by Eva Shaw
“Tell me why you’re asking.” Would he? Ask and you shall be given, says the instruction book I live by, so I did. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Your pastor is involved with the PSA and those folks who offer adoptions from Poland. Petra is Polish. Remember how I filled in for another detective the other night? Looking through some paperwork, I saw that she has a restraining order out against her to stay away from Cheney’s office and home. Did you know that? Petra is the name of the dance teacher that Henry’s raved about all during the fifth inning. Coincidence?”
“Ah, no.” Didn’t know the little gal was dangerous, because heck, even in my checkered past, I never had one of those against me.
“Listen, Jane, this is bad business.”
“I know what Petra told me, know she’s grandfather’s ballroom dancing instructor and his friend, maybe my friend too, but it’s too soon to tell.”
“But she’s confided in you?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Is this official, Tom? Because if it is, you’ll have to take me into the station. I’m not at liberty to discuss spiritual matters I’ve learned or discussed with others unless someone is breaking the law or in harm’s way.” I stood taller, or hoped I did, pulling my shoulders back. I wouldn’t be bullied by a cop, especially this one.
“When you were doing your gymnastics workout earlier today, remember I got a page from the Chief? She wanted to see me because I’ve gotten a promotion.”
“Hey, Tom, congratulations.” I patted his arm, okay, and let my fingers linger longer than patting required. He didn’t smile. “Is this a bad promotion?”
“Yeah, well, it’s a special unit, newly organized to uncover exploitation of children and aliens in Vegas.”
“Children I understand, but aliens? We’re not talking about Area 51, are we? We’re not too far from there, I hear.” Could this actually have anything to do with the story Petra had told me about the much-bespangled Cheney woman?
“Wish it could be. No, these are undocumented folks, and this is a human trafficking division. Your Petra has a Polish passport, on a study and work visa. It’s legit. The stuff I’ve been assigned to check out could have ramifications, big ones. Guess only you can decide if this trouble is worth the trouble.”
“You expecting an amen? Or are you warning me off? Or are you being my big, strong protector?”
“Never would attempt that.” He touched me, his fingers now lingering on my bare shoulder, or it could have been lustful thinking—even though I was still ticked for being told what to do, other parts of me quickly ignored it.
“If you hear anything that needs to be brought to the authorities, can I depend on you to call me? Day or night?”
“That’s a big promise, Tom, knowing I’m a minister.”
“Just say you’ll consider it.”
We locked eyes, of course, I had to look up to do it. But do it, I did. Almost as if I were waiting for him to flinch, and he may have, but Gramps’ voice bellowed from the open door. “Jane, baby, Wayne Newton is on the phone.”
“Gramps, just tell the caller to wait,” I screamed in a melodic voice and turned to Tom, “If you hear anything that could negatively affect Harmony or my church, will you tell me?”
“We got a deal.” He took my hand; I held my breath. “Thanks for the family time. Back to finish some reports.”
It was Wayne Newton. Honestly and truly and it was because Monica, she I had formerly called Cruella, had asked him to call me. The woman was a treasure, a jewel, a joy. Wayne—yes, he asked me to call him Wayne—came straight to the point.
“I can’t sing—not that I can’t, but I’m under contract to only perform at the casino,” he said in that golden voice and then explained that he’d show up, even dance. “I’m not much of a ballroom dancer,” said the legend, “but I’ll try if you’re gentle with me, and if you’ll give me a few pointers.”
I blubbered and sputtered and spittle sprayed as I tried to sound somewhat intelligent. I also forgot to get his phone number or how to contact him. Gramps is a legend, too, in the world of rock and roll and with Baby Boomers, so I’ve met my fair share of celebrities, but somehow the Wayne Newton, as much of a legend as Elvis, turned the sensible side of me into mush.
