by Alan Russell
Charlotte looked up again at Nick’s approach, and this time she did recognize him. She took her time taking in his features, and when she finished offered up a little smile.
“You clean up pretty good,” she said.
“You say that to all the Santas in town?”
“Charlotte,” she said, extending her hand.
“Nick,” he said.
They were seated at a table that was half in the shadows, and half out. It was December, but the garden area was still vibrant with colors, and the aromatic scent of jasmine filled the air. A stand of ivy made it feel like a private setting, while a heat lamp eliminated the slight chill in the air. Atmospheric lights were strung overhead, and the candle on their table flickered seductively. Nick hadn’t thought he was that hungry, but that was before he was seduced by the restaurant’s aromatic offerings. With so many wonderful scents, and too many menu choices, Nick ended up ordering the chile relleno plate. Charlotte finally decided on the fish tacos.
With their orders behind them, Charlotte pulled Laura’s letter out of her purse. She unfolded the notebook paper, and carefully placed it so that it wouldn’t get soiled or wet. Then she looked at Nick and asked, “How did you end up getting this letter?”
Nick told her what little he knew of its history.
“So it could have been dropped off any time after Santa’s mailbox was put up?”
Nick nodded.
“How many other letters were in the mailbox when it was first emptied?”
“About a dozen, I think. Angie collected them. She’s the head elf.”
“Do you still have those letters?”
“They’re all posted on Santa’s sleigh.”
“Have you talked with anyone working the Santa display to see if they remember Laura?”
“No … I … No.” Nick had been tempted to explain how he was only a temporary Santa, and how he’d had other pressing concerns, but that would have taken too long, and maybe told her more about him than he wanted to reveal. “I have asked the security director to pull footage of anyone leaving a letter in Santa’s mailbox, though.”
“Good idea,” said Charlotte. “But you’re saying that you don’t personally remember a girl named Laura?”
He shook his head, but then added, “That’s not to say she couldn’t have sat in my lap. When it’s busy, everything sort of becomes a blur.”
She nodded, and then reached for the note. “Do you think this letter is legitimate?”
“Yeah, even though I wish it wasn’t.”
“Why is that?”
“Now I feel like I know Laura. I don’t like it that she’s scared. It sounds as if she is in danger of being evicted. And I hate the idea of her not waking up to any Christmas presents.”
Nick was surprised at how much he was talking, but his honesty seemed to be contagious.
“I know what you mean,” said Charlotte. She sighed. “When I said I was having trouble sleeping because of that letter, I wasn’t kidding. It brought back a lot of memories. In many ways I was that girl, and I’m afraid there’s a part of me that always will be.”
“You were poor?” asked Nick.
Charlotte nodded. “I remember one Christmas when my mother and I were living in a car, just like Laura might be. Santa didn’t visit me either.”
“Not exactly a Hallmark moment,” said Nick.
“Not exactly.”
The two of them were quiet for a minute. Charlotte finally said, “Laura,” and shook her head. “Even the name’s enigmatic. It’s an every-girl name. She could be any race or color.”
“It’s an every-girl name without a last name.”
Charlotte nodded. “It was quite the challenge you and your elf friend threw me. Find the needle in the haystack.”
“You struck us as a person who doesn’t give up easily.”
“I don’t.”
Charlotte took a tortilla chip, and dipped it in the salsa. She came away with a full reservoir of the salsa, which she downed in one bite. Nick had already tried the spicy salsa. Either Charlotte liked it hot, or she was too preoccupied to notice.
“I’ve already started looking for Laura,” she said. “There are a lot of cracks little girls can fall through, but I’m familiar with those cracks. I’ve already contacted all elementary schools within a fifteen mile radius of the mall.”
“Aren’t the schools bound by confidentiality laws?”
Charlotte grabbed another chip, and scooped up more salsa. She did like it hot.
“Confidentiality laws don’t exclude teachers talking with any of their students named Laura who might have written the letter, and encouraging her to call me.”
Nick tried to keep his doubts off his face. Apparently he didn’t succeed.
“What?”
“I’m curious why Laura’s mother didn’t contact some of the toy drives around town, or charitable institutions, to make sure her daughter got some presents.”
“Maybe she did. Last year the charitable agencies ran out of presents for children.”
Nick nodded thoughtfully.
“Or,” said Charlotte, “it could be her mother doesn’t speak English, and was afraid to contact anyone for help. She might be undocumented. Or maybe she’s just too proud to accept charity. Finding Laura is already proving hard enough, but if her mother doesn’t want her to be found that’s when this hunt gets real difficult.”
“You always full of such cheery thoughts?”
“You’re the one who gave me the letter.”
“’Tis the season to be guilty,” said Nick.
They both laughed.
“Why don’t you put Laura’s letter on the air?” asked Nick. “Someone might recognize her that way.”
“That could work,” she said, “but what if she doesn’t want to be made into a spectacle?”
Nick opened his mouth to say that he wished the media had been as considerate about him, but then closed it.
