Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

Being misleading (“pretexting” in PI talk) is simply part of an investigation. But it’s completely unnatural to me. Usually I let morals—combined with fear and guilt—dictate my life. Maybe pursuing a risky, sneaky career was a sign of trouble, desperation, or insanity. Something to ponder when I had more time. Or a therapist.

I spotted the library after wandering through walls of colorful lockers and white-painted bricks. I even peeked into classrooms and the dreaded cafeteria, where a few kids and teachers were hanging out.

That really made my heart race. Who could forget walking into a room teeming with students, feeling on display and judged? Kenna and I had been semi-popular. I could scarcely imagine being ostracized or worse.

Thinking of Kenna jolted me back to the present. I entered the library and was relieved not to see anyone else. The place was so still I thought it might be empty.

Yearbooks lined a back wall beneath construction paper letters that announced “Woodridge—A Tradition of Excellence.” I ran my finger down the line of leather-bound volumes, finding the last four years. I lugged them to the nearest chair and hunkered down.

I scoured Beth’s eleventh-grade class, comparing each girl’s portrait to hers. Finally I reached the letter M, and there she was.
Beth Myers.
I let her name sink in. Then I flipped through the other books to find her again.

Beth had entered high school just like I had: gawky, with braces and breakouts. Four years had smoothed her skin, lengthened her hair and straightened her teeth. But she didn’t look any happier.

Each year she’d joined the diverse and attractive dance team. In every photo, she stood next to the same girl, April Johnson. She was pretty too, with light blue eyes and shiny black hair that belonged in a commercial.

I looked for Marcus and found three junior Marcuses and one senior, Marcus Gomez. I recorded all four names, but instinct told me it was Gomez. He had an indefinable charismatic quality. I tried to put my finger on it. Confidence? Cockiness? An impressive physique? He had broad shoulders, dark eyes, bronze skin, a fuzzy mustache and sharp features. I could imagine Beth being overwhelmed by him. Just looking at his picture drew me in.

On the way out, I stopped at an information rack and picked up a school calendar. I was surprised sports tryouts and practices started in the summer, not the fall. I couldn’t help checking an old cafeteria menu too. Pizza and French fries were still staples, but so were encouraging options, like hummus and zucchini. I had one foot out the door and was about to escape lie-free.

“Excuse me,” a woman said. Damn.

“Yes?” I turned and saw her at the front desk. Either she’d beamed herself there or librarians really know how to be silent.

“I noticed you by the yearbooks. What are you looking for?”

I hated and loved how fast my answer flew out. “I’m a sports reporter. I don’t want to miss any events or misspell any names.”

“Oh.”

Before she could continue, I hightailed it out of there, sweating long before I reached the afternoon heat.

It wasn’t until I pulled out of the parking lot that I realized the lie wasn’t necessary. The truth might have been helpful.
I’m looking for a girl named Beth Myers. She’s missing. Do you know her? How about April Johnson? What about Marcus Gomez?

I recalled that at one time in life, I was good at telling lies, and I hadn’t minded at all. It was in high school. Few things had mattered more than having fun and staying out of trouble. Something to remember when investigating kids.

I made my way back toward downtown, retrieved my phone from its cupholder storage spot, and eyed the drivers around me. A turbaned man in an ancient Chevy. An Asian woman in a champagne SUV. A shirtless guy in a yellow Jeep. Everyone appropriately focused on the road. Normally I didn’t make calls while driving, but if I waited until Jack and Sophie were home, I’d end up saying “What?” and “Hold on a second” endlessly, so I compromised by waiting for a red light, speed-dialing Kenna and using my Bluetooth speaker.

“I just left the high school,” I told her. “The birth mother’s name is Beth Myers.”

“Really? It’s so weird to know that.”

“I’m sorry. You were going to find out anyway, right?”

“Yeah. Our adoption was semi-open, so we didn’t share last names and addresses and stuff, but we were going to eventually. I just wasn’t quite ready.”

