Sacrifice

by Michael Arches

  At our office, we decorated for Christmas and planned staggered holidays so the public would have some help available at all hours. And I wasn’t going anywhere. Planned to work extra hours so the others could get time off.

  Thankfully, Willow had returned from Tokyo. She brought us matching pink kimonos, all silk. Decadent.

  Not for the first time, I realized I was lucky to have run into her. She was amazing, a woodland nymph brought to life.

  It being Saturday, I was taking a break from the office. Instead, we got ready for our next trip to Denver. We were going with my friend Margie see Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet, my favorite ballet, and my mom’s, too. Willow had yet to meet Mom, and I cringed each time I thought about what could happen. Mom was too conservative to accept the idea that I’d never go out with a man, much less marry one.

  To my surprise, she’d agreed to come to the ballet without asking questions about who else was going.

  We were supposed to meet outside Margie’s jewelry store on the pedestrian mall in Aspen. She’d agreed to drive us in her big Mercedes sedan.

  As the time approached for Willow to meet Mom, my stomach twisted into knots. I’d rather face an armed bank robber than see the two of them clash.

  While my girlfriend and I dressed, she seemed surprisingly relaxed. Finally, I said, “I just want to be sure you understand—”

  She put up her hand to stop me. “That your parents are staunchly conservative and inalterably opposed to homosexuality. Yeah, I figured that out already. I’m planning on knocking her socks off with my vibrant wit and unquenchable charm.”

  I groaned.

  She laughed. “Come on, I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

  I sure as hell didn’t want to think about that.

  “Your mother may decide that I’m a monster. In which case, she can ask Margie to drop her at the bus station in Basalt or Glenwood, and she can take the shuttle back to Aspen to pick up her car. No sweat off of my brow. That’s the correct expression, n'est-ce pas?”

  God, I hoped she wasn’t bullshitting me about how relaxed she felt. “The thing is, Mom’s absolutely convinced it’s her motherly duty to fix me. A mother’s love can be a terrible thing.”

  Willow kissed me. “All will be well, mon petit chou. No matter what she does, I promise not to shoot her. So, calm yourself.”

  That was not calming.

  -o-o-o-

  Willow and I arrived at Margie’s store a little early, and I explained to the older woman about the potential for fireworks.

  She didn’t seem to get it either. Instead, she patted me on the arm. “I’m sure everything will be fine. She obviously raised a daughter with good manners, so she must have them, too.”

  I tried to explain the whole mother’s duty to save me from myself thing, but Margie cut me off. “What’s the worst that could happen? We drop her off at a bus station along the way.”

  Willow grinned.

  Mom was usually on time, but not today. Chickenshit that I was, I began to hope something had arisen to keep her from coming from Gunnison. Not an accident, or anything bad, but…maybe a touch of the flu or her car wouldn’t start.

  Then an ancient, white Oldsmobile Cutlass pulled into view. My mother’s face was just as pale, like she’d barely survived some ordeal.

  I ran up to her and opened her door as soon as she parked. She staggered out and hugged me like I remembered from when I got out of the Marines, with parts missing.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Beginning to worry.”

  Her lips trembled. “Sorry, just passed a bad accident on the highway. A red Wrangler got smashed to bits by some truck. I was terrified that you’d been in that Jeep.”

  We gave each other another tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. That quickly, I realized there were a lot of worse things in the world than listening to Mom drone on about conversion therapy.

  When we stepped back from our embrace, I introduced both of my friends, and I held Willow’s hand so my mom could figure out how much she meant to me, if Mom cared to know.

  On the way to Denver, Willow and I took the backseat, and the two older women sat up front. We talked about nothing in particular. I didn’t make a big deal of the fact that Willow and I were living together, but I didn’t hide it either.

