoid weirdo who needs to quit playing mama to her daddy and find herself a man.”
“Your compassion is overwhelming, Detective.”
“And yours is overflowing,” Landeta said.
The cottage was quiet. Louis could hear Issy purring.
“Are we done?” Louis asked finally.
“No, tell me what you found out about the girls.”
Louis walked to the table and picked up a folder. He hadn’t yet bought a typewriter, so his reports on the girls were written in longhand, formatted and dated like a police report.
He held out the folder to Landeta. “Go ahead. Take a look.”
Landeta looked up at Louis, elbows on his knees. “Just tell me about them.”
“I’m tired of reading and interpreting and narrating this goddamn case to you. You want the information, you read it.”
Landeta stood up, taking the folder. “I’ll take them with me.”
“The hell you will. I’ll drop you a copy tomorrow.”
“They’re part of the case file. They go with me.”
Louis stood right in front of him. “It’s my work. It stays here.”
Landeta hesitated then tossed the folder to the sofa. He moved to step around Louis, and his knee caught the edge of the table. The empty water glass toppled to the terrazzo floor, shattering.
Landeta glanced down then continued toward the door. “Sorry about that,” he muttered.
He shoved open the screen door, and Louis followed him to the porch.
“You’re a real jackass, you know that?” Louis called.
Landeta ignored him, continuing on toward the cruiser. Officer Strickland was standing near the gumbo limbo tree, smoking a cigarette.
“Let’s go,” Landeta called to him.
Strickland watched Landeta walk to the car and climb in the back, slamming the door.
“How’d you get stuck with chauffeur duty?” Louis asked.
Strickland shook his head. “Chief said a guy of his reputation gets what he needs to do the job.”
Landeta’s bald head appeared out the car window. “Let’s see a little hustle there, Officer,” he said.
Strickland tossed the butt to the sand and ground it out. “I hope I’m shot dead before I get that old,” he said, heading to the car.
Louis closed the door and walked to the kitchen. He pulled out his notebook to get Diane’s phone number.
Convince her it’s for her father’s own good.
Right.
He glanced up at the clock. Almost eleven. It was too late now to call. He’d call her in the morning. When he was sure she was sober.
CHAPTER 23
The rain beat against the windshield, the pounding so loud he could not hear his radio. Louis slowed when he saw the sign SCHOOL ZONE.
He hadn’t wanted to come here. He tried calling Diane, starting at six-thirty a.m. But he kept getting the answering machine. He figured she was pissed. And she was blaming him.
Having your home searched was the ultimate humiliation for anyone, but for Diane Woods it would be devastating. Cops were never careful. He knew her Gourmet magazines had been dumped to the carpet, the perfectly arranged drawers left tossed and open, her books pulled from the shelves.
Why the hell didn’t she just give them the damn ring?
Louis passed the WINK-TV van sitting just off the school grounds. Heather Fox, wearing a yellow raincoat, was standing under a canopy. Her cameraman was soaked, his equipment wrapped in plastic.
Louis parked as far away from the van as he could and dashed toward the school entrance. Heather Fox didn’t see him until it was too late. He jerked open the school door, pausing just inside to wipe his face.
The old
smells of high school flooded back to him —- fried chicken, dust, and musty gym clothes. He could hear the faint thump-thump of a basketball somewhere. There was a trophy case to his left with the usual sports paraphernalia in it. Next to it was a row of portraits of the administration -- two pictures of women assistant principals and one of the male athletic director. There was a blank spot in the middle where one picture had been taken down. Underneath was a plaque that said MISS DIANE WOODS, PRINCIPAL.
He saw a glass-enclosed office with the sign ADMINISTRATION above the door and went to it.
A couple of students glanced at him as he entered. It was a large office, dominated by a U-shaped desk and painted a cheerful blue that matched the orange and blue industrial carpeting. There was a sign over the desk that said CAPE CORAL HIGH SCHOOL, HOME OF THE SEAHAWKS. There was a big orange and blue stuffed bird in the corner. It was wearing a hat that said BREEZY.
The woman behind the desk finished with the two boys and sent them on their way. She looked up at Louis.
“Can I help you?”
Louis was looking over her shoulder, into the glass- enclosed office. He could see Diane in there, on the phone. She didn’t see him.
“Would you tell Miss Woods that Louis Kincaid is here to see her?”
“Well, I think Miss Woods is —- ”
“Just tell her, please.”
The woman must have heard the cop-edge in his voice because she began backing up toward the office, eyes on Louis. She turned and poked her head in the door. Louis saw Diane crane her neck to look his way. She looked like a trapped animal.
Diane slowly hung up the phone. Her eyes took a long time to focus on him then they moved slowly to the secretary. “It’s okay, Maggie.”
Louis went in. Maggie retreated, closing the door.
“I can’t believe you came here,” Diane said. “How could you do this to me?”
“I came to help you, even though you don’t seem to want any help.”
“You let my father become a suspect. Do you have any idea how that feels?”
“For him or you?”
She looked away, out the window. When she brought up a hand to brush her hair behind an ear, it trembled. “What do you want?” she asked.