Stolen Grace

by Arianne Richmonde

  A snatch of fury grabbed Sylvia by the throat. “Why didn’t you just have her arrested immediately, for Christ’s sake?”

  The agent’s voice was cool. “Because we had not come into contact with her up until now. Plain-clothed detectives will be waiting to arrest her the second she returns to the hotel—she stepped out a couple of hours ago. We only just had confirmation of the match and confirmation from the before and after photos the clinic did for the surgery. It only just all came through. It wasn’t easy with doctor/client confidentiality in a foreign country but we were able to swing it. It was the clinic that furnished us with her hotel address. She was told to stick around for ten days or so—they took off her splint six days after surgery—yesterday afternoon. She must be using make-up to cover the bruising around her eyes and cheeks.

  “Anyway, we’ve retraced her steps over the last forty-eight hours, interviewed everybody who has come in contact with her, hence the waiter at the restaurant, last night, revealing your husband’s . . .er . . . presence.”

  “How can you be sure it was Tommy?”

  “We have photos. We have your YouTube video clip. All the witnesses are one hundred percent sure it’s him.”

  The agent’s words were a stake through Sylvia’s heart. “What was he doing having dinner with her? I still just can’t get my head around it all—how could anybody do what she’s done?”

  “Whatever her reasons, she’s obviously one sick puppy.”

  “Puppy is far too cute a word to describe her,” Sylvia sneered.

  “Anyway, don’t lose hope—she can lead us to Grace. Keep your phone on. I’ll be getting back to you as soon as they’ve arrested her. We’ll see what excuse your husband comes up with. It had better be good or he’ll be arrested on suspicion—an accessory to kidnapping and larceny.”

  “But he must have had a reason . . . anyway, I’m on my way to—” The line cut out. Damn, her battered old phone needed recharging; the battery never lasted long enough. She hadn’t even gotten a chance to tell Agent Russo she had arrived in Brazil, let alone Rio.

  They were finally at the front of the line. Melinda bundled them both into a waiting taxi and, speaking to the driver, she said, “El hotel Copacabana, por favor, señor.”

  “Por favor, rapido, rapidisimo,” Sylvia begged the driver, realizing she, like Melinda, was speaking the wrong language. There was no time to lose. She wanted to see the expression on Tommy’s face when the police turned up.

  And find out what the hell was going on.

  CHAPTER 33

  Grace

  The bus stop at Chin Anne Dega was huge. Motorbikes, three-wheely things carrying passengers, and people on bicycles were everywhere—wheels whirling in the dust. Grace spotted a wooden stall with posters stuck all over it and a Coca Cola sign. She asked the man behind the counter for a Coke, some peanuts and some small red bananas. Within minutes, a swarm of half naked children surrounded her, demanding food, begging for Coca Colas. She gave them her 1 córdoba pieces—poor things, they looked starving. They had no mother with them, no father, and were wild with matted hair and dirty faces.

  “I like your shirt,” one little girl said, her eyes big, her shy smile friendly. She was barefoot and wearing a Britney Spears T-shirt that came to her knees. “And your teddy-bear, I like that too. The colors match.”

  Grace looked down at her stained yellow and white shirt. She felt like a princess compared to the ragamuffins around her. She held Hideous tightly against her heart.

  “What’s your name?” the little girl asked. “My name’s María.”

  She wanted to say Grace but it sounded funny in Spanish. “Adela,” she answered. “I want to go to school.”

  The children giggled as if she’d said something ridiculous.

  But Grace insisted, “Where’s the school?”

  “I can show you the school,” said a boy in trousers way too big for him. They were held up around the waist with a piece of string. Grace thought he looked like Charlie Chaplin—her dad’s favorite actor. “Come with us,” he invited. He sipped his Coca Cola (that Grace had paid for) through a straw, making bubbles and slurping noises. She noticed the children had all kept the change from their 1 córdoba coins. Some of them hadn’t bought any drink at all, they’d just pocketed her money. She’d get more tomorrow. “This is delicious!” he yelled, “the best drink in the world!” All the children laughed.

  “Where do you come from?” another girl asked, who was taller than the others. She must have been about eight years old.

