Nobody's Damsel

by E. M. Tippetts

  This was not the answer I wanted to hear. “But that’s her fault too, right? She tried to get changes made at the last minute and made it all blow up.”

  “Well… here’s the thing. I think her instincts were right. I mean, what we were going to make was formulaic and forgettable, and she had these ideas to make it quirky and different. I get her logic. If it was have a chance at breaking out with a sleeper hit versus doing something safe and unremarkable-”

  “Do the safe, unremarkable thing, build up some market power, and then start adding quirks to your projects,” I said.

  “Which only works in theory. Even if she’d done the project and we’d had a good box office, that doesn’t necessarily mean she’d get more work. She’s got a whole string of money-losing films on her tail and me reaching out to her? That’s not exactly saying much to a world who already knows we’re friends and that we used to work together. Odds are high, if she did the movie the way it was written, it’d be some decent money once and then she’d be back to her old career. The reason I backed her play was because it did make sense.”

  “So it wasn’t because you are attracted to her-”

  “No. No way. Separate issue.”

  “So here’s what I don’t understand,” I said. “You backed her up, sure, and now you have to pay for how it all blew up? Has she thanked you for that?”

  He shook his head.

  “So why are you still friends? How is that okay?”

  “You know how hard I’ve worked on my career?”

  “Some, yeah.” I’d only known him a couple of years and his career was over a decade long at this point.

  “It doesn’t even hold a candle to how hard Vicki’s worked. At all.”

  “Okay.”

  “Compared to her, I’m a goof off, and my success came pretty easily, all in all. I got a string of good projects and I had a good agent who built up a brand for me that enabled me to expand my typecast and do work in other films. It isn’t Vicki’s fault that she didn’t have either of these things. I had Angie as an agent when Angie was just starting out. No one knew back then she’d be this major powerbroker with several A-listers on her client list. Vicki went with an agent who had a proven record. His name’s Randolph Jerome and he repped a lot of very famous, very successful actors, both in box office returns and stuff like Academy Awards. Back then, I was too scared to even try to get in with an agent like that. Angie was nobody and she went out of her way to tell me that she thought I’d be a huge star, so I went with her – but that isn’t actually the best way to pick an agent. The thing was, Angie treated me well because I was her top-paying client right from the beginning. She got me three auditions and one was for my television show, and I got hired and started to earn. She always answered my phone calls and would meet with me to plan strategies. Randolph Jerome was so big time that Vicki was nothing to him, even with a hit television series on her resume. She wasn’t a priority. Basically, she had to pick her projects and he’d negotiate the contracts, in his own time. It ended up being a disaster for her, but she was the one who’d really put a lot of thought into the choice, you get what I’m saying?”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  “So given she had a major agent who didn’t return her phone calls, she decided to work her own strategy when it came to picking roles. The problem is, we were both kids, still, and we didn’t know that the success of our television show was abnormal. We didn’t know that most films lose money. The box office hit is an exception, not the rule. Studios make a portfolio of films every year and rely on a couple of hits to cover their losses for everything else. I got lucky. My first film projects made money. Vicki’s luck was more typical. Her films all lost money. She worked harder, she put more thought into the scripts she’d take, and she had a plan to be known as a kind of chameleon, doing so many different roles that the industry would see she could do anything. But she was losing so much money on each project, that’s what the industry cared about, and she was too good of a chameleon. Nobody remembered her from role to role.”

  I nodded to show I was still listening.

  “If my acting career hadn’t worked out, I’d probably have moved back here younger, gone to a good college and had a decent career doing something else. Probably law, since that’s the family trade. Vicki put everything into being an actress. It wasn’t a career she wanted, it’s a career she needs. Acting is like breathing to her and if she can’t do it, she’s got nothing else.”

  “So you think it’s unfair that you succeeded and she hasn’t?”

  “I know it’s unfair. It’s completely unfair. If I could give her my success and go be a lawyer, I’d seriously think about it. Not because I don’t like acting, but because she loves it so much more. She deserves it.”

  “You’ve got survivor’s guilt.”

  A flash of understanding sparked between us, a reaction of surprise in his expression that showed I really had put my finger on the problem. “I guess I do. So yeah, I’ll pay to clean up what happened with this film, and Chloe, I want to honor our pact. I want to get my bankable name behind one of her quirky projects and get the world to see how brilliant she is.” Jason knew how to argue a case. Being from a family of lawyers had served him well there.

  “Okay… You just seem more… attached to her than is, you know, normal.”

  “For a friend? Come on. You went to question witnesses today, which is totally not your job. Is it because you’re having an affair with the detective? No.”

  “Okay, so let’s switch this around. What if I was helping out a really hot young detective and doing extra work for him? That would bother you. If you and Vicki do work together, how is the, uh, inter-personal dynamic going to be?”

  “We are professionals, okay?”

  “And professionals never blur the lines between their roles and reality?”