  Mom usually didn’t waste time in turning any conversation with me to Sodom and Gomorrah, and I racked my brain to come up with other things talk about. “Hey, Mom, I didn’t tell you—”

  Before I could go on, she stiffened. Maybe she was worried I was about to announce Willow and I were getting married. Actually, I had no idea what craziness Mom had conjured up. So, I plunged on. “Willow is, or was, a professional ballerina. She’s performed Juliet on the stage.”

  “Oh, really?” Mom said with joy in her voice. “That’s wonderful. Where?”

  My girlfriend and I swore Mom and Margie to secrecy about the Lyons, France connection and told her. The strongest common bond between me and my mother remained the ballet. Our lives were so different otherwise. But we could talk for hours about dance, and we did. Conversion therapy and brimstone just never came up.

  -o-o-o-

  This year, the birthday for my grandfather on my father’s side came on a Monday. When I was growing up, we’d always remembered that day somberly. My grandfather had died during the Battle of the Coral Sea when the Japanese sank his aircraft carrier, the USS Lexington. Maybe that was why my dad was as cold and domineering as he was, or maybe he’d just been born a self-righteous asshole. Either way, on my way to work, I said a prayer for the grandfather I’d never known.

  Boomer and I had hardly settled into my cubicle when I got a call from Dr. Dan.

  “The gods must love you,” he said.

  I couldn’t resist an easy pitch like that. “Why, because I’m so smart and charming?”

  He snickered. “Definitely not, but somebody up there likes you. We got our DNA sample analyzed and run through the Federal CODIS database. And here’s the best part. We got a hit. Two years ago, a female student from Slovakia picked up a DUI in Denver—Natasha Rybár.”

  “Fantastic, but my life is never that easy. I assume she was driving on a foreign license.”

  The cheer fell out of his voice. “Yeah, which means her address isn’t going to help us find her in Colorado. Damn.”

  “True, but you still hit a triple, my man. Now we know exactly what she looked like when her license was issued and when she was booked on the DUI. That should make it much easier to find where she’s been lately. Thanks so much. Send me the info from CODIS. We’ll take it from here.”

  “Just emailed it to you. And let me know what you find out. I feel like I know her. At least, I know her bones.”

  My heart went pitter-patter, despite the useless address. We had a face and a name. A huge step forward.

  I plugged the name into Immigration’s entry and exit database and discovered that, three years ago, Natasha had entered the United States on a student visa. She claimed she intended to go to school at the Community College of Denver.

  The terms of her visa required her to continue her education, but unfortunately, she didn’t. Her visa expired, but according to the Feds, she didn’t leave the good ol’ USA. Instead, Natasha became one of millions of illegal aliens hiding out in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

  Her name was unusual enough that we could run it through other databases without getting too many false positives. Linda was our office techie, and she ran the searches. More bad news—nada about Natasha.

  I tried getting information the prehistoric way, by telephone. I called Carlos Garcia, a detective friend I’d worked with at Denver PD.

  After we’d caught up, I asked, “Would you mind digging out a DUI file from two years ago for me? The woman you guys arrested was chopped up and dumped in the river that flows through Aspen.”

  “Hank, how do you get all the weird cas
es?”

  “The gods hate me for some reason, don’t ask me why. They taunt me with hints of good news that never pans out. The DB came in using a student visa and disappeared. Up to no good, I’m sure. Maybe that’s what got her killed.”

  “That happens,” he said. “I should be able to track down the file sometime this morning.”

  After thanking him profusely and signing off, I focused on getting the word out about the woman formally known as Natasha Rybár.

  Over the last few days, I’d received several calls and emails from various reporters who were following the chopped-up-lady story, as they liked to call it. As usual, I’d ignored their messages. But not anymore.

  For those who’d emailed me, I sent a reply with copies of Natasha’s photographs and asked the reporter to publicize the pictures. For those who’d left voicemails, I gritted my teeth and called back. The problem was, once a reporter got me on the line, they’d never stop asking questions.

  Jasmine Williams picked up on the first ring. Not surprising. She’d been the one who’d nagged me the most about the case. Plus, immigration was one of her pet issues.