“Before I go that route,” Charlotte said, “I want to see if I can find her. It might not be easy, though, especially if Laura and her mother are in hiding from something or someone. Maybe the two of them escaped an abusive household, or maybe the mother is mentally ill, and suspicious of everyone, or maybe they’re not legal citizens.”
Nick nodded. There were times on his job when he needed to track down a reluctant witness, or a suspect; if someone was of a mind to disappear they usually found a way.
“I hope you still want to help me with this,” Charlotte said.
Nick nodded. “Every year Metropolitan Transit sponsors a holiday entertainment series. There are usually only two trolley stations where entertainers perform, at Euclid Avenue or at Sixty-second Street. I am pretty sure Laura’s drawing is of the Sixty-second Street Trolley Station. She must have seen carolers performing there. And it just so happens there’s a bus that leaves from that station that goes to Plaza Center. I’d like to canvas the neighborhoods near Sixty-second Street, go to youth centers and the like, and ask around.”
“We’ll both start there,” said Charlotte, “but if we don’t have any luck in the next few days we’ll need to cast a wider net. And the best way I can think of to involve the public is to interview you on air.”
“Whoa,” said Nick, raising his hands. “Why involve me in your story? You got the letter. That’s the story.”
“Every story has to be personalized. The letter was delivered to you. Without Laura, you’re the only other face to this story.”
“So talk with one of the other mall Santas. It’s not like the letter was addressed to me personally.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I can’t play fast and loose with the facts, and I can’t change the chronology of what happened.”
“So that’s it.”
“What is it?”
“You can drop the friendly act.”
“What act are you talking about?”
“You pretended to be interested in Laura, but all you wanted to d
o was get your shot at me on camera.”
Red spots appeared in Charlotte’s cheeks. “You figured it out, Sherlock. But why is it that I didn’t ambush you on camera at the mall? Before my story aired I knew who you were. I wasn’t about to let you get away with giving me a first name, so I called up the mall manager and he had human resources provide me with your name. The moment I heard it, I knew who you were.”
Nick digested the information, and then said, “Amazing.”
“What?”
“That you didn’t use that information.”
“I was tempted. It could have been played up big: suspended cop involved in a shooting now working as Santa at Plaza Center. I could have asked you if you were packing. I could have painted the story with all sorts of sensationalistic elements.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“Because the story was about my visit to Santa, and not about the little girl you accidentally shot. And the story I’m working on now is about Laura, not you.”
“How could it not be about me? According to your peers, I am not Santa. I’m Satan.”
“You haven’t exactly been forthcoming. Since the shooting, you’ve been the invisible man. I’ve been following the story.”
“You’ve been following the lie. It was reported that on the night of the shooting I’d been playing cards and drinking until late. That was printed in black and white, and aired on radio and television. And the stories kept getting worse. Anonymous sources kept popping up. They said I had a gambling problem. They claimed I was a rogue cop and loose cannon. I’ve seen serial murderers get better press than what I got.”
“You never denied anything.”
“You’re right. On advice of counsel, I never said anything, but I know there were plenty of people willing to speak up for me, trying to speak up even, but you guys weren’t interested in getting to the truth. It’s true I was at that card game until late, but what’s not true are all those stories about how I was boozing it up, and that I lost heavily, and how I left so depressed. I lost six bucks. The stakes we play, if I’d lost every hand I wouldn’t have been down more than twenty-five bucks. And my so-called gambling habit consists of that weekly poker game. That’s it. As for my heavy drinking, I had one beer the whole night. That’s my usual. I’ve never had a taste for booze. Some of the other guys get juiced at the games. That’s not me. Everyone who was there, everyone I’ve ever played with, could tell you that. I walked into that situation stone cold sober.”
“I believe you.”
Nick’s mouth was open. He was ready to argue. He was ready to rail. What he wasn’t ready for was her support. Embarrassed, looking away, he said, “You’re in pretty small company then.”
“If I have to interview you, you could wear the Santa suit.”
“I don’t know.”
“And I don’t know how else I can finesse the story if we don’t find Laura. Without you in the picture, there would be too many gaps among the five Ws.”
“I guess we need to find Laura then.”
“I can’t invest the time and effort without your promise that you’ll go on camera if we hit a dead end.”
Nick didn’t answer right away. After the media’s hatchet job on him, he wasn’t sure if he could ever trust any reporter.
“You’d have to use my name?” asked Nick. “I couldn’t be an anonymous Santa Claus?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said, but then Charlotte’s hands started moving, almost as if she was weaving an invisible fabric. “There might be another way,” she said. “What do your friends call you?”
“The guys on the force call me Zorba, or Z, or Nick, or Nick the Greek.”
“But your first name is Nicholas?”
Nick nodded. “Nicholas Alexander Pappas,” he said.
“We could identify you as Nicholas Alexander Pappas. With you in your Santa suit, I doubt anyone will make the connection.”
Nick thought about it. Finally he shrugged. “I’ll do it as a last resort.”
Chapter 14
While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks
December 4
Nick arrived home too charged up to sleep. He and Charlotte had talked until they were the only ones left out on the patio. The staff had finally turned off the heat lamps or else they might still be talking. Though it was late, Nick wasn’t anywhere near ready to sleep. He sat in his easy chair and tuned into the replay of the local news, but mostly what he did was mentally replay the dinner conversation. Suddenly the sound from the set caught his attention, something about Downtown Danny Brown.