“I’m sorry. I feel awful. I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. I’m hurrying because I’m at a red light. Do you want me to give you some time and call back in a little while?”

“No. It’s okay. Keep going.”

I told her what I knew and agreed to touch base after dinner. I wanted to review Dean’s advice, and she needed to consult Andy.

It always struck me when people had to run something by a spouse. I didn’t have that responsibility—or that luxury. I always got my way, but it was a heavy burden to make every decision, and I still had to compromise with myself. I wanted to ask Kenna, my go-to advisor,
Is it okay to be dishonest for a good cause? What about invading Beth’s privacy? Am I being horribly insensitive to everyone involved?
But she needed my help, not my confusion.

Uneasiness drew me like a magnet to the kids’ camp and their sweaty, sunscreened faces, stories about the day, and nonstop needs. They make it impossible to focus on anything else. A challenge, yes, but also an incredible blessing.

The minivan went from empty to full. Backpacks and lunch bags crowded the kids’ feet. Art projects made their way forward and sprinkled glitter on the empty passenger seat. The silence was broken by Sophie’s, “I’m thirsty!” and Jack’s, “Reggie said atomic wedgie today. What the heck is an atomic wedgie?”

I fished a water bottle out of the summer “supply” bag between the front seats, a disorganized tangle of goggles, lotion, drinks, pool passes, dive sticks and half-read magazines.

“I want to go home,” Jack said. “I’m pooped.” This was his new favorite expression, since it involved legitimate use of a bathroom word.

“I’m pooped too,” Sophie laughed. “Can we listen to
Aladdin
?”

“Yes. Buckle up.”

Both kids struggled into seatbelts and made song requests. I uncapped the water, handed it to Sophie, found the
Aladdin
CD, negotiated an agreement on song twenty-three, gingerly defined atomic wedgie, prayed my definition would not be tested, and headed home.

By eight o’clock,
I
was pooped. I’d just tucked the kids into bed when the doorbell rang.

“Who is it?” Jack yelled from upstairs. I hoped Sophie wouldn’t come running down. I needed the peaceful miracle of bedtime.

I peeked out the doorside window and saw Kenna.

“It’s just Auntie Kenna, sweetie,” I called softly to Jack. Maybe Sophie had already conked out. “Relax and go to sleep.”

“
I
have to relax,” Kenna said when I let her in. She pushed two beer bottles toward me. “Got an opener?”

“Of course.”

We walked into the kitchen and she rummaged in the fridge while I cracked the beers. Another benefit of being neighbors—no driving home.

“Ugh,” she said. “Don’t you have any junk food?”

“Look in the pantry. There are cookies,” I defended myself. “And there’s ice cream in the freezer.” No need to mention it was low fat, soy, and more “ice” than “cream.”

“Never mind. I need something that goes with beer.”

“Popcorn then. You know where it is.”

Kenna found the organic, no-oil-added popcorn and stuck a bag in the microwave. I caught her rolling her eyes as she read the label. For an aerobics teacher, her diet was surprisingly all inclusive. One of the perks of her job, I guess.

Popping kernels filled the room with an aroma better than any taste could be. I wondered whether it would soothe Jack to sleep or lure him downstairs.

I got the feeling Kenna’s casual presentation was self-protective. Nothing could be more emotional than what we had to discuss. Children. Motherhood. Loss. It was nothing new to her, and that was the problem.

I poured popcorn into ceramic bowls and we crunched away.

“So.” I gave her an opening.

“I think I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.” That was a brave start.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve hit my limit. I can’t stop crying. I have chest pains.”

“Chest pains?”

“Stabs of anxiety. Every time I think of Beth on her own.” Her hand on her heart was proof.

“I know those. They’re awful. I got them after Jason and my Dad.” I still didn’t like saying
died
. “Is Andy being supportive?”

“Yes, but he’s less worried about Beth than about getting our money back for another adoption.”