  Even though she was a newshound, I liked her. A heavyset, friendly, young woman from Jamaica. She’d won the immigration lottery and snagged a green card. Her voice was warm and welcoming, as always, but her words weren’t. “Hank, you gotta work on your social skills, sister. I called you five days ago.”

  “And every day since,” I said, “including the weekend. I can either do my job or chat with you. Can’t manage both.”

  “What you say? You doing it right now.”

  I explained about Natasha and asked Jasmine to post the photos.

  “So, sure, we’ll put them on our website.”

  I thanked her, and after a few more minutes of small talk, I said goodbye without making any promises about staying in touch. Nice as she was, I wasn’t going to become her go-to-gal in local law enforcement.

  -o-o-o-

  I gave all the reporters the same spiel I’d given Jasmine. That satisfied everybody except Angelina Esteban, a pushy, young star reporter for Channel 5, a Denver TV station. On a former case where I’d first run into her, she’d practically tackled me to get an interview—even though I was twice as big. Angelina could give Machiavelli lessons on being sneaky.

  “Hank, really fantastic to hear from you again. You’re my favorite female sheriff. An inspiration to young girls everywhere.”

  Angelina could lay it on thicker than pond scum but sound sincere. I wasn’t fooled. I gave her my spiel, then said, “I figure, since you work for one of Denver’s top TV news stations—”

  “The top news station,” she interrupted.

  “Okay, the top station. Congrats. I’m hoping you can broadcast my pictures. Somebody has to recognize this young woman.”

  “You’ll be my top story today, but I’m sure folks will notice the pictures much more if we include an interview with you. I’m recording this call, by the way.”

  She should’ve asked me first, but Angelina loved to push the limits. Fortunately, I always assumed with reporters that everything I said was on the record, even when they told me it wasn’t. “Thanks for asking, but no. Not okay. My voice doesn’t come across the phone lines very well.”

  “No worries. We’ve got this great software. It’ll make you sound like Shania Twain, ma’am. And in addition to broadcasting the interview, I’ll post everything to my Facebook page. A hundred and sixty thousand followers, most of them in Colorado.”

  A hundred and sixty thousand? Holy shit! I had eleven, most of them family and our other deputies. Her offer to boost my pitch was tempting, but I didn’t like getting steamrolled by cute little Angelina. “Sorry, and thanks for your willingness to publish the pictures. Bye.”

  I hung up before she could work on me with some new angle. The little conniver had a magical knack for getting what she wanted.

  Chapter 5

  As promised, Carlos emailed me Natasha’s criminal file. There wasn’t much to it. She’d pled guilty and received a deferred sentence in return for completing an alcohol abuse course. That was how courts responded to most first-time drunk drivers these days.

  Natasha had given the Denver cops a local address and phone number, which I checked out. Her former landlord didn’t remember her, but he reviewed his files. They contained nothing helpful. No forwarding address from when she’d left that apartment thirty months ago. The cellphone had been disconnected, too.

  Boomer and I went out for lunch and a walk to clear my head. He got a lot of attention with his snazzy new sheriff’s vest, and unlike with most working dogs, the public was encouraged to pet him. In fact, schmoozing was one of the few things he could do well.

  As for clearing my head? Nothing brilliant came to mind. Nothing mediocre either.

  But when we got back from lunch, my email box contained eighty-three new messages. Angelina hadn’t been kidding about her social media mojo.

  I forwarded a third to Jason and a third to Linda. The rest, I waded through myself. Mostly, people claimed they’d seen Natasha in Montrose, or Cortez, or Fort Morgan, or somewhere far away from Aspen. Worse, they didn’t provide any useful leads we could follow.

  Then I opened a message from fffuuu It simply said, Hey, lady cop, my BFF Angelina says you need help finding the brunette hottie. Look here: SexyescortsVail.biz.

  Willow had warned me a dozen times about clicking on links from unreliable sources, but she’d also upgraded our office’s network security. I decided to test her software.

