Pretty Wanted (13 page)

We got off the bus at 16th Street, and ducked into a café to warm ourselves.

“Are you buying?” Aidan asked Tre with a friendly elbow as we got into line in front of the counter.

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, but consider it your last meal on me and the Friends of Fox. We’re going to get the afternoon bus.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

He stared me down, wary. “You found out about your mom, right? So time’s up. Now we have to go. That Toni lady has probably already called the cops now.”

Not if she was involved, though. “We didn’t, though. We found out something—a few more clues, but . . .”

“But that’s not enough?” Tre asked. “Willz, I have a feeling it’s
never
going to be enough for you.”

His words cut through me. I realized, then, that he was right. That what I really wanted was to know what happened to her, why she was murdered. Anything less than that would feel incomplete.

It was our turn at the counter. I ordered my drink, and let them order theirs. Then we moved to wait by the copper-colored espresso machines.

Tre flicked his chin at me, challenging. “So, assuming we stay. Now what? What’s the next step in your big plan?”

“We go to Granger,” I said, like it was obvious, because it was to me. “If he really knew my mom and they were involved, then he probably knows some other stuff, too. Maybe he even knows something about Chet.”

“Assuming he’s D,” Aidan said.

I was already assuming that, and more. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think he could be my father. The poem in the book and his note seem to point in that direction.”

Tre twisted his mouth in skepticism. “That’s a big if. And how do you propose meeting up with him?”

“I think we can show up there, and tactfully explain the situation. . . .”

“No.” He stirred his cocoa and forcefully pitched the wooden stick into the trash. “It’s way too dangerous.”

I slid a cardboard cozy around my cup. “Dangerous? He’s a politician. He’ll be surrounded by aides and bodyguards.”

“So? Being a politician doesn’t mean he’s safe. Most of them are pretty shystie.” Tre went to sit down at a table and we followed.

“I don’t know, Willa. I think I side with Tre on this one,” Aidan said, sitting down across from me. “As much as I want to go check it out, politicians are pretty much the worst people on earth.”

Since when did Aidan become the voice of reason? I stared at them both on the other side of the booth. Great. Now it was two against me. So much for mediating.

“And last I heard there was no father-finding in our deal. Just your mother,” Tre said.

“That was before. I didn’t think the guy existed until now. It’s kind of a bonus, actually. I wish you guys could be happy for me.”

“I
am
happy for you,” Aidan said. “But—”

“But what?” I asked.

Tre broke in. “You can’t just walk into a man’s office—an important man, with a lot at stake—and expect him to be thrilled to find out he has a long-lost daughter.”

“We at least need Judge Judy and a DNA test for backup,” Aidan said.

“It’s not like I plan to come right out and say anything about the father part. I need to feel out the situation,” I said. “But he seems like a nice guy. A guy with good morals. I think he would handle it gracefully.”

Tre set down his cup. “You barely know him. You’ve seen what—a few TV ads? Listen to me, Willa. This is something I know about from my own experience: Kids who are abandoned by their dads are usually abandoned for a reason.
If
he’s even your dad to begin with—and we really have no idea, do we?”

I must have looked hurt because he softened. “That sounds harsh. I want to protect you. Even Sly Fox isn’t bulletproof, you know.”

I gave him a twisted smile. “I’m not?”

“No. You’re not. If this guy wasn’t in your life then, he’s probably not gonna want to be in your life now.”

“Your dad took you in, right?” I pointed out. “You got a second chance.”

He shook his head. “Only because my mom strong-armed him. Threatened to go to the media. Yeah, we’re cool now, but he wasn’t popping Cristal when I came back into the picture, believe me.”

“But I’m not asking him for money or rent. I just want to ask him some questions about his past. It’s not like I want him to be part of my life or anything.”

Tre leaned in, planting his palm on the table. “If their relationship was so innocent and he’s such a good guy, then why did your mom have to move and change her name, huh? Why was Toni so afraid to talk to us? Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious?”

I showed him the poem. “Read this. She loved him. Once upon a time she really did, and chances are, he loved her, too. Maybe she needed to be independent and she didn’t want them to stay together for the wrong reasons.”

