“I assume you’re implying that it was me,” Paine said, frowning a little at Gil’s question. “If you want to continue with that line of questioning, you can contact my wife’s attorney.”
Gil tried a different tact. “Can I talk to Sandra?”
“I’m sorry, that’s not possible. She’s been sent to Denver to stay with her aunt.”
Conveniently gone so that the police couldn’t question her, Gil thought. But at least if she was out of town, she was also safe from the man who had taken the photos.
Paine eased back in his seat. “Besides,” he said, “it wouldn’t do you any good to talk to Sandra. She is very stubborn. She would never tell you anything, and she’d just call you a million nasty names. She gets it from her mother. And believe me, Sandra wasn’t forced into taking the photos. She did it willingly. She’ll try anything.”
Gil was having a hard time finding his way through this interview. Dr. Paine wasn’t reacting correctly to any of the questions. He had had no emotional outbursts and didn’t even seemed concerned about his daughter. He looked like a man engaged in boring dinner conversation. Gil wondered why that was.
“Where is your wife?” Gil asked. Mrs. Paine might be more willing to help her daughter and give him the names of friends Sandra might have confided in. At the very least, Gil might be better able to judge her reactions to his questions.
“She’s out right now, but I will tell her that you stopped by.”
“May I ask where you were on Monday night?” Gil asked.
Dr. Paine looked at him calmly. “Once again, I must remind you that any further questions in this area must be directed to our family attorney. However, I don’t want to seem difficult. I was in surgery until nine P.M.”
“And your wife?”
“Here at home with Sandra,” he said.
Gil glanced around the huge room. “Can I see any other couches you have in the house?”
“There are only these two.” Paine sat quietly, looking at Gil. The man was too calm. Was he on medication? Had he been drinking? Or was he telling the truth? Was he so used to Sandra’s misbehaving that it no longer interested him? Gil had seen the families of drug addicts act unconcerned because they had seen it all before. They were tired of the drama. But this was a twelve-year-old girl. How much drama could she have caused?
Gil got up, gave Paine his business card, and asked him to give it to his wife. He was opening the front door when Paine said, “It seems to me you should be looking at Miss Baca’s drugged-out friends. That’s what she gets for leading that kind of life.”
Sandra Paine watched the tall Hispanic detective through the upstairs window as he left. The back of his head looked a little like Gregory Peck’s.
As the detective was getting into his car, he slipped a little on some black ice. Sandra giggled. Her father, who was just reaching the top of the stairs, glanced at her sharply. Like she wasn’t supposed to laugh. She glared at him and went into her room, careful to slam the door.
She sat down at her computer and typed “Gregory Peck” in one of the search engines. A Web site created by someone named Jo-jo popped up. Pictures of the actor were surrounded by a border of roses.
“What a cutie,” she whispered to herself. She clicked on an audio clip from one of his movies, but her computer froze and started to crash.
“Dammit to hell and back with a stick,” she said. She loved making new sayings out of the bad words she knew. Her second favorite thing to say was “thanks ever so.” She had picked that up from an old Marilyn Monroe movie her friend Lacey had rented. When Sandra’s mother had told her that she was being shipped off to Colorado, she’d smiled sweetly and, with all the fake sugar she could muster, said, “Thanks ever so.” She’d gotten slapped for that one.
She glanced at the phone on her desk. Her parents had cut off her phone and e-mail after the “second incident,” as they called it. But they had forgotten about the cell phone in her purse. Her boyfriend had texted her seven times since yesterday—seven times. She was using her Cosmo trick—keep him guessing—and hadn’t called him back. She was still getting used to the word boyfriend. She said it softly several times into the mirror.
Her suitcase was sprawled across her bed but she hadn’t packed anything yet. She was still considering.
At first she had refused to pack, yelling baby things at her parents like, “You can’t make me,” and, “I’d rather die first.” In the end, she’d given in after her mother started pulling out all her oversize T-shirts and baggy jeans. She was going to Colorado, not to Siberia.