“You could lose the money you invested in this one?”

“It’s more like we’d have to pay some fees again. I don’t want to get into that, though.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I want to find Beth.”

“How does Andy feel about us looking for her?”

“He thinks she’s running from the adoption, so to him it’s pointless.”

“But he didn’t ask you to stop?”

“No. He must be too scared to ask. He knows I’m over the edge.” She laughed.

“And he loves you.”

She tugged a folded paper from her back pocket. “Here’s everything I could think of about Beth. I took notes during our conversations so I could remember what she said. You know, in case the baby wants to know someday.”

“That’s so nice.” I skimmed them, and random details stood out.
Argues a lot with mom. Only child. Loves Disney World. Scared of snakes.
The more I knew about Beth, the more I sensed her vulnerability and knew I couldn’t give up on her, even if it meant making questionable calls.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all the little stuff about Beth before,” Kenna said. “It’s just that if I let it out...” She looked around as if searching for words. “It would have made it so real. There would have been so much more to take back...”

“It’s okay,” I said. “You did what you needed to do to protect yourself. I totally understand.”

I gave her a hug and pointed to a stack of papers on the kitchen table. “That’s everything I learned today. Or everything I
need
to learn.”

“From Dean?”

“Yup.” By now most of it was dry, albeit a little wrinkly.

“How’d he look?” Another effort to lighten the mood. I ran with it to make her laugh.

“Doable.”

Three

Kenna and I made some crazy-ass decisions. I don’t know what gave us the courage—the beer, desperation, or a history of making prank calls as kids. First, we called every Gomez near Woodridge High and asked for Marcus. Kenna had confirmed Marcus was a senior, and Marcus Gomez was the only senior “Marcus” in the yearbook.

We would have called all the Johnsons, asking for April, but there had to be hundreds. We got the expected variety of responses:
Who? Wrong number. Click.
And finally,
He’s not home,
in a drowsy woman’s voice. That was perfect, because we didn’t want to talk to him. Not yet. I wrote down his address along with Beth’s, which we found using her parents’ first names from the adoption application and her last name from the yearbook. It felt like a good but slow start.

So we took it a step further. Kenna agreed to stay at my house while the kids slept. I agreed to do my first stakeout. I’d hardly sipped my beer, but I gave it time to wear off anyway, hoping that would change my mind. Meanwhile I gathered a camera, fill-in-the-blank stakeout forms from PI class, a juice box, and organic animal crackers. Not high-tech surveillance supplies, but better than nothing. Someday I’d have cool stuff like night vision goggles and hidden microphones, which I was pretty sure they sold at Toys “R” Us these days.

That brought something to mind. Hadn’t binoculars come in a Scholastic books package for Jack? Had they been part of a Scooby-Doo club? I crept into his room and dug through his toy chest as quietly as possible. Each time I lifted a toy, it sounded like a muffled avalanche.

“What are you doing?” Kenna whispered from the doorway.

I spotted Jack’s collection of detective supplies. A flashlight. A magnifying glass. A notepad. I held the binoculars triumphantly over my head.

“What in the world?” Kenna said. For some reason they were designed to look like a square jigsaw puzzle. I had to extend the pieces to make them work.

“Binoculars,” I told her, doing my best not to wake Jack. “Undercover. They might come in handy.” I put them to my eyes. I went from seeing Kenna’s whole body to seeing her waist, where khaki shorts, a white T-shirt and a cute polka dot belt met. The toy worked. I grabbed the flashlight and notepad for good measure.

“I think I’m prepared. But I have to pee.” I’d heard more stories about PI pee than necessary. They all shared a common moral: Peeing in a car is annoying for men and nearly impossible for women. I’d never admit it freely, but when my kids were potty training, I’d rigged a decent travel system using a kiddie toilet and plastic bags—good enough for an adult to use in an emergency. When you’re a single mom with curious toddlers, bathroom stalls are not your friends. I still had that potty somewhere, bleached and ready for the next road trip.