“This poem could be about anybody. And what if she dumped him?” Tre asked. “What if he’s still pissed about that?”

“No,” I said. “Something changed between them, and maybe it wasn’t working out, but time has passed. People remember the good things, don’t they? I mean, if you really loved someone in the first place?”

Tre and Aidan exchanged glances. “You’re serious about this, then,” Aidan said.

“When was the last time I
wasn’t
serious?” They both should have known that about me by now.

“Well, if you think it will help,” Aidan said. “I’m just here to support you.”

“Uh-uh. I can’t let it happen,” Tre said. “Someone’s gotta make some sense here.”

I drained my coffee, eyeing them up. “Look, if you don’t want me to go see Granger, then can we at least check out this address she wrote down in the book? It could be someone else that knew her.” I wasn’t willing to admit what was becoming clearer to me by the second—that I
had
to solve the murder, and I was ready to try all of the angles until I did. “Can you please give me one more day?”

“One more day.” Tre sighed. “But only because we’ve already wasted most of this one. You better not be setting us up for more trouble, though.”

“I’m not,” I said. “You’ll see.” I reached into my own pocket and uncoiled the chipped necklace. I replaced the pendant, and tied a knot uniting the broken ends of the cord. Then I pulled the whole thing over my neck so that it was back where it belonged.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

TEN

BENTON PLACE WAS
just south of us by several blocks. It was a quiet, stately street, lined with beautiful, towering Victorian mansions, the kind that begged for singing nannies with umbrellas. Even so, number 14 stood out from the others with its alabaster front, its elaborate scrolling balconies and slate-gray mansard roof. Outside, huge oak trees were shaking off excess snow onto the perfectly flat lawn. Big-money central.

“So we don’t know who lives here, right?” Aidan asked, running to catch up with me as I stepped briskly down the walk. Since getting my hands on the book, I felt more eager and more determined than ever.

“Nope,” I said. “But we’ll find out.”

The doorbell was of the old-school variety, a steady buzzing ring rather than a chime. A uniformed servant, a woman in her thirties, came to the door. “May I help you?”

An elderly lady with cropped silver hair and a sweet pink-lipsticked smile was quick behind her. “I got it, Stephanie. I could use the air, frankly,” she said to us. “Oh, it’s chilly out there.” She pulled her lavender cardigan tighter around her small frame.

Sensing that she might be a chitchat type, I launched into it. “I know this is strange but I found your address in my mother’s date book. I think she was planning to come here for some kind of meeting, maybe? This was fifteen years ago.” I felt crazy even saying what I was saying but I had to try. “She died before she ever had the chance. I never knew her and I’m just trying to find out more about her. Do you remember her? Her name was Brianna Siebert. But she also went by Angela Chambers.”

The woman frowned thoughtfully before turning away. “Danny?” she called over her shoulder. “Do we know anyone named Brianna or Angela? These young people want to know.”

A man in a wheelchair rolled himself down the long, tiled hallway. He was middle-aged, with cleanly parted salt-and-pepper hair and a plaid button-down shirt whose edges pooled in his lap. It was clear he was paralyzed, and had been for some time, as his legs looked undeveloped, pin-like in his corduroys.

“Never heard of her. Or them.” He smiled at us, too. “Hello there.”

“Hi,” I said.
What a friendly family
, I thought. But I was disappointed all the same. Why was my mom so damn elusive? I’d thought for sure this would be a good lead.

“This is my son, Danny. He knows all the people I know. When did you say this happened?” the woman asked.

“Around 1997 or so. Did you live here then?”

“Yes, we did,” the woman said. I saw them look at each other then. “We’ve been here since Danny was born.”

“We have a picture of her, if that would help jog your memory,” Tre added from behind me.

I’d almost forgotten. Tre clicked to the video of the rally before giving it to the woman. I didn’t think it would really help, but it was worth a shot.

“Nothing.” The woman shook her head, shrugging, and handed it to her son. I watched his face as he stared into the screen. How it morphed from a relaxed smile to a slow, dawning realization, something closer to fear, and then a dark furrow of anger.