  “America.”

  They now all howled with amusement, the slurping boy rolled on the ground in hysterics.

  “It’s true,” Grace shouted. “I’m American!”

  “You sound funny, different from us. Did you come on the bus from El Viejo?”

  “I came from The Boom,” she said seriously.

  They all laughed again, fascinated by every word she uttered.

  “Where’s your mother?” one asked.

  “She’s dead,” Grace replied, making patterns with her flip-flops in the sandy dirt.

  “Me too, both my parents are dead,” mumbled a boy holding an old butter knife.

  “I never had any parents,” another said.

  “Let’s go back,” María said. “Come with us!”

  Grace hesitated. “But I want to go to school.”

  “Come, I can show you the school afterwards,” the Charlie Chaplin boy said.

  María slipped her hand into Grace’s and pulled her into their tight group. “Come on, let’s go back.”

  “Where to?” Grace asked.

  “To my uncle’s house. Everybody can meet you. Come on!”

  They ran through streets, dodging sleeping dogs lying in “beds” they’d made for themselves—small piles of leafy rubbish—and the children zigzagged around noisy motorbikes, and skinny horses pulling carts of vegetables and great sacks of bananas. Grace got a whiff of coffee and trash and wee-wee and fresh flowers, all mixed in a medley of smells. There were striped umbrellas shielding market stall people from the hot sun above, with pretty bags and fabrics in pink, yellow and parrot-green, hanging down in curtains of color—more colors than Joseph and his Multi-colored Dream Coat! Mama Ruth had told her all about Joseph and his coat of many colors in their “Sunday school” classes.

  Grace saw great chunks of bleeding meat drooping with buzzing flies, and pyramids of fruits piled in baskets. There was a baby being washed by her older sister with dirty water from a blue plastic bucket, and another girl, only seven or eight, was carrying a toddler on her hip. There were pots and baskets spread out on the street which Grace tried not to trip over, and giant sacks of overflowing grain. Little plastic bags wrapped in triangles with bright, bubblegum-pink powder inside caught her eye—um, tasty. Grace wanted to stop but the children raced ahead. She trailed after them as quickly as she could, scared of losing her new friends.

  She cantered on, keeping Charlie Chaplin in her sight.

  They finally arrived at a garbage dump. Just like the one Ruth described when she threatened to give Carrot and Hideous away. They must be in Rio, Grace realized. Maybe Ruth would come and find her right there. “Why are we here?” she asked María.

  “We live just over there. Come on, Adela!”

  Grace found herself, not at the school she had imagined with smart uniforms and piles of books and crayons, but in the middle of this smelly trash heap. Around the edge she saw small shelters made out of wavy bits of metal in the shape of waffle irons. Children were walking about in their bare feet with nothing on but underwear, each carrying a stick with a hook. She watched them as they stalked the dump, picking up anything interesting they could find with the hooked stick. Not just children, but grown-ups, too, were searching through the trash. But mostly children, many of them about her age. As they walked ahead, away from the big mound of garbage, she saw something that caught her eye. “Who lives there?” she asked, pointing to a bigger cardboard hous
e in the far distance.

  “That’s the church,” María said. “Sometimes the priest comes to visit and says prayers with us. He’s Italian. Sometimes he gives us food.”

  “And what are the other things, back where we came from?” Grace asked, turning round and pointing.

  “Those are our houses. That one we passed earlier, with the hairless dog outside, is mine. We can go there if you like.”

  They walked back toward the big piles.

  “Why is everybody looking through the trash?”

  “To sell, silly. We all need to make money.”

  “It smells of poop here,” Grace said, holding her thumb and finger on her nose.

  María didn’t understand. “Of what?”

  “Ka-ka.”

  The little girl giggled. “Come and meet my family.”

  But Grace stood still, her stare fixed on a little boy covered in black soot, standing by a smoky fire. “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s burning old electrical wires to get the plastic off the copper.”

  Grace didn’t understand. “What?”

  “The metal, silly. He needs to burn off all the plastic. The copper’s worth a lot of money. He can sell it and give the money to his mom.”