“Anything else you need?” Kenna asked when I was ready to go.

I looked at my bulging backpack. Leave it to me to over prepare. Heaven forbid I’m stranded without wipes or an extra outfit at the appropriate moment. I had so much stuff that I’d have trouble finding what I needed. “A gun?” I joked.

“You’ll be fine,” she said. “You’re just taking a look. And the neighborhoods aren’t that bad.”

That bad?
I hadn’t been worried about the neighborhoods.
Aren’t that bad
meant kind of bad. Too late now. I threw on the pack, wiggled my feet into Nikes, and reviewed the directions I’d printed out. They made sense, but I’d probably screw them up somehow.

“If Marcus goes anywhere, remember the turns so you can find your way out,” Kenna cautioned, as if reading my mind.

“Great idea.” I tried to remember where I’d stashed my pen.

“I feel so much better knowing you’re doing this,” she added. Well, that made one of us.

I walked out the door saying I’d check in frequently, a promise I wouldn’t keep.

My first stop was Beth’s townhouse. I expected it to be rundown, showing outward signs of whatever family trouble might exist inside. Instead, the end unit looked prim and proper, with its trimmed mini-lawn and bushes, brick façade and flower boxes brimming with orange fluffiness. Behind it was a neighborhood tot lot.

I parked in a nearby visitor spot to get a better feel for the place. I imagined Beth going up and down the cement sidewalk or driving up the asphalt driveway into the garage. I didn’t get a cheery feeling from the house, but I couldn’t find anything wrong with it either. The windows were dark and the curtains were drawn, which was normal at 11 p.m.

The surrounding houses were similarly quiet and well tended. Neat landscaping. Coiled hoses. Empty driveways. Some had flags with summer themes. The messiest yard held scattered plastic toys, a tricycle and a kiddie pool. If I lived nearby, that would probably be my favorite neighbor—the parent who couldn’t pull it together before collapsing into bed. The street felt safe, as though any disturbance would stand out.

After twenty minutes of uneventful observation, I put the car in drive. Off to look for a gang member.

Marcus’s neighborhood was fabulous if you appreciate fixer uppers, BEWARE OF DOG signs, and loud, customized cars. I drove just fast enough to avoid being a target for potentially bored, armed teens. As I neared his street, I had to slow down and get my bearings. I resisted the impulse to wave at three guys on the corner. Instead I stared straight ahead and hoped they didn’t notice me.

I turned right, and three blocks later I parked across from Marcus’s ’70s-style split-level home. I doubted its window bars had been an original option. It was surrounded by a chain link fence perfect for little ones or pets. (No running into the street!) But here, maybe it kept people out.

I shut off my headlights and sat in darkness. The ignition emitted a tiny green glow I’d never noticed before, probably because there are street lamps galore in my neighborhood, something I’d taken for granted. I left the keys in place for light and a quick escape.

I felt around the backpack while my eyes adjusted. I wanted a surveillance log, which I’d forgotten to use at Beth’s house. After a minute of digging frustration, I dumped everything on the passenger seat and found one.

I lowered my head to get a closer look, accomplishing hiding and writing at the same time. I listed details about the time and location, including license plate numbers on the cars around me. I noted that Marcus’s front door was open with only a screen door as a barrier. Did the house need fresh air? Was there nothing inside to protect? The hall light was on and the windows were dark except for a basement half-window in the rear corner of the house, which cast soft yellow light onto the weeds outside. I wanted to sneak up and look inside, but that was way out of my league.

I was just starting to settle in and munch on animal crackers when I noticed something in the rearview mirror. The teens from around the corner were heading my way, and upon closer inspection, one had Marcus’s solid build and light mustache. I stuffed my notes under the seat, relocked the doors, and crouched down. Slowly, I squeezed between the kids’ seats to the back of the van, where I hoped tinted windows would shield me from view.

