No Footprints

by Susan Dunlap

  "Mike, the cops have a murdered woman. Her body’s lying in the mouse hole. Adamé made a missing person’s report this morning and now he’s not answering his cell. A worried husband would be glued to it. The twenty years you were missing, Mike, Mom never left the house more than an hour.”

  He paused just an instant before saying, "Gotcha.”

  "Can you find Tessa—or Varine—whichever name—”

  "The dead woman? She’s not likely to be flying.”

  "I know that! But they didn’t, not before today.”

  "Hey, this is tricky stuff you’re asking. Maybe I can get a look, but it’s not like there’s a central index for all flights out of SFO. It’ll be glance and split and that’s if I can work it at all. So, which one do you want?”

  Which one? "Tessa.”

  "Okay? And?”

  "Was there a reservation for her? When’s it for? How long ago was it made? Who made it? But you probably can’t—”

  "Not that, no. Why do you care about when?”

  "Was it before or after the bridge?”

  "Are you thinking—”

  "Maybe.”

  "O . . . kay. See what I can do for ya.” He clicked off.

  Ahead, Serrano was driving like a guy who wasn’t worried about tickets. I was doing eighty just keeping him in sight. He swished passed the 280 turnoff for the beaches, and the coast road. So, unless he knew the way to San Jose, he was headed to the airport.

  He pulled into the fast lane. Okay for him, but too dangerous for me in a white sporty car. I sidled into the number two.

  There’s a reason the fast lane’s called the fast lane. I was losing him. I shot in behind him, two cars back, hung there a couple minutes, swung back into number two.

  I was losing him again. I had to chance the fast lane. I shot a glance in the rearview. Damn! The Highway Patrol was keeping pace. I just had room to cut in and back out.

  I eased only my head to the left, trying to keep my target in sight. The CHP car slowed behind him. For a minute I thought Serrano was going to get pulled over.

  I slid in behind and matched the patrol car’s speed.

  My phone rang.

  Speeding behind the CHP, talking on the phone! Was I insane?

  "Tessa Jurovik, flight to Miami on Delta. Layover in Atlanta. Sunday morning.”

  "The day we were on the bridge.” My breath caught.

  "But no flight, just a reservation.”

  "What do you mean?”

  "Flight got canceled.”

  "Canceled?” I could barely breathe at all. "You mean, she backed away?”

  "No, the airline canceled. Remember that fire on the runway in Atlanta?”

  "No. Why would I? Why would that make news here?”

  "Yeah, well, never mind. Here’s the good news. She rescheduled to Raleigh-Durham and flew out last night.”

  "She went? She flew out?” I gasped and had to gasp again before I could breathe. "Mike, do you realize what that means? She’s alive! She’s okay. She’s not lying dead in the mouse hole! She’s . . . oh.”

  He didn’t say anything. I remembered that fine quality of his—not saying anything stupid when there was nothing to say.

  "Oh,” I repeated. "Right. Someone’s still lying there dead.”

  "But you recognized her? How?”

  "Her clothes, her hair. But—wait!—Serrano didn’t care about that. He checked her face. Mike, he knows them both.”

  "So, why’s he making for the airport?”

  "That’s what I intend to find out.”

  37

  I snagged him at the security check.

  The whole population of the city and county of San Francisco had queued up there. But Declan Serrano wasn’t the type to be standing in line. He’d cut through to the front, ready to flash his shield and stride through.

  "Hey, Serrano! Wait!”

  His shield and boarding pass were on the portable counter, his hand atop both. The airport security woman was on the phone. The drive here’d been so frantic I’d had no time to organize questions. I blurted out, "Who is she?”

  Serrano did not even turn around.

  The security woman proffered his boarding pass. "You’re cleared through, Detective.”

  I grabbed his arm and pulled him back to face me. "Varine or Tessa?”

  He shook off my hand, picked up the paper, and strolled through to the gate.

  The security woman glared at me and picked up her phone.

  I smiled. He was what he was. I hadn’t really expected any help. But while I’d had his arm I’d noted his boarding pass. His flight was Southwest to Raleigh-Durham!

