Quick Study

by Maggie Barbieri

  Agent Abreu finally spoke. “You’ve got a dollar thirty-nine in your checking account.”

  Despite the fact that he had possibly the sexiest voice I had ever heard, I bristled a bit. And truth be told, it was actually a dollar thirty. “How do you know that?” I thought and then asked out loud.

  “We’re not fooling around here, Dr. Bergeron,” Agent Goldenberg said.

  So he doesn’t like witty insouciance. Got it. “You don’t honestly think I had anything to do with this, do you?”

  Agent Abreu was shaking his head in the negative as Goldenberg decided to go all bad cop on me. He slammed his fist on my desk. “Listen, lady. Jokey joke time is over. Yes, we think you had something to do with it. Would we be here otherwise?”

  I felt like I was in an episode of Starsky and Hutch all of a sudden. And although I was stunned at Goldenberg’s outburst and was trying desperately to hold his gaze, I managed to sneak a look at Abreu, who had the traces of a smile starting on his face. Outrage didn’t become Agent Goldenberg but if he wanted to try it on for a few seconds, who was I to deny him? I looked at him, still leaning over my desk, still panting slightly from his performance.

  “ ‘Listen, lady’?” I asked and stood, giving Goldenberg the benefit of my six feet in heels. “I am not a lady, but I still don’t appreciate you yelling at me in my office.”

  He backed up a few inches, obviously accustomed to being yelled at. An image of Agent Goldenberg at home, being henpecked by a woman in curlers and a housecoat, popped into my mind, and I suppressed a giggle—an outrageously inappropriate response to a very serious situation, my stock in trade.

  “I’ve told you everything I know. Agent Cranston was probably the best actress I’ve ever met. I was convinced that she was a sales rep for Riviera Pointe. She was very good at sales, too. And to answer the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” I said, pausing dramatically, “I did not kill her.” I sat down again. “But I would love to know who did. And I would love to know what she was doing posing as a sales rep at a sleazy Kraecker project.”

  “Kray-ker,” Agent Abreu said.

  Goldenberg moved around his larger partner and opened the door. “Oh, and one more thing.” He paused and stared me down. I held his gaze. His tough act fitted him about as well as his Men’s Wearhouse suit. “Where’s your friend Hernan?”

  I was about to protest that he wasn’t my friend but being as that was my only excuse for being knee-deep in this whole thing, I decided that wasn’t a smart tack to take. “I don’t know.”

  “If you hear from him, you know what to do, right?”

  “I do.” It wasn’t the first time I had heard this admonition.

  “We may be back,” he said, obviously dejected at having lost control of the interview and by the fact that he believed that I didn’t know where Hernan was.

  “I’ll be here,” I said breezily and watched them walk down through the common area. One of my colleagues, Sister Marguerite, gave Agent Abreu the once-over and when she caught me watching her, gave me a look that said, “Yes, I’m celibate but I’m not dead.” I rolled over to the door and kicked it shut.

  My phone rang and although I was afraid to pick it up, things going the way they were, I did.

  “Hi, Alison. It’s Jack.”

  “Jack! Hi,” I said. “How’s everything?” If I had had to venture a guess as to who might be on the other end, Jack was the last person I would have imagined. I tried to sound like I hadn’t just been interviewed by two federal agents. “The Rangers are going into the playoffs looking good. You must be happy.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m calling,” he said.

  My heart skipped a beat. Anytime the Rangers, playoffs, and Jack were used in the same sentence, it could only mean one thing: free tickets.

  “Yes?” I said, expectant and very, very hopeful.

  “I’ve got two tickets for the last game of the season before the All-Star break. They’re going to have an old-timers reunion from the ’94 team.” He paused for effect. “Mark Messier will be there.”

  “Shut up!” I screamed into the phone. I wheeled back from my desk and into the back wall, glass crunching under the wheels.

