by Julie Hyzy
Was she kidding? Judging from her serene smile, apparently not.
Mrs. Hyden must have misread our expressions because she hastened to add, “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t allow Josh to accompany you if I believed there was any danger. The Secret Service will be with you the entire time.”
“I’m sure we’ll be safe,” I said. Then, remembering our conversation in the kitchen, I decided to voice a concern. “That is, unless Virgil says something to the press. You know he’s been less than tight-lipped in the past.”
Her brows came together. “He knows Josh is going with you?”
“He does,” I said, omitting the fact that it was Sargeant who had spilled the beans.
“I will talk with him.”
“Thank you.”
“Enough chatter,” Thora said, clapping her hands. The two young people watched her, bright-eyed and ready to move. “Today we plan. Tomorrow we execute!” She thrust me into the center chair, Sargeant into the one to my left, while Josh scrambled up into the one on my right. “And now, we begin!”
TWO HOURS LATER, MUCH TO JOSH’S DISMAY, we hadn’t picked any noses. We hadn’t picked any ears, or eyebrows, either. Nevertheless, that didn’t mean we hadn’t been transformed.
Awestruck by our changed appearances, I looked at Josh for the dozenth time and couldn’t help repeating myself. “I would never recognize you.”
He ran over to a full-length mirror at the end of the room. His mother stood behind him. “Unbelievable,” she said.
Josh grinned at his reflection. “This is cool!”
The little boy didn’t look at all like himself. Of the three of us, his makeover was the most drastic. Thora and her team had provided an undergarment that added about twenty pounds to the boy’s slim frame. They’d also brought along baggy pants and a green-and-white-horizontal-striped T-shirt to cover this new body. They didn’t add any prosthetics to his face, but they did use makeup in a way that truly gave him a pudgy look. I was amazed. A pair of scuffed gym shoes, a baseball cap featuring the Washington Redskins logo, and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses completed his ensemble.
I couldn’t help from exclaiming, “You look like a completely different kid!”
He was laughing, but took time to point at me. “You don’t look like yourself, either.”
“I must agree with the young man,” Sargeant said, shaking his head. “Ms. Paras, your metamorphosis is astounding.” He held his hands out. “As for myself, I do not care at all for this hat.”
Sargeant wore a baseball cap that matched Josh’s except for the fact that Sargeant’s was newer and cleaner. Josh’s rim was more curved, more frayed. Like a boy’s cap might be.
“It looks good on you,” I said.
He wasn’t amused. “This is a foolish addition.” He turned to Thora. “What good is a hat when I’m required to remove it whenever I’m indoors?” he asked. “The moment we step inside the convention, I’ll take it off.”
“You’ll leave it on,” Thora said.
“That’s a severe etiquette breach.”
Thora patted him on the shoulder. “There are exceptions for public places. We’ll decide that this is one of those public places, shall we? Security seems to be a fair reason to make an exception in this case.”
“I don’t like it.”
Thora watched him with an amused look on her face. “Do you like the mustache?” she asked, effectively changing the subject.
He picked up one of the handheld mirrors and studied himself. “It’s trim, at least,” he said. Thora had darkened and thickened Sargeant’s eyebrows and had given him a five o’clock shadow.
“It would be better if you grow one naturally,” she said, “but we don’t have time for that. I’ll ask you not to shave tomorrow morning.”
“Not shave?” he gasped.
She squinted, ignoring his apoplectic response. Tapping a thoughtful finger against her lips, she tilted her head. “Do you usually shave at night, too?”
By his horrified and aghast expression, you would have thought she’d asked the sensitivity director about his choice of underwear. “My heavens, woman,” he began.
“You appear to have a heavy beard. I’d prefer you not shave tonight or tomorrow, yes? And be sure to wear the clothing we picked out. I’d prefer you try it on now, but since you insist otherwise, I’ll bow to your wishes. Tomorrow, however,” she wiggled her fingers toward the outfit hanging over the back of Sargeant’s chair, “it’s dress-up time.” Without waiting for him to respond, she turned to me. “He’s so cute, isn’t he?”