As soon as I got to the third row, I wished I’d brought my cell phone. How many times had victims called the police while being carjacked? At least the van didn’t have a trunk for anyone to stuff me in. I pressed my face into the gray, brushed fabric bench. My outfit was dark and my tan was decent, so I imagined blending in, as if visualization would help. Anxiety and lack of air conditioning made the van uncomfortably warm and slightly stifling. I turned my face sideways and took a slow, deep breath. Voices were coming closer.

“We need a ride,” one guy said.

Footsteps moved past me and stopped.

“Keys in the ignition,” said another. Uh oh. My mistake. “Lotsa shit in the front seat.” Oops again. Good thing the binoculars looked like a jigsaw puzzle.

Someone jiggled the door handle, sending a zing of fear through my limbs and gut. What if I’d pressed
unlock
instead of
lock
?

“Come on, man. We don’t need that heat. We’ll use my ma’s car.”

I didn’t move until their voices faded away. Then I lifted my head just enough to use the rear passenger window. The teens, similarly dressed in baggy jeans and tight T-shirts, went into Marcus’s house and closed the front door. I waited nervously, thinking about him. If he’d done something to Beth, would he be walking around, socializing and laughing? Sure. Violence was a way of life for gang members. Sad to say, many of them had grown up with it.

Finally they emerged, cigarettes lit, one carrying the remains of a six pack. I tried not to judge. If you watched a rerun of my teen years, many scenes would look like this. I didn’t smoke, but I was ready to party. Dad would have been transporting passengers somewhere, and Mom would have been home, asleep. Two clueless parents, one drunk teen. I still marvel that I survived.

I crawled to the second row for a better view. The guys were sauntering toward a red Grand Marquis with impressive patches of rust. Marcus took the driver’s seat while the others surveyed their surroundings before hopping in. The car was a few spaces from mine, but its stereo might as well have been on my roof. Hardcore rap pulsed through the van, vulgar and packed with enough lingo to confuse most adults. I waited for them to drive two blocks before pulling out with my lights off.

I fumbled around, hoping to write down the new street name, but I was too slow. I’d have to remember it.
Left on Baylor
. Wait. Coming back, it would be a right on Baylor.
Right on Baylor
,
right on Baylor
.
Left on Willow. Right on Payne
. Ahhh! I lost track. I had the sinking feeling they were heading deeper and deeper into the neighborhood. Maybe they were cruising gang territory.

That theory was nixed when I noticed heavy traffic and a lack of parking spots. Teens marched down a sidewalk like ants to an anthill, toting drinks to a crowded front porch and dimly lit home. I squinted at the disheveled abode and its neighbors, trying to determine the address, but it was too dark. I wasn’t even sure the houses
had
numbers. They might have peeled off with the paint.

Marcus was three cars ahead, creeping along, with no place to fit his boat of a vehicle. One pal leaned out the passenger window, gesturing toward the party. I slid down my window to hear what he was yelling. Instead I heard several loud cracks. The Marquis veered right, scraping the front of a shiny sedan, and then came to rest against a black pickup’s bumper, while mayhem erupted on the porch. Teens ran screaming to and from the house, car doors slammed, and kids tore down the street using all forms of transportation, including a skateboard.

Two cars were stuck behind Marcus, whose angled car was oddly still, blocking both lanes. I couldn’t see the other drivers, but judging by how many passengers they’d stuffed in their back seats, they were either kids or clowns.

I had three desires. I wanted to call 911, but I didn’t have a clue where I was. I wanted to help Marcus in case he was shot, but I was afraid to get out. I also wanted to back up and get the heck out of there. It was time to get creative.

No one was behind me, so I gave an extended honk, hit reverse, and heard the contents of my front seat fly forward. I continued backward until I reached the corner, where I threw my wheel to the right and parked under a street sign that identified my location. Not bad. The cars in front of me backed up too and fled the scene.