  “So, if Bobby can get the night off and you want the tickets, they’re yours.” He gave me the date of the game. “Come early and I’ll see if I can get you into the pre-game cocktail party.”

  I riffled through my day planner, still on a day from the previous week. The game was a week hence, on a Thursday. I did some quick calculations in my head (off two days, working three, one double . . .) and ascertained that Crawford was off that night. But was a week enough to make him forget about what had happened the day before? It had to be. “We’ll take them!” I said.

  “Great. I’ll send them to you overnight mail. How’s that?” he asked.

  “Thank you, Jack. You have no idea what this means to me.”

  “Oh, I think I do,” he said, chuckling.

  I hung up and clapped my hands together. “Thank you, Jack McManus. Oh, publicity man with gorgeous teeth.” I stood and gathered my books for my first class.

  Little did Jack know that he had just paved the way for a miraculous make-up session with Crawford.

  No man in his right mind could stay mad at a woman with two hard-to-get hockey tickets in her possession.

  Right?

  Twenty-Five

  Amalia had been on my mind a lot since she had shown up at my house. I knew she already had a mother, but everything about her situation made me want to take her under my wing and set her on a different path, one that involved citizenship, college, and a nursing degree that would guarantee her a job in any one of the city hospitals.

  Then I thought about what was housed under my proverbial wing, the foibles that I was usually engaged in, and decided that she was doing just fine under her own mother’s wing.

  In light of the fact that Hernan’s had not been the body found at Riviera Pointe, I thought it would be a good idea to check in with her. I knew that we had all had the same thought once we found out the body was Madeleine Cranston’s: where the hell was Hernan? I had taken her number the night she had come to my house and I was glad that I had it. I waited until the school day was over, both for her and me, and rang her cell phone.

  I asked if she wanted to go for coffee or a snack somewhere and she suggested a little Colombian coffee shop close to the church where we attended the Lord’s Bounty. I found the coffee shop easily and went inside, nearly fainting from the rich, wonderful scent of coffee, pastries, and sugar, a trifecta of delicious smells. Amalia was already there, sitting at one of the brightly painted wooden tables, playing distractedly with a napkin.

  “Hi, there,” I said, putting my bag on the chair across from her. “I have to get some coffee. What can I get you?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  I think every culture has one thing in common and that is the belief that food can solve a world of ills; French Canadians are no different, although, in my case, cheese was offered before anything else. I decided to go with a combination of sweet and savory for my visit with the heartsick Amalia. I approached the counter and got two coffees, a meat pie, two coconut-covered donuts, and a piece of flan. The woman behind the counter put everything on a tray and I carried it back to the table. The amount of food made Amalia smile a little bit and that made me feel better.

  “Coconut donut? Coffee? Flan?” I said, and waved my hand over the tray like a culinary Vanna White.

  She took a coffee and a donut, picking off the coconut. “Thanks.”

  I opened my coffee and scooped a little steamed milk foam onto my stirrer. I licked it off. “Any word from your father?” I asked.

  Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head. She continued picking coconut off of her donut, finally breaking off a little piece and putting it in her mouth, more to stem the tide of tears than out of any desire to eat.

  “Where are the police on this?” I asked. />
  “I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. She bowed her head, her black hair falling forward and covering her face. “I’m not sure how much time they’re going to spend on a missing illegal alien.”

  I couldn’t disagree. I ate the meat pie and started in on the flan. “Have you or your mother spoken to anyone working the case?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to?” I asked. I didn’t know what I could do, but I figured it was worth a shot.

  “Would you do that for us?” she asked.

  “I would.” I knew that the police department was around the corner but I figured it would be better if I enlisted Crawford in this. “I’ll ask Crawford to make the call,” I said, hoping against hope that he was still talking to me and that he was invested enough in the case—and frankly, in me—to do me this solid, as Fred would call it.

  Amalia, whose long black hair had been covering her face, looked up and pushed her hair back out of the way. “Thank you.”