But now she was having trouble packing. Lacey had been trying to convince her that her boyfriend—Sandra smiled at the word—would come to whisk her away, like in the end of It Happened One Night. A knight in shining armor and all that. But Sandra wasn’t so sure. She thought that it would make more sense for them to play it cool, pretend that it was over, and then, when everyone least suspected it, fly off to Mexico.
She had to pack for either eventuality.
She walked over to her calendar hanging on the wall. Each day—for the past twenty-four days—had an X on it. Her mother had once asked her what the X’s were for. Sandra had lied, saying that she was marking off the days she had been dieting. She mother hadn’t asked any more about it. Sandra had been careful since then to keep her mother out of her room.
If her mother had checked, she would have realized that the X’s started on the day of the first incident. Sandra counted the X’s again. For twenty-four days she had had a boyfriend.
The first incident had started like one of those stories you read in Cosmo’s agony column. Miss Baca had caught her with a silver flask—bought with birthday money from her grandma—full of vodka. She had been sent to the principal’s office and they had called the cops. That was the first time she had met her boyfriend. Her lover. She giggled at the word.
She considered packing the calendar, but there was a chance that her aunt would be nosy and go through her suitcase once she got to Colorado. She made an exaggerated sigh—a “Greta Garbo lament,” Lacey called it—and looked back at her empty suitcase.
Lucy got to work just in time for the editor’s meeting at three o’clock, but she paid little attention. She was thinking about Melissa Baca. When she got back to her desk, she paged Tommy Martinez. He called her back fifteen minutes later.
“Hey, boss. I got your message. What’s up?” he asked.
“Tommy, I need a favor. It’s important.”
She heard the wariness in his voice when he said, “Sure, boss.”
She took a deep breath. “Tommy, I need to know the names of the sources who told you Melissa Baca was doing drugs.”
He hesitated. For too long.
“Tommy, I know it’s not usually how I do things, but I have to know.” He still didn’t answer. Lucy’s run-in with Hector Morales last night had started her thinking. What if he was telling the truth? What if Melissa Baca hadn’t done drugs? By the answers Hector gave to Gil’s questions, she could tell the Gil had gotten bad info from someone. But from whom? And if Gil had gotten bad info, maybe the newspaper had, too.
“I promise you that I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone if I can help it, but there is the possibility that Melissa didn’t do drugs. If we’ve misrepresented the facts to the reader …”
“We didn’t misrepresent anything. The syringe was found in her car and our sources confirmed she was using drugs.”
“I think our sources were wrong.”
“No way. Not possible. These guys know what they’re talking about. And we know drugs were found in her car.”
“Tommy,” she said firmly, “I will not argue this with you.”
In the end, he told her the names of his sources—Santa Fe Police Officers Manny Cordova and Ron Baca and Lieutenant Tim Pollack of the state police. Tommy added that Pollack was the one who had leaked the autopsy to them.
Lucy was looking up triangulating cell-phone towers on the Intern
et when her managing editor gestured at her to come into his office. He said. “You said you wanted to talk to me?”
She had asked to speak with John Lopez right after her conversation with Tommy Martinez. At the time, she’d been pretty clear about what she wanted to say, but now she wasn’t so sure. She started with, “I think we may have been wrong in the Melissa Baca story that was in Wednesday’s paper.”
Lopez always looked so concerned. “How so?”
“We said Melissa was a drug user, but I don’t think she was.”
“What makes you think that?” Even though she wanted to, Lucy couldn’t mention what Hector Morales had said. She had promised Gil.
“Well, on a hunch, I asked Tommy Martinez who the sources were that said Melissa’s Baca did drugs. He said one of them was Melissa’s brother,” she said.
“That’s interesting.” More of the concerned look.