  Southwest Airlines had more than one flight to Raleigh-Durham. I got standby for the last flight of the day. There’s no overdraft protection on the luck account, and this was a huge withdrawal.

  I raced back to a check-in machine, punched in my six-figure code, and in twenty minutes was back in the security line, sadly at the other end. I did what everyone else did, dialed my phone. First, I got a rental car out of Raleigh. Then I called the long distance number Tessa—Tessa? Varine?—had called from the Presidential Suite.

  No answer.

  Tessa! I’d been so happy she was real. I hadn’t even bothered to consider how ridiculous that was. I’d just been glad, like a friend had come back. Like Mike, after all those years he was gone and people’d told us to "move on.” But he’d come back. And it was wonderful.

  Hope is an illusion. I know that. But it’s the hardest one to give up.

  I pulled up the internet and tried the reverse directory. Not listed.

  Tessa or Varine? A long distance call didn’t signal one or the other.

  I checked the area code. North Carolina. East of Raleigh.

  Why would Tessa call there? How could I find out?

  How? I was holding my breath, willing Tessa to have flown east, to be alive!

  How?

  I called Kristi. "Hi! Darcy Lott here. Quick question. Remember Tessa’s lout of a boyfriend?”

  "Well, ye-ah!”

  "Was he in North Carolina?”

  "I dunno.”

  "But he called?”

  "Well, ye-ah. She just about flew to the phone when it rang.”

  "Did she tell you—”

  "You want the number?”

  "What number?”

  "The one the lout called from.”

  "From North Carolina?”

  "Wherever!”

  I poised my pen. "Shoot.”

  The same number! The one she called from the Mark Hopkins! The woman in the Presidential Suite called Tessa’s boyfriend in North Carolina!

  She was Tessa!

  I had to swallow hard to even speak. "How come you have it?”

  "I took the message, well, the call-back number for Tessa a couple weeks ago.”

  "Weeks ago? But you didn’t throw away your copy of the number”

  "Why would I? I mean, you never know when something like that’s going to be useful. Like now, right? I kept the copy, you know, from the message pad. You’re glad I did, aren’t you? Right?”

  "I am, truly, yes. But listen, how is it you had that number at your fingertips just now?”

  "Like I said, I stuck it in my wallet. I fished it out for the boss. He called half an hour ago.”

  The boss—Serrano. "About North Carolina—the boyfriend’s number?”

  "Well, yeah. But, like, when he called, I was having a drink and the place was really loud and I could barely make out his question and, well, you know, it wasn’t the place to go pulling stuff out of your wallet.”

  "He gave you a call-back number, right?”

  "Sure. And I actually did call him—it wasn’t easy either. I mean, I had to go outside onto Valencia and try to find a quiet spot, and you know that’s no small deal, and then when I call, the guy doesn’t bother answering. So, I think, screw him, right?”

  "You got his voicemail?”

  "Yeah.”

  "
Did you leave any message? Give him the Carolina number?” I was holding my breath.

  "Hell no. He’s so hot to have it and then he can’t—”

  Whew! "Kristi! Listen, I know him; I’ve got his number, I’ll deal with this. You’ve done your part. Tessa’ll be grateful.”

  "Okay, sure.”

  "Wait! Quick question. That boyfriend. Did Tessa actually say he was her boyfriend?”

  "Her? No way. Too personal. I understood. I mean, bad enough to be the victim without having to talk about it, you know? I could’ve told her—but we both acted like those calls never happened, you know?”

  "Yeah.” I did know.

  "Listen, I’m at the airport. I’ll be in touch when I get back. We’ll go out, have a drink with Tessa, okay?”

  "Tessa, she’s okay? I mean, you saved her. She’s okay now, right?”

  I started to say yes! But the word stuck in my throat and I found myself speaking a truth I hadn’t realized. "I hope so.”

  "But—”

  "I’m at the security gate. Gotta go.” I hesitated. "I’ll call you.”

  I yanked off my shoes, plunked my pack in the basket, and barefooted it through the gate.

  The guard pulled me aside.