  “I can’t promise anything, Amalia, but at least they’ll talk to Crawford,” I said. I didn’t want to give her false hope, so I didn’t say anything else. I reached across the table and gave her hand a little squeeze. “How’s your mom?”

  “Sad.” She took a sip of her coffee. “And worried.”

  I was sure that was a vast understatement. I started to polish off the flan, offering Amalia the last piece before I shoved it into my mouth. “Do you need anything else?” I asked, knowing that without Hernan around to take care of them, they were only a day’s pay away from being on the street.

  She shrugged, noncommittal.

  I took her hand again.

  “You have to promise me that if you need anything, you’ll let me know.” I could help them for a little while, if need be, but Max could pitch in for far longer and I knew she would. All I had to do was ask.

  She shrugged again.

  “You have to promise me,” I said.

  Amalia looked up again. “I promise,” she said reluctantly. I knew that it pained her to do so but I hoped she would be true to her word.

  We spent a few more minutes at the coffee shop talking about school and her course load. She had to take the SATs that Saturday and was trying to keep her anxiety about the test and her father at a reasonable level. I assured her that I was confident that she would do just fine on the test.

  “Listen,” I said, gathering up all of our garbage and throwing it into the trash can, “the next time you have a day off from school, come down to St. Thomas so you can look around. We’ve got a great nursing program, you know.”

  “I know that,” she said. She stood up and put her backpack over one shoulder.

  I brushed her hair off of her face and rested my hands on her shoulders. “I don’t know when I’ll see Crawford again, but I’ll make sure he talks to the officer on the case. OK?”

  Her brown eyes welled up with tears again and I felt my throat constrict. She fell into my chest and let out a strangled sob. I struggled to keep my composure—I was close to crying myself. I was used to falling to pieces and I had never been the one who had to be strong; it was a change of pace for me to comfort this young girl through her sorrow.

  She broke away and pulled a tissue from her jeans. She blew her nose and composed herself. “Call me if you hear anything?”

  I nodded. “And you do the same.”

  We went out onto the street and I gave her another hug before watching her walk down Main Street, passing the array of shops on her trek toward the river. I didn’t know where she lived, but I did know that, unlike other towns, the closer you got to the river, the poorer the residents. The sun was setting and the gray gloom of dusk was inching its way up from the water, covering the streets. I watched Amalia until she turned the corner and I couldn’t see her any longer, then walked back to my car dejectedly.

  I felt powerless. I had been convinced that the body at Riviera Pointe would be Hernan’s yet felt no measure of comfort in the fact that it wasn’t. Where was he? And if he was alive, why wasn’t he calling his family? He loved that girl; anyone who had spent a few seconds in their presence could see that. So, if he wasn’t dead, where the hell was he?

  I noticed that I had just two minutes left on the parking meter and that, curiously, I had left my doors unlocked in my haste to get to the coffee shop an hour earlier. The only thing of value in the car was my St. Thomas travel coffee mug, and I was certain I could get another should someone have had the audacity to steal it while I was eating flan. But the coffee mug was still there and the car was intact. I got in, locked the doors, and headed home.

  I pulled into the driveway and got out of the car, hearing Trixie barking as I made my way across the backyard toward the kitchen door. I could tell that the sound was coming from the guest room, located at the back of the house. I called out to her and saw her jump up on the windowsill in the bedroom, barking furiously.

  I had no idea what Trixie did all day while I was at school but I was surprised that she spent any time at all in the guest room. It had a futon that was so narrow she couldn’t fit on it comfortably and there were no loose shoes or sweatshirts for her to chew on; all the good stuff was in my room and I had started closing my bedroom door before I left.

  I had slowly become “crazy dog lady”—that person who talks to her animal as if it had opposable thumbs and an intellect. I stopped in the backyard and looked up at the second-story window. “What are you doing in there, Trix?”

  She responded the only way she knew how: she barked.