  Although I half-expected to end up at some Russian porn site that would suck up all my passwords and my blood, that didn’t happen. It turned out, there really was a website for hookers in Vail. And damn, it included some sizzling babes. Seven women, all young and gorgeous, including Natasha. Except the site told me her name was Monique.

  I clicked on her picture. A message flashed on the screen: We’re sorry, but lovely Monique is temporarily unavailable. Please choose someone else.

  Online sex surfing wasn’t working out, so I stared at the phone number at the bottom of the screen. It was apparently intended for people too stupid to use the Internet. I qualified.

  Unfortunately, I was missing an essential characteristic for a real escort customer, namely a man’s voice.

  So, I grabbed Skip Tantor, my best friend in the office. I gave him a burn phone we used for investigations. That was so the caller ID wouldn’t tell the person answering the phone we were from the sheriff’s office.

  He conferenced in my cellphone then called the hookers.

  A woman with a low, sultry voice said, “This is Veronica. How may we help?”

  “Yeah, I’m trying to set up a date with Monique,” Skip said. “We went out a couple months ago when I was last in Vail. Had a great time. Love to see her again.”

  The woman didn’t miss a beat. “We’re thrilled that you enjoyed your date. Monique is very sweet and charming. Unfortunately, she’s been called out of town for a while. I’m sure someone else could be of service. Raquel is just as much fun, a lovely blonde, and available this evening.”

  Skip slapped his forehead with his palm, like he’d lost his mind. I didn’t know what he was waiting for. We needed to make some connection to these people. I waved at him several times, trying to get him to say yes.

  Finally, it clicked. “Sure, could she meet me at L'Amore at six? We could start with dinner. I’m six-two and skinny. Brown mustache. I’ll be wearing a Notre Dame cap.”

  “Excellent dinner choice. She’ll be there. By the way, for your convenience, we now take all major credit cards.”

  After he hung up, he grimaced and banged his forehead against the divider that separated my cubicle from my neighbor’s. “Karen is going to go nuts if she hears about this.”

  I stifled a laugh. “You mean when, when she hears. You’re going to tell her in case somebody recognizes you at L'Amore with a hot, st
acked, young slut like Raquel.” I showed him her picture from the website.

  He shook his head. “I’m not telling her, you are. And you’re going to emphasize how reluctant I am to go along with this insane idea.”

  I agreed to take the blame and called Karen. She was a successful accountant in town, and usually busy, but I managed to catch her at a free moment.

  After I explained everything, she asked, “Why do you want to use Skip? He’s a terrible liar.”

  “So am I. It comes from being so quick to judge everybody else. Sorry, but he’s part of the team investigating the murder. It was all my idea. He told me he hates hot young blondes with giant boobs. I believe him.”

  He groaned as he stood next to me, but I knew his pretty, blonde wife had an impressive chest herself. She shrieked with laughter.

  When she could speak again, she said, “You’re going to be there the whole damned time, right?”

  “Absolutely. We just need to make contact with this Raquel and force her to reveal what she knows about Natasha. And there will be absolutely no touchy-feely.”

  -o-o-o-

  On our way to Vail, Skip and I dropped Boomer off at home and explained the situation to Willow. Then my human partner and I headed to the Town of Vail, Aspen’s archrival in the ski biz. I felt like a traitor.

  On the way, I contacted the Eagle County Sheriff to let him know what we were planning on his turf. He was kind enough to lend us a female deputy, Jackie Peters, who could apply any legal pressure we might need to force Raquel to talk about Natasha. Skip and I would be out of our jurisdiction.

  We met with Jackie at a coffee shop near the restaurant. It was already dark, and she wore a pink party dress, like she was ready for a night on the town. Jackie was a muscular, twenty-something woman who’d shaved the sides of her head. She wore a stud in one eyebrow. Definitely butch.

  “Congrats on the election,” she said. “A big step for LGBTQ rights.”

  I gave her a big smile and said, “Thanks. You know anything about these escorts?”