  But I was so happy about Tessa, so relieved she wasn’t lying dead in the mouse hole, that I just smiled and trotted after her to be scanned more closely.

  Grudgingly, she passed me.

  It wasn’t till I caught sight of myself in the window of one of the shops that I understood what happened. Me, in my inside-out Berzerkely T-shirt and scabrous pants. My hair didn’t look so hot either. I looked like a terrorist from an impoverished and tasteless nation. I’d have to deal with that . . . later.

  I checked the departures board for my flight and got a surprise. Declan Serrano’s flight hadn’t taken off. Delayed! Rarely does that word produce a grin, but it sure did now.

  "Hey,” I called out across the crowd when I made it to his gate. He was standing near the counter, phone out.

  Chats are much more promising when you’ve got something the other guy wants and your biggest problem is deciding what you’ll take for it. "Whatever that conversation is,” I said in a low pleasant voice, "it’s not as important as the one you’re about to have with me.”

  He didn’t jump out of his skin, but he gave a rewarding little jolt backward and clicked off the phone without even a "later.” "What? Where’d you come from? Did you get on this flight?”

  I smiled. Which was more satisfying than saying no. "I had some spare time in line back there, so I called Kristi. She’s considered your request, remembered what she’s heard.”

  "And?”

  "You first. How come you—”

  "You withholding evidence?”

  "Not on any case you’re involved with. That crime scene, I don’t recall you being in charge.”

  He stepped in closer.

  I held my ground. "Declan, we’re in a very public place.”

  "I’m not fooling around here.”

  "Nor I. I’ll tell you what I know. But only after you listen to what I want. Buy or pass.”

  We are going to start preboarding for families with small children . . .

  "This is between us,” he said, lowering his voice.

  "First,” I said, "I’m on standby on the next flight. Get me on it.”

  "What? If I could manage—”

  "Time passes.”

  I watched him pull out his shield, lean cozily over the counter, and smile. It might have meant anything, but I had no fall-back position, so I opted for picturing the best case.

  "Number one, standby, on the flight you’re booked on. Now you.”

  "How’d you know about the phone number in North Carolina?”

  "Where’d you—”

  "I ask. You answer.” As the cops say.

  "I’m not fooling around here.”

  I shrugged. I was enjoying this.

  "I have my sources.”

  Kristi? Did I misjudge her that much? "Which are? Come on, we’re not in the station now! How’d you know about it?”

  "Background checks. It’s what detectives do. Have sources they check out. Now give!”

  "I thought you didn’t background Tessa.”

  "I didn’t. Now give!”

  "Tessa called him from the Mark Hopkins, the night before she tried to kill herself.”

  He nodded.

  "You knew that?”

  "What?”

  "That this is the same guy she was calling from the copy shop?”

  "Yeah.”

  "I don’t believe you.”

  He shrugged just as I had. "The number?”

  I gave it to him. "Wait for me in Raleigh.”

  The cockroach laughed.

  38

  If Serrano didn’t background Tessa—no reason for him to lie about that—why did he care about her boyfr—

  Oh shit! The roach didn’t background her. The guy on the phone wasn’t her boyfriend. So, then, who was he? I needed to buy a winter jacket and some not-scuzzy clothes before I got on a plane, but, once again, that’d have to wait. I called Mike.

  My call went to voicemail.

  In five minutes I had new black pants, sweater, and jacket and was ordering one of those burgers that have more calories than the average gorilla’s daily intake, and a latte—a single, so I could sleep on the plane—and redialed. "You were talking to someone else?”

  "Hey, you turned off your phone!”

  That was another thing we’d never done to each other. "Sorry. But the cockroach—he’s headed to Raleigh.”

  "After Adamé.” It wasn’t even a question, and hearing it aloud from Mike confirmed all my fears.

  "Mike, Serrano didn’t have the number . . . till I gave it to him.” My food arrived, but now I didn’t feel much like eating.

  "Oh. And now he can get the address,” Mike said in a resigned tone that echoed my own.

  "Maybe. But, listen, Tessa’s got to be all right!”

  He let a beat pass before he said, "Because you want her to be?”