“I think so. I mean, it’s really weird that a brother would offer up that kind of information. Normally, he’d be the one screaming if we printed something like that. It makes me think that maybe he’s involved in her murder.”
“What do you want to do about it?”
“Well, it’d be great if we could say he was the one who gave us the tip, but we can’t, because it was off the record. I think the best we can do is print a story that casts some doubt on the drug angle.”
“Are the police no longer saying drugs were involved in Melissa’s death?”
Lucy faltered. “No.”
“Do you have any hard evidence that our sources were lying?”
“No, but it’s very strange.”
Lopez nodded. They sat without talking, Lopez just staring at her, as if waiting for her to have an epiphany.
“Why do you think you’re really talking to me about this?” he asked. His psychiatrist-sounding voice was perfectly modulated. It was inquisitive, yet not threatening or judgmental. The man had missed his calling.
She stumbled, saying, “I don’t know….”
“Do you think maybe it’s because you’re feeling guilty?” She didn’t answer. He continued. “Do you think that maybe if you’d asked Tommy Martinez who his sources were to begin with, that you would have handled this differently? That maybe you would have questioned the information about the drugs initially?”
That was the truth, of course. If she’d been like the other editors, she would have asked Tommy who his sources were. She would have known that Melissa’s brother was the leak from the beginning. And she would have wondered why. She wouldn’t have let the information about the drugs get into the paper. Now everyone in Santa Fe thought Melissa Baca had been an addict. And there was no taking that back. Ever. And it was her fault.
Lopez watched her, considering, before he said, “If the police ever officially say that Melissa Baca didn’t do drugs, we’ll write a story about it. But, until that happens, we do nothing.”
Mrs. Paine jumped up from the table, almost knocking it over, when she saw Gil come in. Her coffee was still swishing in its cup as they shook hands. Her skin was soft, but her nails were bitten down to the quick. The nail of her ring finger was shredded so low that it was spotted with blood.
Gil recalled an instructor at the police academy who used to categorize all the people he interviewed as animals. “Elephants never kill anyone, but watch out for those badgers,” he would say. Mrs. Paine reminded Gil of a ferret. She looked like she was on something. Her small, dark eyes looked unfocused and her upper lip was sweaty. She wiped it with a napkin. She adjusted the scarf and the gold chain around her neck.
She had called him, saying that her husband had told her about Gil’s visit and that she wanted to clear up a few things. They were at a coffee shop where a Chinese restaurant had been a month ago. Mrs. Paine didn’t look like she needed coffee.
She said that her first name was Joyce, then said nothing else. She just sat there, tearing at the rim of her paper coffee cup, reducing it to small pieces.
“How did you find out about the photos?” Gil prompted.
“Oh, I …” She stopped and waved a hand in front of her face, then said, “I found them when I was cleaning up Sandra’s room”
“Do you know who took the photos?”
“We didn’t ask her. But believe me when I say it wasn’t anyone we know.”
“How can you be sure?”
“My husband ripped up the photos we found and tossed them out, so we don’t have them anymore. The ones Miss Baca found must be extras.” It wasn’t exactly an answer to his question.
“Do you have any guesses as to who the man might be?”
“No. I’ve thought about it, wondered what I could have done to …” She stopped. “I don’t know.” Her way of answering his questions was interesting. It seemed that she was having a hard time following the conversation.
“Do you think Sandra was forced into taking the photos?”
Mrs. Paine laughed. “Sandra has never been forced into anything in her life. She wanted to take the photos, believe me. They were probably her idea.”
“You have no idea who the man is? I think it’s a little odd that you never asked her his name.”
“I learned a long time ago that I can’t make Sandra do anything, so I’ve given up trying. If I had asked, she would have laughed in my face.”
Gil wasn’t so sure. “How is your husband’s relationship with Sandra?”
“My husband couldn’t have molested her. He’s never home. I don’t see how it’s possible.” It surprised Gil that she’d brought up the molestation on her own. It was a strange thing to say.