  “What’s that little girl over there doing? The one in the red skirt?”

  “She’s looking for food. The truck was here just an hour ago. There’s fresh stuff for the picking.”

  Grace noticed a cow eating a piece of cardboard, and a dog doing a pee just near where the little girl was looking for something to eat. Grace held Hideous close to her chest and ran over to María. “Where’s the school?”

  “I don’t go to school. Come on, Adela, let’s go and play baseball with the boys.”

  They ran around a corner of burning trash. Behind it was a group of boys hitting a ball with naily sticks. The ball landed by Grace’s feet and she saw it was made of plastic bags with string wrapped around it tight, making it perfectly round. At home she had lots of real balls. Bouncy balls, tennis balls, beach balls. Even dogs had balls back home. And dogs had food and beds and toys. In America. But here, not only did the dogs have nothing, but the children had nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  CHAPTER 34

  Tommy

  Tommy walked out of the Internet café. Sylvia still hadn’t replied to his e-mails. And neither was she picking up the phone. Usually, she was always home first thing in the morning, and there was only a two-hour time difference between Saginaw and Rio. No point calling her cell as she hardly ever used it.

  He just couldn’t understand when, exactly, his iPhone had been stolen. Before or after the dinner with Ana?

  He turned around and walked back to the Internet café—he should call Sylvia’s cell after all, just in case. Like an idiot, he’d left his iPad in Saginaw. He thought he wouldn’t need it since he had his phone—wanted to travel light—one less thing to worry about getting stolen. Ironic that. Not having his iPhone now made him feel handicapped. Yet people used to manage without cell phones. Once upon a time.

  The dinner. His mind rewound to sixteen hours earlier. He wished the whole fiasco had never happened. He never did get Ana’s help with translation. She was a real weirdo, that Ana. Never before had he had to literally manhandle a woman—to pry her off him. Like a leech. He knew how humiliated she must have felt; only someone so desperate would expose themselves that way. Yes, he got a hard-on. But who wouldn’t? An attractive woman fondling his private parts, talking dirty in his ear? He was only bloody human. He was a full-blooded male! Men’s dicks did their own thing—everybody knew that. It had happened to him before, once, with an innocent aromatherapy massage at the gym—it didn’t take much to get it all excited. The whole scene had been embarrassing and shameful, having to push Ana off him that way and say, “Steady on, I’m a married man.” He could feel the poor woman’s anger, her hurt when she replied, “I was only trying to be nice, just needed a little loving . . . sorree.” She picked up her handbag and walked out of the restaurant, and that was that. All that food still spread out on the table. What a strange scenario. What were the odds of someone else also having had a missing child the same age? Maybe that was why she was so needy and pushy.

  He retraced his actions . . . Ana’s actions, the way she felt him up, smoothing her wandering hands all over his thighs, his ass . . . his . . . back bloody pockets of his jeans!

  Jesus! He pounded the heel of his hand on his forehead. Duh! That crazy bitch stole my fucking phone!

  CHAPTER 35

  Sylvia

  The first thing Sylvia did at the Copacabana Palace was plug in her cell to recharge. Melinda went to scout the hotel, to see if she could locate the Brazilian police the FBI had been in contact with, assuming they’d be plain-clothed—she wasn’t sure how easy it would be to find them. Sylvia, hugging a corner near her recharging phone, was just about to ring Agent Russo, when a call came in. She didn’t recognize the long number.

  “Thank God, I’ve finally reached you.” It was Tommy.

  Because her phone was plugged in to a socket, Sylvia couldn’t retreat to a more private spot. “What do you mean, ‘finally’?” she hissed.

  “Didn’t you get my e-mails?”

  “You know I can’t check my e-mails from this old Nokia.”

  “Yes, but your computer—”

  “Why would I have brought my heavy computer with me when I’m trying to travel light?” she snapped.

  “What? Where are you?”

  “What do you mean, where am I. I told you, I texted you this morning from São Paulo. I’m in Rio. Anyway, you know what Tommy?” She looked about her and lowered her voice. “I don’t want anything to do with you right now. You make me want to vomit!”

  “What?”