It took me a moment to realize she was talking about Sargeant and not about Josh, who was preening in the mirror.
“Cute,” I repeated with a wide grin. “Yes, most definitely cute.”
Sargeant gurgled and turned away.
“What about you?” Thora asked. “What do you think?”
Josh piped up before I could answer. “You look like a schoolteacher.”
“I don’t know about this,” I said. Josh moved out of the way so that I could get a full-length look at myself. I held a hand against my mouth and spoke hesitantly through my fingers. “I’ve never been blonde before. I don’t usually wear clothing like this.”
Thora had outfitted me with a shoulder-length blonde wig that looked surprisingly natural. I fingered the wavy tresses like they were some sort of alien thing. Not me. Not me at all.
“You’ll get used to it,” Thora said with a confident lilt. “I daresay Josh is right. But I think you look more like Reese Witherspoon playing a teacher.”
Mrs. Hyden, who had been quiet through this discussion, chimed in, “No, I think more like Julie Bowen from TV.”
“But with glasses,” Mrs. Hyden and Thora said together.
I didn’t see myself as either of the actresses they mentioned. I did, however, see the schoolteacher look. I had to admit, I was able to empathize with Sargeant on this one and understood his discomposure. Every day we look in mirrors and see ourselves exactly as we expect. Today the three of us saw new people gaping back at us. Josh thought it was funny, but to me it just felt weird.
The outfit Thora had chosen for me—I’d learned during the process that she’d been given size information for all of us ahead of time—was as different from my personal style as I could get. “I don’t understand,” I said, “if we’re traveling together—Josh, Peter, and I—shouldn’t we all be dressed similarly?” I grabbed at the side of the pink V-necked dress she’d picked out for me. There was very little give because the dress was so form-fitting. The sleeveless print fabric ended above my knees, showing a great deal of leg over the matching heels.
I was glad I hadn’t eaten lunch yet. One more ounce of fat on me and I risked bursting through the seams. “This is dressy and they’re so casual.”
I took another look in the mirror. The pink outfit, long blonde hair, and strappy heels really did make me look like Reese Witherspoon from Legally Blonde. But only if you didn’t look too closely. She was much prettier.
Thora was unfazed by my complaint. “We’re staging Peter as your father, Josh as your son.”
“What?” Sargeant exclaimed. “I’m not old enough…”
Thora slid an arm around him, cutting him off. “No, dear, of course you’re not.” She winked at me. “We’re all just playacting.”
I went to rub my eyes, forgetting about the glasses until my knuckle hit frame. I took a look at those now, too. Stylish and oversized, they pegged me as a person who took great pains with her appearance before walking out the door every day. So not me. “Playacting,” I repeated.
I wished I’d never mentioned the Food Expo to Mrs. Hyden.
CHAPTER 12
“YOU READY FOR THIS?” GAV ASKED LATER THAT afternoon.
“As I’ll ever be.”
We sat in Gav’s car outside Harold Linka’s home, planning our strategy for questioning the man. Linka lived about fifteen minutes from Pluto’s headquarters in an upmarket subdivision that
couldn’t be more than twenty years old. “He may refuse to talk with us, you realize,” he said.
“I know. We still have Michael Fitch on our list, too.” I tapped the pages in front of me. “Doesn’t it feel as though all we’re doing lately is talking to people?” I ticked names off my upraised fingers. “I talked with Eugene Vaughn. Then it was you and I visiting Joe Yablonski. Now this guy.” I sighed. “There’s very little forward motion here. Are we just spinning our wheels?”
Gav chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“You,” he said. “Think about it. Ever since I’ve known you—wait, since before I’ve known you—you’ve been involved in uncovering conspiracies, or finding bombs, or solving murders.”
I started to protest that I hadn’t intended to get involved in any of those, but he kept going.