I threw my precious, petite head back for a good, old-fashioned, honking laugh, then picked up the phone again to pop in Petra’s number. Life was good and would be a whole bundle better once I cleared up a few loose ends, such as if Petra would teach Mr. Newton to dance and why she had a restraining order against her. I was so tickled pink that at that second I didn’t even think about Pastor Bob and his issues with forgiveness, or what he’d done to need that kind of forgiveness.
I sure as shootin’ should have.
• • •
I left a message on Petra’s voice mail and paced the condo watching Gramps teach Harmony to play a few chords on Bertha, his guitar, as the little dog cooled his belly on the kitchen’s marble floor. I might never be totally a dog person, gaga over the ball of fuzz, but there was no doubt in my mind that the pooch was doing good for Harmony, even though heaven only knew what the landlord would charge me for having a mutt in the family. Jeopardy was on. I hollered, “I’ll take Polish Black-Market Babies for a thousand, Alex.” Alex didn’t answer, didn’t even look smug.
I called to my household, “There’s a report I have to finish at church. See you later,” but only his Royal Tuffster looked my way as I headed out the door.
The church parking lot was packed with cars. The Community College of Southern Nevada held senior fitness in the rec room, and I dodged a gaggle of grandmothers practicing their kickboxing grunts as I blitzed around a corner, colliding smack dab into Delta Cheney. We jumped apart, cooties coming too close. Apparently even though Monica and I were bosom buds, Delta and I were not. Fine by me.
Bracelets clanged. “What are you doing here?”
“Good evening to you, too. I work here. Remember?”
“Shouldn’t you be home with your husband or boyfriend or something like that?”
My dateless, unmarried state of living was none of her darned beeswax. Besides, she reminded me of those girls in high school who always ridiculed us social outcasts. I held my sharp little tongue and let just a little bit of venom out. “How nice of you to remind me.” Then, out of the blue, I leaned closer to her, smelling White Diamond perfume, and whispered, “Delta, do you have a few minutes? I’d like to ask something. Didn’t want to say anything in front of Monica or Pastor Bob. It’s personal.”
One thing girls knew growing up—if there was anything snobby high school social types loved it was getting the dish on us creepy geeks. Even though it had been nearly a quarter century since I’d been in high school, my inner nerd was alive and well. For once, it was useful. Delta slipped a hand in the crook of my arm, all girlfriend like. Apparently cooties were a thing of the past as she said, “I have a few minutes.”
We got to my cubbyhole. “Please. Sit down. Well, you see, I’m not married.”
“Better sometimes, honey, don’t kid yourself,” she said, pushing ten of the forty bracelets back up toward an elbow.
“My husband Collin died about five years ago. We wanted children, but . . . ” I waved my hand. This was cutting close to my heart, and while I wanted truth from her, there was just so much this girl was willing to share. “I understand PSA arranges adoptions.”
She placed her palms on each side of her face, and her mouth turned into a red heart shape that smacked a kiss. Disgusting. “You want to adopt one of our precious bundles of joy?”
“You understand I’m not married, nor are there any prospects on the horizon.”
“Jane, you’re educated, you are financially secure, and as a person of the cloth, you’re a pillar of the community.”
One out of three w
asn’t bad. I wasn’t currently penniless. I didn’t owe anyone anything much if you disregard the recent charges at the plus size sections of Victoria’s Secret, Macy’s, and J. Jill on my Visa. A summer sale cannot be missed—it’s the code of a true shopper. As for a pillar of the community, well, don’t ask the police in Los Angeles or San Diego, because they’d tell you my nose has a way of getting into trouble. And after my meeting with the representative from the District Council come Friday, I might be unemployed, but gee, as for educated, I’m good.
“So there are babies?” I squinted, hoping this added a gooey dollop of glimmer to my eyes and a goofy smile.
She extended a bebangled arm and patted my hand. “PSA is the largest and most respected faith-based, not-for-profit-adoption service in the country. We’re proud of our work placing Polish babies and children with families who are not blessed with offspring or are doing God’s work by bringing more children into their homes.”