  “So glad you enjoyed your little tête-à-tête with Psycho Woman last night. The second the FBI find you, they’ll arrest you on suspicion of . . . larceny . . . and aiding and abetting a criminal . . . conspiracy . . . on kidnapping charges and grand theft and . . . and you know what, asshole, don’t expect me to bail you out!”

  “Sylvia, what is going on? I told you about the dinner in an e-mail! And yes, Ana was pretty weird, and no, she didn’t help in the end with translation. I had no idea you were coming. When did−”

  “‘Heads locked together,’ Agent Russo said. Was she good, Tommy? Was it worth it?”

  “What?”

  Sylvia’s heart jumped. “Wait a minute, who did you say? What was her name?”

  “The woman I had dinner with? Ana.”

  “Stop fucking with me Tommy! Tell me the goddam truth, for once.”

  “Calm down Sylvia, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I am telling the truth. Let’s take one thing at a time—let’s just start from the beginning, shall—”

  “Which beginning? When you snuck around for two years, sending love messages to a girl almost young enough to be my daughter, or when you and Ruth first met? Are you trying to send me to an asylum? Drive me insane with your deceit and lies? Steal Grace away from me? Hatching some sick plot?”

  “What? Jesus, this is crazy! Darling, what’s got into you? Met Ruth? I’ve never met the woman in my life, for God’s sake! You know that.”

  “So canoodling with her over dinner doesn’t count? You were seen, Tommy so don’t you dare,” she spat between gritted teeth, “lie to me.”

  “I had dinner with that woman I told you about in the e-mail. Ana. And she stole my iPhone, by the way. She was meant to help me with translation, go with me to the police station—she said she also has a missing child—and yes, she tried to seduce me last night but I shook her off—”

  “Did you like her pretty nose, courtesy of my money? Was she as gorgeous as the Bel Ange? Because guess what, Tommy, you were slobbering all over Ruth herself, and her nice new nose job. But I guess you already know that. Maybe you and she have a little thing going on. Who knows, you’re such a good liar, how would I know what the hell is
happening here? I can’t even speak to you right now because just thinking about what you did makes me want to throw up! Explain your liaison with Ruth Steel, aka Ruth Vargas, aka Rocío Guirnalda, aka Psycho Woman to the FBI and the Brazilian police, because you and I are done! Find yourself a divorce lawyer, and a criminal lawyer while you’re at it, because it’s over.” She pressed “end” on her phone and exhaled with fury. She wanted so badly to believe everything he said.

  But somehow, she just couldn’t.

  Her face raw, the Mars-red rage bubbling—unleashing itself on her husband—made her feel powerful for just a beat, but a gaping hole, an emptiness, filled her insides just a second later, and searing tears flooded her tired eyes. She was alone, without Grace, without a husband. She looked up, the thin wire of her phone holding her close to the wall. People were staring. She’d tried to keep her voice low but her hissing and growling had drawn even more attention. Her phone rang again. The same number. She ignored it and called Agent Russo instead.

  “I’ve been trying to call you,” the detective said.

  “I was on the line with my husband. He says the woman he had dinner with told him she was called Ana, and he had no idea it was Ruth.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I don’t know what I believe any more.”

  “Sylvia, the police were let into Ruth’s room at the Copacabana.”

  “I’m here myself. I didn’t get a chance to tell you. I’m in Rio, Agent Russo. Here at the Copacabana. But I didn’t know whom to look for. My cousin is trying to find them right now. Are they plain-clothed?”

  Agent Russo let out a heavy sigh. “If I’d known you were going there I would have told you not to. You could have put our plan at risk. Not to mention yourself. Anyway, as it is . . .” She paused, took a breath and said, “I’m sorry, I have bad news. Ruth has left. Her room was completely cleaned out. When she stepped out a few hours ago, Reception said she left with just her purse, no luggage. She even chatted with one of them saying she was off for a bite to eat. We all expected her to return, because she never checked out, never paid her bill. We think she may have flung her stuff from her window and collected it later. Whatever, however she did it—empty, gone, not a trace. Maybe she got wind that we’d tracked her down. Who knows?”