“This is the first time you’re actively investigating a crime on your own. It’s not just any murder this time, it’s the murder of your dad. You want answers because this time it’s personal. You’re also investigating his dishonorable discharge, which you believe was either erroneously imparted or purposely done to harm his reputation. Have I missed anything so far?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.
“In the past, you’ve been targeted by international terrorists, bad guys with bombs, and assassins eager to shut you up. Through it all, you’ve been preparing state dinners for the leader of the free world.” He paused. “Still with me?”
I nodded.
“Talk to almost any law enforcement professional and you’ll hear the same story. A cop might never fire his or her gun in an emergency situation over an entire career. Secret Service agents spend all their time preparing so that there is no need for gunfire, so that threats are diminished before they ever unfold. Investigations involve a lot of legwork and require even more patience. What you’ve experienced thus far—the excitement, the fear, the terror—is an aberration.”
“Aberration. You’ve used that word before as it relates to me.”
He smiled but didn’t comment. “This”—he pointed to Harold Linka’s house—“is what investigations are really like. Tracking down leads, not knowing when something will pop. Staying with a thread until the story unravels and begins to make sense. I sense your impatience and, to be frank, I understand it. You’re used to a speedier time line.”
“You make it sound as though I’m complaining that life has settled down and become more normal.”
“Let’s take this one step at a time,” he said. “We’re moving slowly but methodically. Remember, all this happened more than twenty-five years ago. I’d say we’re making strong headway.”
“You really think so?”
“I do.”
I’d written pages of notes, all of which I intended to leave in the car. I wanted to take a pen and paper with me, but the last thing we wanted was to make Linka nervous. Then we’d be shut out for sure. “I have to hope our friend Harold is eager to relive his early years at Pluto with us. People like to reminisce, don’t they?”
Gav gave me a look filled with skepticism. “It’s not like you’re here to provide him an opportunity to share his glory days. You’re looking for a clue as to who killed your father.”
“I know.”
“The fact that you’re showing up at his door makes your motive transparent.”
“I need to trace down every single lead,” I said. “Even if nothing leads anywhere. Even if I wind up knowing no more than I do right now, I need to at least try to find answers.” I heaved a sigh and looked up at the bright blue above. It wouldn’t be dark for a few more hours. “Once I believe, and I mean truly believe, that I’ve done my best, only then will I be able to let this drop.”
“Will you really?” he asked.
I rubbed my eyes. “I won’t have much choice.”
“No,” he said. “You won’t.” With a glance at the town-home’s front door, he added, “Let’s go.”
He started to open his door, but I grasped his arm. “Wait.”
He turned, piercing me with his gaze. “You aren’t getting cold feet. I know you better than that.”
“I wanted to say thank you. For all your help, for all your support,” I said, emotion making my words come out choppy and rough. “Knowing you’re with me through this makes all the difference.”
At once, the look in his eyes softened. “For you? Anything.”
We were halfway up the walk to Linka’s front door, taking the short flight of stairs instead of the wheelchair ramp. “He’s expecting us, right?”
Gav nodded. “I told him we were coming to talk about his work at Pluto.”
“But you weren’t specific?”
Gav reached forward and rang the doorbell. We heard the muffled chimes through the door. “He tried to push back a little, but I kept it vague. Danced around a bit.”
“I guess that’s—”
The front door opened. A woman in her late fifties smiled at us. Attractive, wearing yoga pants and a pink tank top, she had her blonde hair pulled back into a tight chignon. “You must be Leonard Gavin,” she said smoothly. She glanced at me as though expecting Gav to make introductions. He remained silent. “I’m Harry’s wife, Kate. Come right in. He’s expecting you.”
Politeness dictated that she lead us through the single-level home, but we could have easily found our way. The open, contemporary space had few walls and featured plenty of wide pathways. The walls were pastel, the lines clean. We took in the living room, dining room, and kitchen area all at once. Barrierless, this was an ideal home for a person in a wheelchair. Across the expansive teak floor, past a hallway that led to the more private areas of the home, Harold Linka sat in the family room, watching our approach.