I felt frantic, but everything was in slow motion. All I could think of was Marcus. I threw open my door and dialed on the run. I have no idea what information was requested or given, but I babbled all the way to his car, where the sight of him slumped over the steering wheel, perfectly still, stopped me. He was alone, apparently abandoned while his friends ran for cover. I was too afraid to confirm it by looking around. If anyone was nearby, particularly with a gun, I didn’t want to know.

I crouched, hauled open the car’s enormous door, and looked at Marcus’s chest. I thought it was rising and falling.

“I think he’s alive,” I told the 911 operator. Then I noticed the dark stain on his lap, growing as drips fell from somewhere above. “But he’s not okay. He’s definitely not okay.”

Neither was I, although my discomfort was nothing compared to Marcus’s suffering. I’d never seen so much blood, and the thought of finding its origin was scary. I rose slowly and leaned behind him. Supported by the back of his seat, I peered around to the other side of his face, where a bullet had struck his temple. The open flesh reminded me of the time Sophie cracked her chin on a counter, and the gash looked like cut, raw meat, something my vegetarian brain wasn’t used to. Just like with Sophie, I thought I should cover the wound for both our sakes.

I didn’t have any spare cloth, and I didn’t think I should waste time checking Marcus’s trunk. I wavered between ripping off my shirt or pants and then had a brainstorm. I’d use my cotton bra. (Socks or underwear seemed unsanitary.) It wasn’t huge, darn it, but it would do. I unhooked the clasp, pulled it through a sleeve, and pressed a B-cup to his head. He moved, and I yelped. His eyes flew open, slid toward me, and closed again. Sirens rang in the distance, and I thanked God. Repeatedly.

It was almost 1 a.m. when my shaking hands turned the deadbolt at home. The night had been everything terrible: scary, shocking, disappointing, sad, disgusting. I flipped on lights for the illusion of warmth as I moved through the foyer, bathroom (where I washed my hands twice), family room, dining room, and kitchen. There was no sign of Kenna, but apparently she’d been busy. Our beer bottles were in the recycling bin. The popcorn bag was trashed next to an empty pint of soy ice cream and a crinkled dark chocolate candy bar wrapper. No foul play here, just a stressed out aerobics instructor with a high metabolism.

I walked back to the front of the house and heard familiar shuffling. I peeked up and saw Jack clutching Super Teddy on the landing.

“Mommy?”

“Yes honey?” I jogged upstairs.

“Why is Auntie Kenna here?”

I wanted to pick him up and snuggle, but I hadn’t inspected myself. There might be blood on me. I ruffled his hair and patted his shoulder. “I had to go out sweetie, so she babysat. Where is she?”

“She was with me because I had a bad dream. Now she’s in Sophie’s room.”

Poor Kenna. She’d had to play musical beds. No matter what I tried, my kids woke me up with complaints, knowing I was a sucker for sleeping with them, and they disturbed each other in the process. You never knew where anyone would be in the morning. I needed someone to Ferberize
me
.

I guided Jack past Sophie’s room, where Kenna and Sophie snoozed on their backs, Sophie’s head in the crook of Kenna’s arm. I tucked him back into bed with assurances that I wasn’t going anywhere else. He drifted off in seconds.

I took a shower and dumped my clothes in the washer. (My bra didn’t make it home. Hopefully it wouldn’t end up in court as evidence. Talk about being tempted to lie under oath.) Dressed in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, I tapped Kenna’s arm and whispered her name. She rose without disturbing Sophie.

“What happened?” she rasped. “You didn’t call, and you didn’t answer, either. I was freaking out!”

“It got a little crazy.”

Despite the hour, she wanted to hear everything, including what I’d told the cops. Thinking about it nauseated me. I was an honest person. I respected law enforcement. And I hadn’t been straightforward.

“I was so scared of messing up your adoption. I told them I was lost and what I’d seen. They asked if I knew ‘Marcus Gomez,’ and I said no. I mean, I
was
lost, and I
don’t
know him.”