“I think I do know this woman,” he said. “Hang on.” He wheeled himself briskly back in the direction he came from. A few moments later, he returned and handed me a white piece of paper. On it was a photocopied sketch. It was impossible not to see the resemblance in the hair, the eyes, the angles of her nose. My mom’s face.

WANTED
, it said at the top.
SUSPECT IN HIT
-
AND
-
RUN ON JANUARY
3, 1997. So this was a police drawing.

“I don’t understand,” I said quietly.

“You don’t?” The man’s once-kind eyes were starting to go cold and hard.

“No. Maybe you can . . . explain?” The pause lingered as I looked from him to his mother.

“This is the woman who hit him. With her car,” the older woman said. “Or so we think. We never did find her.”

His jaw tensed in anger. “She’s the reason I’m in this wheelchair.”

They were saying my mom hit him? Could that be true? Was that why she’d moved and changed her name? To avoid getting caught? It made a certain kind of sense, and yet I couldn’t believe that she could be so cold. What happened to the activist at the rally, the one who wanted to make people’s lives better? It had to be wrong.

But what could explain the coincidence? I was still staring at the image and there was no mistaking it.

“Are you sure?” I asked stupidly.

“I saw her with my own eyes. It’s an image you don’t forget,” he said. “A car coming straight for you. We locked eyes as it hit.”

“But she was planning to come meet you, I think,” I sputtered, scrambling for a reason. “So maybe she wanted to talk to you about it, set things straight. Maybe she wasn’t trying to run away from this.”

“So you say. All I know is I never heard from the woman. I was in a coma for two weeks. In the hospital for six months. A year of rehab. And as you can see, I still can’t walk.”

“Danny, don’t get worked up. I’m sure there’s an explanation,” his mother said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It might not even be the same person.”

“What kind of explanation could there possibly be?” he spat, wriggling out from underneath her. And I agreed with him. “Besides, she’s dead now so we’ll never know.”

I backed away from the front step, feeling dizzy. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry for coming here and bothering you.”

“I’m sorry, too,” his mother said.

“I’m not,” Danny said to our backs. And even if he didn’t say it, the tone if it was clear:
I’m glad she’s dead.

The words echoed and echoed as the house shrank behind us. But distance did nothing to minimize the shock.

“Damn,” Aidan said when we reached the end of the street. “That was rough. Do you think it’s true, Willa?”

I was still trying to process the information. This was even worse than imagining her being mixed up with Chet. She’d ruined someone’s life. “I don’t know,” I said. “But I need to see Granger. Today. And please don’t argue with me.”

Granger was someone who may have known her. Maybe our only link left.

Aidan nodded.

“I don’t want to repeat myself here—you know how I feel,” Tre said, putting a hand on my back. “So let that be on the record. I really hope you’re not making a mistake, Willa.”

“I might be,” I said, stopping at a crosswalk. “But I don’t have a choice anymore.”

The local field offices for David Granger’s campaign were listed right on his official website. I was surprised, in fact, that the information was so easy to access, but Tre reminded us that he wasn’t likely to be hanging out at any of the offices.

“It’s just for the volunteers, so they know where they can come in and give money and stuff.” Apparently, Tre’s mom had been pretty involved with the Obama campaign in Detroit.

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” I said. “Pose as volunteers and find out where he is.”

The Euclid Avenue office was the closest one so we started out there. It was a regular storefront, set between a dry cleaner and a pet store, and marked with a huge
GRANGER FOR CONGRESS
poster on the glass door.

Tre came in with me, but Aidan insisted on waiting outside. He said that he didn’t believe in politics and that he would be our lookout in case any cops came along. Really, I think he wanted to check out the puppies tussling in straw in the window next door. I could give him a pass for that, since he was dog obsessed, something I learned the day we both volunteered at the animal shelter for our respective community service sentences.

The office was bustling, with dozens of volunteers huddled around tables, assembling mailings and cupping phones to their ears. Posters lined the walls, and strings of American flags waved from the ceiling. It was impressive, really, that so many people were here and cared about the cause. Or any causes for that matter.