  Wanting something doesn’t make it so. I had to get a grip. I needed time to sit zazen, to step back from the desperation of my thoughts, to see life as it is. To remind myself that hope is an illusion. But here I was in the airport with a table full of food I couldn’t face and a latte. All I could do was take a deep breath and try to not "look through my own eyes,” as my old teacher in New York had told me years ago. I tried to see objectively. I took a sip of the coffee. "Two women,” I said. "Sunday, one of them would have flown to Miami, the other would’ve jumped off the bridge. That was the plan. The contract. But the flight got canceled.”

  "And you pulled the other woman back.”

  "The woman on the bridge—my woman—which one is she? She’d used Varine Adamé’s credit card. The woman on the plane carried Tessa Jurovik’s ID . . . ?”

  "Yeah . . .”

  "Okay, so one thing’s clear: Tessa Jurovik is not an alias for Varine,” I said just to hear it out loud. "Tessa is not an alternate life Varine created. There were two women, who looked a lot alike.”

  "Enough to pass for each other to people who didn’t know them?”

  "Right. I saw a picture of Varine in the Adamés’ house.”

  "You sure it was her? That Adamé didn’t have Tessa pose?”

  That threw me for a moment. "No, it was a picture of his wife, on display in his house. Adamé didn’t know I was coming. I just arrived at his door. He wasn’t out of my sight the whole time I was there.”

  "Makes sense. Anything else’d be a big stretch. But, Darce, I’ve been thinking about this. You said Tessa’s been arrested for shoplifting, so if she lifted Varine Adamé’s ID—”

  "Cockroach! That came from Serrano! One of his probably fishy tales of how he met her.”

  "But—”

  I lifted my cup, then put it down. "Wait, we’ve got this backward, thinking Tessa took Varine’s ID. But Varine using Tes
sa’s ID, that’s a whole different world.”

  "How so?” Mike’s words were suddenly sharper, faster, into-it in a way I hadn’t heard since he’d come home. I could almost see him leaning forward. "Start with the woman on the bridge. Who was she?”

  "Tessa, wearing Varine’s jacket. So, the camera on the bridge saw 'Varine Adamé’ try to jump. If Adamé said his wife was depressed—which he did—and missing—which he did—no one would question it. Even acquaintances, people she only met at affairs like the City Hall deal, knew she loathed the life she had.”

  "And the Mark Hopkins?”

  "Again, Tessa using Varine’s ID! For a last fling before she had to go to the bridge and jump.”

  "Fling? From what you’ve said about Tessa, she’s not the fling type.”

  "Point taken.”

  "But someone—”

  "Right! Mike, Tessa was still doubling as Varine at that point. So she was showing the world Varine Adamé spending a night apart from her husband, in the Presidential Suite, an escapade bound to raise eyebrows when it came out.”

  "Hot night with the bellman? All the better, eh?”

  "Those desperate phone calls Tessa made the day before, phone calls to her boyf—No, wait, the guy on the phone knew she was going to the Presidential Suite. That was the plan. She wasn’t calling a lover, she was trying to get out of jumping! That’s why she was calling! Oh, God, poor Tessa! Then on the bridge you drove up, you beeped, she hoped that at that last moment he’d changed his mind. That she wouldn’t have to die after all.”

  Mike was silent, too. I just sat, wrung out from losing Tessa, then getting her back. Maybe. I so desperately wanted her to be alive and safe.

  But she wasn’t, not safe, not relieved, maybe not even alive. Had I saved her just so she could be bludgeoned and dumped in a ratty garage? I felt so awful, so empty, so angry, so miserable that all I could do was go stiff against the emotion and narrow my focus to what Mike was saying.

  "Look, I’ve been in tight spots these last years. I’ve made deals with the devil. If you knew about them you’d wonder if I was the kid you grew up with. But jumping off the Golden Gate, that’s so far out it’s . . . it’s just wacko. Tessa had to have a huge carrot or an enormous stick to make her do something as extreme as that. She made some deal. After you saved her, are you saying that deal was voided when the airline canceled Varine’s flight Sunday? How could that—”