She pushed a yellow diamond, something like I’d just seen on Antiques Roadshow that bagged bundles of bucks, around her index finger, straightening in a way that if the sun were shinning directly on it, it would have blind me. She could have inherited money, some folks do, although I’ve personally never known any. I’ve continued to harbor a grudge against my great-grandparents because they weren’t filthy rich, but that aside, she smiled. I did, too.
“I’ve just been hearing a lot about the PSA, Delta.”
“Because we’re connected with orphanages, babies are ready for adoption without American parents flying all the way over to Europe for pickup. Our mommies and daddies simply don’t have that much extra time. And time is money, isn’t it?”
“I’m beginning to see,” I agreed. And I felt creepy.
“We ensure that the right parents are placed with each of our precious little ones.”
“Oh, my goodness, that would be essential,” I replied, wondering if this was the “insure,” as in their insurance policy, or ensure? Where did the disposable kids come in?
“I’d just get all cozy inside if I could show you some photos of our orphanages and the biological parents who have placed their precious bundles of joy with our American friends. Ohhh, you’ll just melt.”
“Delta, what if the baby doesn’t like me or I don’t like her? I’d feel just terrible if that bundle of joy didn’t like me.” I made my voice sound tiny, good trick for a gal my size, but I’ve perfected it for lethal use over the years.
“Silly girl. We have that all arranged.”
Out spilled the details of the insurance plan to avoid this awkwardness, with a monthly service fee before parents paid for the final adoption and which continued for five full years. “The service fee can even be continued after five years in case,” she whispered, “the children become willful as teens and too difficult to handle.”
“Parents can return them like an appliance they don’t like?” Rumor had it that the most loving parents of teenagers sometimes wanted to return their own offspring, yet my stomach lurched. Where were those trashed by PSA? Did Petra know? Did I dare tell her or Tom?
Delta must have noticed the grimace even though she had pulled out a compact to add yet another a coat of powder and lipstick. “Let’s be honest, Jane. There are times when adopted children do not bond. This happen. We give choices,” she said, adding lip-gloss, and smacked her lips together. “We simply arrange for another child or darling baby to be exchanged for the one previously in that home. Or adoptive parents can opt out—” She continued to smile, once she checked her teeth for lipstick and removed the inky pink flecks from her incisors. “—when the return fee is paid.”
I felt my eyes bug out. “So I pay a fee and return the child?”
“Exactly. It’s privately arranged and not part of our bungling, red-tape-filled silly old government or even part of the bureaucratic programs in Poland. Makes it ever so much easier. You can be sure of a smooth delivery of your child, unlike the natural type.” She chuckled, in what I thought was meant to be a woman-to-woman joke on labor pains. She rubbed a finger across her teeth, then checked the compact again. “I haven’t been blessed with babies. It’s because He knows I help mommies and daddies to be parents.” She sighed and half closed her eyes, before they flicked open then shut, just to see if I’d taken the bait.
“This is exactly what I wanted to know, Delta.” Not that she didn’t have children, but about PSA. “What do I do next? Some background checking?”
“Oh, I’m sure working with Bobby, I mean Pastor Bob, you’ve got a perfect record. Come to the office and see some of the photos of the babies and the Child’s Play Baby Home in Poland, where most of our infants and children reside for just a few days before they come here to the United States.”
My cell rang. I didn’t recognize the number. “Jane Angieski here.”
“Jane, Tom. Can’t talk much. You asked about the PSA?”
“I’m in a meeting. Can I call you back?”
“No, actually, I wanted to know something. This sounds odd, but any chance your grandfather speaks Polish? I thought he said something to that mutt who brought us together.”
“Yes, but it’s not unusual.”
“How fluent is he?”
“The dog?”
“Yeah, the dog. The guys at the station are going on Letterman and need a dog that barks in Polish. Jeeze Louise, are you even listening?”
“He’s good. Gramps.”
“I’ve called your condo, just got the machine. I can’t leave right now. Could I have a favor? Get him to come down here, like pronto?”