  “No comment, other than to say, I have never cheated on anyone. Ever. This-” he held up his left hand with the ring I’d given him “-means everything to me. I wish you’d just trust me.”

  This was getting us nowhere. I wanted him to choose me over Vicki and just forget about her and their pact.

  He gazed at me, absorbing my frustration and disappointment. “Let’s change the subject. Tell me about this case some more.”

  “I wish I had more to say. Got any ideas how to find more witnesses?”

  “Who do you need to flush out?”

  “The girl’s father.”

  He shrugged. “Well, what kind of thing would bait a father?”

  “Um… harm to his child, I guess. I’d hope. But either he knows she’s in danger or he’s got the child.”

  “What if he doesn’t have the child? How can you draw more attention to the danger?”

  “Why would he hide from us if he didn’t have her?”

  “Maybe he’s scared he’ll be accused, and if he’s innocent, maybe he’s scared that being a suspect will take time away from the hunt for the real perpetrator. At least, isn’t that what people who claim to be innocent always say? I dunno. I’m just grasping at straws there.”

  “So if we hold a press conference and say we’re putting all of our resources into finding him, and he’s innocent, he might come forward. I mean, if he knows we can’t find the girl until we check him off our list.”

  “Sure, you could try that. Do a press conference.”

  “It’s not really my call…”

  “So tell the person whose call it is.” He shrugged. “Or maybe it’s a stupid idea. I don’t actually know what I’m talking about.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t know what I’m talking about either.” Now I was picking at the carpet.

  He touched me under the chin with his knuckle. “I love you, okay?”

  I nodded. “I love you, too.”

  “You’re on track to save a life here. Hard for me to feel like what I do matters.”

  “We might not save her.”

  “I know, that’s one of the pitfalls of d
oing something that matters. Me, I screw up and it’s just expensive.” He shrugged.

  I wished that I had half his debating talent. Steve, Doug, or Lillian would no doubt have a way to build a counter-case that would show him that what he did mattered far more than forensic science. The problem with him being so good at expressing himself was that he convinced me in the process. I had to think of a way to convince both of us otherwise, and right now, I didn’t need any more stress.

  “That’s an interesting idea, Miss Chloe,” said Detective Baca. I’d called the number scrawled on the back of a business card he’d given me, and was a little embarrassed to find it was his personal cellphone. I hadn’t expected him to answer out of work hours.

  “It’s just a random thought I figured I’d bounce off you.”

  “I don’t see how it could hurt. It’d either work or not.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”

  “All right. I’ll call the press conference. I been meaning to talk to you a little more about press coverage.”

  “Not sure I know much about that.”

  “The thing is, Miss Chloe, some kids don’t get a lot of attention. When there’s no family to fight for them, they can get lost. Little Esperanza doesn’t have a voice. She’s kind of alone in the world, which reminds me of another little girl who got lost in the system. I know you feel it was a good thing, but if you’d been missing or needed fundraising for an operation, it woulda been a disaster.”

  I let that sink in. “Are you suggesting I give the press conference?”

  “We can authorize you. You’re a much prettier face for the camera. But I know you already get more attention than you want, so if you don’t want to, that’s fine. It’s just that maybe you’d like calling the shots. Telling people what to look at and putting to rest all the stupid speculation about your marriage. Take control, just like you did with your life when that brother of yours tried to take it from you. Eh, what am I saying? I don’t want to push you at all, but if it ever appeals, let me know.”

  “Okay… I guess I’ll think about it.”

  “Well, only if you want to. You have a good night.”

  “You too.” I hung up and held the phone to my chest for a moment.

  “Everything all right?” Jason asked from the other room.

  “Yeah… I just have some stuff to think about.”

  That white sedan was still parked at the end of the driveway, along with a few other cars. At first I wondered if it were more paparazzi, attracted by news that Jason’s movie was no more, but when no flashbulbs popped, I guessed that these were fans and other randoms who’d followed the day glo arrows. Two pulled out to leave when I emerged, and three more cars drove past, which was a lot of traffic for this road. We didn’t really live in a densely populated neighborhood. These rubberneckers likely took pictures of me with their camera phones, which would further prove that this was, in fact, Jason Vanderholt’s house. I couldn’t really see into the cars, though, given the failing daylight. All that was left of the sunset was a ribbon of peach sky on the western horizon. The photographer in the white sedan looked up, but didn’t get out of his car. His window was rolled down.

  I crossed the street to him and he lifted an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “Howabout a press conference on one of the cases I’ve been working on?”

  “What about it?”

  “If I get you into that, will you stop following me around?”

  “No.”

  “You said if I trade-”

  “A press conference isn’t the kind of thing I do. It means, by definition, all the press are there. If the pics I have are the same as everyone else’s, they don’t sell.” He smiled at me, condescendingly.

  “Fine, I meet with you exclusively and you can ask some questions-”

  “Not juicy enough, unless you’re having an affair with the suspect.”

  “You’re really hung up on the whole affair thing, aren’t you?”