Even though he was seated, you could tell he was a tall man, blonde like his wife, with a full head of hair despite his advanced age. He had his back to French doors that overlooked the couple’s small yard where colorful petunias burst from flower boxes around a tiny patio.
A fluffy white dog lay across the man’s lap. “Good afternoon,” Linka said. For a man who had spent the last quarter-century in a wheelchair, he had a surprisingly strong voice. “I rarely get visits from strangers these days. Your phone call gave me pause.”
He stared up at us with a bright, shrewd expression. Gav stepped forward and shook the man’s hand, saying, “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”
I nodded hello and stepped forward to shake hands, too.
Harold Linka’s brows came together and he gripped my hand, hard. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said. Before I could respond, he said, “Mr. Gavin, you haven’t introduced your lovely companion. Is this your wife?”
“Not yet, sir.”
Not yet? My head snapped to face Gav.
He gave a little smile and shrug. “Allow me to present Olivia Paras.”
Linka gripped tighter. “Olivia Paras?”
“Yes,” I said.
He didn’t let go. Glancing toward Gav, he narrowed his eyes. “You’re not here to interview me for an article, are you?”
Gav took in a breath. “I never said I was.”
“Hmm,” Harold said. “No, you didn’t. I inferred that. But you let me.” Turning his attention back to me, he finally let go of my hand. “Let me look at you, child. You’re Anthony’s little girl, aren’t you?”
It took me a moment to find my voice. “I am.”
His wife had been standing behind us. “Who’s that, Harry?”
“A friend of mine. From a long time ago.” He waved a hand toward the front of the house. “You’ve got your class tonight, dear. Now that you see for yourself that these two young people don’t intend to do me any harm, you can be on your way.”
She had her arms folded across her chest. “Trying to get rid of me?”
He smiled up at her. “Yes. Now go. I’ll fill you in later.”
She gave us a smile, said, “It was nice meeting you,” picked up her pu
rse, and left.
“Sit,” Harold said, waving a long finger toward a pale orange sofa. As we complied, he began stroking the dog’s fur.
“Olivia Paras,” he said again. “Your father used to talk about you all the time.”
I was overcome with the desire to beg him to share everything my dad had ever said about me. I didn’t know if it was like this for all children who’d ever lost a parent, but here I was, an adult who barely remembered her own father, meeting a man who’d known and worked with him. I wanted to crawl into Linka’s brain, his heart, and examine every imprint my dad might have left there. I’d begged every story out of my mother countless times. But this man, unlike Eugene Vaughn with his ostensibly failing memory, might be able to give me more. I opened my mouth to ask him to please, please share everything he knew, but all I could manage to say was, “He did?”
“He was so proud of you.” Harold’s face creased into a smile. “I take it that’s why you’re here. You’re not interested in Pluto; you’re interested in what I can tell you about your father. Am I right?”
I was interested in both, but I nodded. “I’m glad you remember him.”
“Tony? Of course.” He settled more deeply into his chair and studied me. “You look like him, you know. I didn’t see it initially, but I do now.”
Pleased that he’d relaxed, I remained perched at the edge of the sofa. “What can you tell me about him, Mr. Linka?”
He waved a sturdy hand. “Call me Harry. Even though I’m clearly old enough to be your father, that Mr. Linka stuff makes me feel old. Everybody calls me Harry.”
“Harry,” I said, smiling. “I can’t tell you how great it is to meet someone who actually knew my dad.” I shrugged. “Other than my mom, of course.”
“Your dad talked about her all the time, too. Quite the family man, your father. How is your mother?”
My heart stirred, beating a little harder, a little warmer. Gav pressed a hand on my knee, and I understood its significance. We were here to investigate my dad’s murder and his history with Pluto. As tempting as it was to get lost in stories of the past, I needed to maintain focus.