  “Well, come out then,” I said. “I’m home now.” Yes, crazy dog lady is home now and can spend the entire evening talking to you, hoping that you’ll answer.

  I shook my head in wonder at her antics while pulling my key chain out of my messenger bag. I opened the kitchen door and stepped in, putting my bag on the counter and fiddling for the light switch.

  A hand grabbed my wrist and pulled it away from the light switch. I let out a surprised yelp. Another hand clasped over my mouth, cutting off any sound I could possibly make.

  Like water going down the drain, I felt the blood drain from my face and started to feel a little faint.

  A voice, soft and accented, whispered in my ear. “Don’t make a sound. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Well, I couldn’t count on that being true but I lied and nodded my head to indicate that I wouldn’t make a sound even though I knew that, first chance I had, I was going to scream bloody murder. Whoever had his hand over my mouth was behind me and had something pointy pushed into my spine; he was also a head shorter than me, that much I could tell. The person shoved me further into the kitchen and pushed the back door shut. I heard Trixie set up a cacophonous howl in the guest room and the sound of her nails clicking on the hardwood floor over my head told me that she was pacing. The kitchen was dark; only the green glow of the clock on the stove illuminated the pitch black.

  The hand slipped a bit and I felt a finger graze my lip. I bit down hard and felt bone collide with my front teeth. The owner of the hand emitted an anguished cry and let go.

  I ran for the front door, the hallway looking like a funhouse corridor that was about eighty feet long when in actuality it was only about twelve feet from where I had been standing. I hit the edge of the carpet runner in the hallway and tripped, flying headfirst into the front door, my hands breaking my fall and cracking one of the sidelights. I landed, face-first, inches from freedom. I pushed up off of the ground and fiddled with the front door lock, my fingers shaking.

  “Alison!”

  I recognized the accent, if not the voice, and turned around from my crouch.

  Hernan was standing in front of me, blood dripping from his injured hand, a plastic pasta spoon in the other.

  Twenty-Six

  I had a new lump on my head to go with the other self-inflicted lumps that I had acquired over the last several days. Hernan sat across from me at the kitchen table nursing his hand. Trixie lay at my feet, having be
en liberated from the guest room. I watched the kitchen towel around Hernan’s finger bloom red just moments after I wrapped it and now it was close to becoming saturated. After having worked in a school with a respected nursing program for as long as I had, I could diagnose minor injuries with startling accuracy and knew that if I didn’t get Hernan to a doctor for a tetanus shot and maybe stitches, he was going to be in a world of hurt in a very short amount of time.

  “Let me see that hand again, Hernan,” I said, taking the ice pack off my head.

  He shook his head. “It will be fine.”

  I gave him the hairy eyeball and he reluctantly took off the kitchen towel that he had gingerly wrapped around it. I had done quite a job on his right index finger: he had a nice gash beneath the knuckle that was still bleeding and getting progressively more swollen. “We have to get that looked at.” I ran my tongue across my teeth, the taste of finger still present. Maybe I needed a tetanus shot, too.

  “I can’t be seen,” he reiterated. We had been through this already; he was on the run, he knew things that could get him killed, and he needed my help. Again. I was starting to feel like Crawford.

  Trixie stirred at my feet at the sound of his voice and let out a low growl. She was still a little mad at him for locking her in the guest room, but I imagined she would thaw out over time.

  I got up and got two glasses out of the cabinet, pulling a frost-covered bottle from the freezer and putting it on the table. I poured two shots and put one down in front of him. “Here. Drink this.” I threw mine back and shuddered. “Now, what the hell is going on, Hernan?”

  “How much do you know?” he asked.

  “Well, from what I’ve heard, Richie is giving out fake green cards to . . .” I paused, not sure how to phrase it without insulting him, “. . . people like yourself. That way, he gets cheap labor but escapes scrutiny from officials. He also has a record of shoddy construction practices.”