  “One pic like that would put my kids through college. Your engagement pictures-”

  “That was you?”

  He smirked triumphantly.

  “If you have kids, why not go spend time with them instead of parked outside my house all day?”

  He rolled his eyes and rolled up his window.

  I trudged back across the street, through the gate, and began the long walk back to the house. So much for taking control of that situation.

  The next day, over my lunch hour, I found myself driving to the hospital. Nobody challenged me as I made my way to the victim’s room. It was as sparse and spare as before, and she looked worse. Her cheeks were sunken and her skin was slack. The bruises had gone from black and blue to deep purple and her body seemed even more limp than before. I wondered if she’d lost consciousness before or after Esperanza got carried off. Either way, she had to have known her little girl was going to be taken. What a thing to have as your last conscious thought.

  Today, the hospital didn’t feel like a safe place. It felt like a lonely place. A prison for those who had no one to take them into their hearts once they were discharged. Teresa would likely slip away from life here, with no one keeping a vigil at her side. I’d thought I was a lonely person as a child. I’d had no idea what the word even meant. Even the beep of the heart monitor sounded like it kept a plaintive, fruitless measure of the time slipping past.

  I took her hair down and brushed it out. Even after a couple of days, it wasn’t oily like mine got without being washed. It was another sign that her body was shutting down. I carefully worked out the few tangles that had formed and braided it up again, hoping against hope that she could feel my ministrations. I touched her cheek with my fingertips before I sat down in the chair beside her bed.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, staring, but footsteps in the doorway roused me. “Hey, Miss Chloe.” Detective Baca stood reverently, not wanting to intrude. “Been looking for you.”

  “Did you do the press conference yet?”

  “It’s in about an hour.”

  “I’ll do it, if you want.”

  “I wanted to introduce you to someone else. Maybe give you some more perspective. That sound all right?”

  “Sure.” I got up and followed him with one last glance at Teresa.

  The drive wasn’t far. We pulled into the parking lot of an assisted living facility, with its requisite neat lawns, and benches set out every ten paces along the sidewalk. A couple of them were occupied by residents leaning heavily on their canes or walking frames as they gazed absently across the parking lot. The day was sunny and bright with a dazzling turquoise sky overhead. Pretty normal for Albuquerque.

  Places like this always depressed me. It seemed like a lot of families dumped their elderly in these facilities and then forgot about them. Then again, I was rich enough to scorn this. Jason could afford to pay his aunt to provide live in care for his elderly grandparents. I didn’t even know any of my own grandparents.

  Detective Baca and I got out of the car and went into the air conditioned lobby, with its cheery floral wallpaper and plush, pink carpet. A clipboard set at an angle held Xeroxed sheets of a register, which we both signed. All the workers milling around – and there were a lot, I had to admit – nodded in greeting to him. Whether it was because they knew him or because they were well brought up New Mexicans, I didn’t know. In New Mexico, especially in Hispanic culture, one always greeted older people out of respect. Detective Baca wasn’t old, by any means, but he had silvering hair and a face lined deeply enough to show what life experience he did have.

  The place smelled like an aromatic mix of disinfectant and fresh baked bread. The carpet had a nice deep pile that my shoes sank into, and the walls were immaculately clean with a sunny yellow trim. Big skylights graced the ceiling every few feet.

  The detective led me down the hall to a room where a man sat in a chair, gazing out the window. He wasn’t terribly old. I could tell even before he got up that he could
walk without a cane. His knees were a little stiff and he winced slightly with each step, but was across the room to shake our hands before we even got all the way in the door.

  “Hey old man,” said Detective Baca, affectionately. “You still terrorizing this place?”

  “You here just to lay on the insults?”

  They clapped each other’s shoulders and then the man turned his dark eyes to me. I greeted him and shook his hand.

  “This is Miss Chloe.”

  “Nice to meet you, missy.”

  “Miss Chloe, this is Don Ramirez.” He pronounced it “doan”, the Spanish honorific, not the English nickname for Donald.

  “Don.” The guy snorted. “I’m Eddie is who I am. You’re here to pay your respects to the angels?”

  “As always.”

  Eddie led us around the far side of his bed, where a little shrine was set up on the nightstand. I meant shrine almost in the literal sense. It had a candle burning and a picture of a little girl, perhaps three years old. The photograph was old and faded, but it was still possible to see her quizzical expression and pigtails that stuck almost straight up. Her skin was very dark, but her eyes were light and distinctly gray in contrast. A dark scar, likely a burn from its appearance, marred one cheek. In her arms was a stuffed pig, and next to the photograph was that same stuffed pig, a little worse for wear. It was stained and battered and one ear had been much chewed on.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “She’s my little angel, my reason for wanting to get into heaven rather than the other place. I gotta see her again.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Granddaughter. Her mother was also killed.” He moved another photo I hadn’t noticed before because it was behind the other items. It showed a young woman, no older than her teens, smiling uncertainly at the camera. She had fairer skin, dark hair, and dark eyes.