“Have you ever seen anything that would make you think your husband molested her?”
“Of course not. Never. My husband loves her,” she said calmly, without much emotion. Disinterested. She looked off into the distance. He wondered if she had some mental illness.
“How do you get along with Sandra?” he asked.
“She’s very headstrong. She always has been, even as a baby. She doesn’t tell me things. I’m not her confidante,” she said.
“Does she tell your husband things?”
The same laugh. “God, no. He wouldn’t even know what to do if she spoke more than two words to him. I think he’d die of fright.” Gil noticed that she’d insulted her husband as easily as Dr. Paine had insulted her.
“Where is Sandra now?” he asked.
“In Denver at her aunt’s.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“I’d have to ask my attorney.”
Maxine Baca sat with Veronica Cordova in the kitchen. Veronica was making rice and beans, which Maxine had told her she didn’t want. Her friend was talking about Manny and how he was so upset over Melissa’s death. Maxine was tired of hearing about Melissa. She wished that Veronica would stop talking.
“Remember when Melissa was born? You were so happy,” Veronica said. “All you wanted to do was stay in your hospital room and hold your beautiful baby girl.”
After Melissa was born, the doctors kept wanting Maxine to eat. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. Not until her baby was baptized. Maxine had wanted to have Melissa’s baptism right away, but Ernesto said no. He said that if Maxine wanted to starve herself because of some ritual, that was fine, but he wanted Melissa baptized in a church. But Ernesto didn’t understand. Maxine had the priest come by the hospital and he baptized Melissa while some of the nurses watched. When Ernesto came to visit, Maxine told him about the baptism. He called her a name and went home.
But she couldn’t go home. The doctors said that she was bleeding inside. At first, Maxine thought that God was punishing her for not remembering Daniel. So she got down on her knees in the hospital room and prayed the rosary for him, to prove to the Lord that Daniel would always be everything to her. But she prayed the rosary for three days, and the doctors found more things wrong with her. She had to have a blood transfusion and they gave her some drugs. Ernesto wouldn’t come to the hospital. H
e said he had to work. Veronica came and brought Ron with her, but he wouldn’t come into the room. Maxine kept asking God why she couldn’t go home, but God wouldn’t answer her. The priest came back and Maxine confessed her sins. But the next day, the doctors said that she was getting worse.
Then Maxine’s mother came to visit. Her mother took Melissa out of Maxine’s arms while she was nursing. Her mother kept kissing Melissa on both cheeks and her mouth, saying that it was to keep the baby smell away so that the evil that stole babies couldn’t find Melissa. Her mother stayed past visiting hours and yelled at the nurses when they asked her to leave. She finally left after midnight, saying that she would come back the next day to visit. Before she left, she pinched Melissa under the arm. She said it was for good luck. Melissa started crying.
The next morning, Maxine left the hospital without telling anyone and walked the four miles home, carrying Melissa. She knew why her mother had come to see her. And she knew why God in his mercy had been making her sick. He had wanted her to stay in the hospital to protect her and Melissa from Maxine’s mother.
Maxine knew that her mother was coming to take Melissa, just like Maxine’s grandmother had taken Maxine’s baby sister.
When Maxine was about five, she and her sisters had been home alone one day. Her mother had taken her brother with her while she got her hair done. Maxine’s older sister, who was seven, was left in charge of Maxine and the baby. Their mother had been gone for only a few minutes when the front door slammed open and their grandmother walked in, carrying a suitcase. Maxine and her sister ran into the kitchen, afraid of Abuela and her pinching fingers. They heard her throwing things into the suitcase in the baby’s room. Then Abuela was in the kitchen, carrying the baby and the suitcase in one arm. Maxine was hanging on to her sister and both were in the corner, crying. Abuela reached down and pinched Maxine hard under her arm and said, “If you weren’t so fat, you would go with me, too.” Then Abuela and the baby left.
The Replacement Child Page 18