“We have exclusive video footage,” said the sportscaster, his voice far too enthusiastic to sound credible, “of a secret weapon the Sea Lions will be employing for this Sunday’s big game with Kansas City.”
Santa Claus suddenly appeared on the television; Nick started when he realized he was the one dressed in the Santa suit. Danny Brown was on one of his knees, his daughter Savannah on the other.
“Danny Brown is apparently willing to do anything to get a win,” said the sportscaster. “This home video was taken at the Plaza Center.”
Nick heard himself asking Brown, “Have you been a good boy?”
And then he listened to the quarterback’s answer, and what was worse, heard this bogus Santa promise a gift-wrapped win over KC.
The sportscaster stuck a thumb in the air. “Hear that, sports fans?” he asked. “The Big Claus has promised our Sea Lions a vic this Sunday.”
Not the Big Claus, thought Nick, stabbing the remote until the picture disappeared. More like the Big Mouth.
The next afternoon an amused-looking Forster was waiting for Nick as he stepped out of the locker room. He greeted Nick with a whistle of approval.
“What?” Nick asked, suspicious of his former partner’s smile.
“That Santa suit’s a flashy number,” Forster said, leaning against the wall.
“What are you babbling about?” asked Nick.
“It looks like a dance outfit to me.”
“Santa doesn’t dance, and neither do I.”
“Of course you dance. You’re Greek.”
“What’s Greek to me is dancing.”
“C’mon, Nico, I bet you get happy feet every time you put that suit on.”
“Yeah, twenty pounds of costume makes me feel like a real Fred Astaire.”
It was easy for the two men to slip into the banter that had been a constant during their years together on the force, but Forster was there for more than social reasons. He had lost his smile.
“Afraid I didn’t come over to discuss your dance card,” he said. “This morning I got a call from the security director over at Fashion Valley. It looks like our boys have expanded their operation. They did a crash and dash in the parking lot, used a moving truck to flatten a thirty-year-old male and grab what he was carrying. The way the victim figures it, they had to have been scouting him while he was buying his fiancé a rock at the jewelry store. He was lucky he escaped with only heavy bruises and scrapes.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“I’m increasing foot patrols.”
“I keep thinking we’re missing something. These guys somehow have had the advantage over us. They know the lay of the land. I’m wondering if that means they have some inside help.”
“If the fix is in, it’s not coming from security. I’d vouch for my whole crew.”
“Maybe they’ve just been lucky so far,” said Nick. “But it’s time we went on the offensive. We know our bad guys are targeting jewelry stores and high-ticket items. We need to be identifying our muggers before they identify targets.”
“I’ve already put out that memo to our eyes in the skies.”
“Maybe we should set up some decoys in the parking lot. We can make it look like they’re easy pickings walking around carrying a big haul.”
“I’ve been trying to float that suggestion to management.”
“And?”
“And t
hey hope our muggers are happy at their new mall and don’t come back. In other words, you’re still our one and only secret weapon.”
It wasn’t only the two-legged that sat on Nick’s lap that day.
“Oh, how cute!” said Angie, petting and cooing over the dog. “What’s his name?”
“Beauregard,” said the proud owner of the basset hound. “He’s here to have his picture taken with Santa.”
Nick wasn’t keen on the idea of the dog being in his lap. He didn’t want fur on his Santa suit, and he sure didn’t want fleas. Beauregard didn’t look very happy at the idea either, but they seemed to be the only two who had reservations. Everyone else was delighted with the idea. With some coaxing, Angie settled the dog into Nick’s lap. Man and dog exchanged a glance; Nick hoped he didn’t look as miserable as Beauregard but he wouldn’t have wanted to bet.
The owner and Angie stood side by side making sounds to try to get Beauregard animated. Nick kept a strained smile on his face until Darcy snapped the shot. Instead of taking the dog from his lap, Angie and the owner went to the digital display to examine the results.
The owner shook her head. “That shot really doesn’t capture the essence of Beauregard,” she said. “He looks dispirited.”
Angie nodded and said, “He doesn’t look happy.”
At the best of times Nick wondered if the dog could look happy. Beauregard had droopy, bloodshot eyes, and jowls that sloped downward. The dog’s long ears seemed to weigh down his head. How did they expect a basset hound to look joyous?
“I have an idea!” said Angie. She clapped her hands. Nick tried to think if he knew anyone else who clapped their hands when they were happy.
Angie’s head was deep into what she called her “Christmas bag.” It was a handbag, but Santa’s toy bag wasn’t much smaller. Encouraging sounds came from within the bag, and Angie emerged with not only a doggie treat, but some bouncy reindeer antlers. Only Angie would have those kinds of items in a handbag. She had reindeer pins that flashed, jewelry that played holiday tunes, bells, and even chestnuts. She was the Christmas Elf with the Boy Scout motto: Be Prepared. While Beauregard munched on his treat, Angie did the doggie makeover.