“Good talking with you. You bet.” I closed the phone. Tom didn’t need to know I was chumming it up with Delta, but whatever it was, I could get Gramps to return Tom’s call. “I need to head home now and speak with my grandfather. May I see you tomorrow, Delta?”
We shook hands, and she held mine a tad too long, rubbing a circle on the back of my hand with her index finger. “Do you, um, have a special, um, life partner?” She smiled again.
“Are you asking me out, Delta?” I know the gulp was audible, even to me, but it didn’t stop her next question.
“You’re attractive, Jane, in a wholesome, well-padded way some women like. So do you?”
Okay, I’d go so far to help orphans, but dating Delta Cheney wasn’t my cup of cocoa. “I hope to see more of one special man.” She’d been flirting with me and, duh, I didn’t even know it and it dawned on me that this was the reason that Pastor Bob seemed to be conflicted with her attentions.
“Never hurts a girl to ask.” She shrugged and sashayed out of my office, stilettos echoing as Delta left the building.
I breathed. “That went well,” I said out loud, then closed my desk and ran to the SUV. Fifteen hot minutes later, I was pulling into the driveway as Gramps and Harmony were pulling out, with the top down on the car. “Off to see Tom?” I asked.
“Who? Oh, your cop friend. No, Harmony and I are going to meet her father for a short visit. Got a call from Child Protective Services and if she’s supervised, we can visit with him tonight at the program home. I tried to call you, but your phone was busy.”
I watched Harmony’s face sitting next to Gramps, and it looked like she’d rather have seconds of succotash and liver than visit with her father. The girl at least could talk to her dad.
Then I saw something missing. “Where’s the pooch?”
“Had to leave him in the house. You might want to check. Got a bad feeling about it.” Then he looked at his watch. “We’ve got to go. See you later.”
I let the engine run, cranked up the A/C to higher than high, and thought about the dog. I knew some Polish, could read a bit, and if I could help Tom with something about the PSA, maybe I’d get some information, too. As I opened the door a crack, I had a queer feeling that Tuffy had been listening. He was statu
e still next to his leash near the door; only the stub of a tail wagged.
I didn’t want to, but I peeked down the hall. Toilet paper. Tiny bits of the stuff. Then I saw shreds of leftover pizza boxes on the kitchen floor. “Executive decision. Let’s go for a ride, my little menacing friend.” I picked up his leash and car harness and slipped the end into the buckle of his collar.
Fifteen minutes later Tuffy and I arrived at LVPD, central station, and he walked in like he owned the joint. “Captain Tom Morales?” I said Tom’s name and felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Nicer to see you than Henry.” If possible, Tom was more rumpled, and now I could see the bristle on his face had flecks of gray.
My hormones took over and I leaned in to smell him, then blinked out of that fantasy and stepped back.
But he moved into the spot I’d retreated from. “You go everywhere with that fur ball?”
“He’s safer here and so is my living room furniture. Gramps and Harmony are off for a parental visit with her father. You get me instead.” I caught a glimpse of myself in what I decided was a one-way mirror in the reception area and didn’t like what I saw: frazzled, hassled and yet oddly attractive to Delta Cheney. You can cringe if you want to. I did.
“You speak the language, too?” He took my arm and Tuffy’s leash, escorting us down the neon-lighted hall.
“My vocabulary stinks, to be honest. Could never conjugate the verbs.”
As the door opened, I saw her. There was a Miss Nevada look-alike in sensible tan slacks and a pale blue lawn cotton shirt I’d recently coveted at J. Jill, with a bright badge on her tan leather belt. Her red hair had gloriously almond highlights. I coveted that hair, too.
“Officer Christina Nelson, community service rep. Officer Christy, Pastor Jane.” He looked at her and me. “Don’t let the girly looks fool you. Christy’s a tough cop, and we’re working together on this case.”
I pulled my eyes from her perfect complexion and there was a child standing, no hiding, right behind her. He was no more than five, sunken cheeks, puffy lips and eyes that would have been perfect in a Dickens play.