Without Faith (11 page)

He took me to a dimly lit establishment that sat off of a winding back road in Cedonia, a neighborhood in northeast Baltimore that sat on the city/county line. It was one of those dining places that suffered from a confused identity. Through one entrance off of its gravel lot was a restaurant that had an extensive menu with plenty of house specials, private party rooms, and old-school chandeliers. The other entrance led to a grungy-looking packaged goods and liquor store.

He'd taken me to the restaurant side and without even a wait, we'd been escorted to an overly cushy booth with solid, tall walls. Most of the light that reflected off the real silver and china on the table came from a flickering candle between us and a low-wattage yellow light bulb that barely shone through the frosted sconce on the wall.

I had been in a place similar to this one just the other night with Leon.

The date that didn't happen.

The comparison made me uncomfortable.

“Thanks again for getting me, Laz.” I stared at him as he flipped through the menu. “But again, let me be clear. I'm only meeting you here to get your help and direction.”

Laz looked up from his laminated menu. “Don't worry, Sienna. I am not trying to wine and dine you. Forgive me for thinking that a dark restaurant off the beaten path was the perfect place for a woman being watched by the law to spill her secrets.”

I glared at him, wanting to say something back, but knew that he knew there was nothing for me to say.

He was right.

“Afternoon, folks. You here for one of our lunch specials?” A curly redhead with a name tag that read MELINDA stood by our table, a notepad in hand. Even from my seated position, I could tell she was at least a head shorter than me, but her smile seemed bigger than life itself.

“What are your specials, dear?” Laz asked as if we really had come there for a casual lunch date and not an urgent investigative session. In all fairness, I realized, Laz had no idea why I had called him, though a part of me believed that with all the research he'd supposedly done on me and my son—and Skee-Gee and Tridell—he probably had an inkling.

As the waitress rattled off about the crab and shrimp omelet and hot roast beef sandwich specials, I pondered what I would say to Laz, how I would begin,
where
I could begin. By the time she'd taken our orders and filled our glasses with ice water, I was no clearer on what to say, so I went with what was in my mind.

“So, what was the dirt you found on my nephew?” It was random, but Laz didn't seem bothered.

“If you don't already know about all your nephew's side hustles, I don't know what else to tell you.”

“I guess you have a point.” I shook my head with a slight smile. Laz had ordered a thick chocolate malt as an appetizer and the way he was sipping off the side of it reminded me of a six-year-old Roman. I'd ordered some mozzarella sticks that sat untouched. “What's the deal with Tridell Jenkins?”

“Now that one should interest you.” Laz set his glass down. “I won't get into the details, but let's just say that he has found a way to fuse modeling, street drugs, and online gaming into a creative venture. If you are really curious, I'll give you the link to his Web site; but I should warn you, if you click on it, you might be added to a group being monitored by the FBI.”

“Okay. I don't think I even want to know more about it. Sounds like I could get in trouble for simply knowing it exists.” We both chuckled and Laz picked up his chocolate malt again.

“How do you do your research?” I began again. “Where do you get your information from?”

“Well, you know a good journalist never reveals his sources.”

Forget the small talk. My son was out there. I needed information. Now. “What do you know about my past, Lazarus?”

“Thank you, Sienna. Finally.” Laz put his glass back down and waved away Melinda, who had come to take the order for our entrees. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to stop your tap-dancing routine and be the strong, passionate, and direct woman I have studied you to be.”

“You have studied me.” I repeated his words, feeling my eyelids blinking at rapid speed.

“Look, a woman who would risk all to chase a self-proclaimed revolutionary around the world is no pansy. I don't know what happened to you to take such a back seat to your own life, but I'm glad to see the real you finally start standing up, digging deep, not even letting me go unexcused in my own mission for answers.”

I shifted in my seat, aware of the sweat pooling on the backs of my knees. Nobody had ever talked to me that way before.

“You know about RiChard.” Again, a statement, not a question, as I stared him down.

“It wasn't hard. A quick look at your records—education, marriage, passport, don't ask how I got that—I saw the brief history you had with him.”

Brief.
I knew then that he didn't know everything. Nothing about RiChard's mark on my life felt brief. I tried not to let my disappointment show.

“Let me get your orders now.” Melinda returned with a polite smile. I welcomed the distraction of pretending that I wanted to eat. It gave me a moment to draw my thoughts together, to regroup, to gather my feelings into a less messy pile. However, after Melinda walked away, I realized I was shaking.

So much at attempting composure.

“What do you know?” I did not try to hide my unease.

“Not much,” he admitted, “just that you were married to him, traveled with him, had a child with him, left him, but never divorced him.”

“No, he left me.” I felt confused and I could not stop my finger from wagging. “And I didn't divorce him because I didn't know where to have the papers sent.”

Laz shrugged, suddenly looked bored. “Whatever you tell yourself. Anyway, exactly what is it that you need from me? I'm sure you did not go through all that trouble to leave your house just for me to tell you about your own life.”

“I need you to help me find him.”

Laz raised an eyebrow. “You're looking for RiChard? Why now?”

“Because my son is looking for him. If I can find RiChard, then maybe I can get my son back home.”

“I thought Roman was put on a flight back home with the other two musketeers?”

My silence answered his question. He slurped the remnants of his malt, let out a short belch, then put his glass down for good.

“Look, I don't know where RiChard is, or even Roman, for that matter. I only did a little research, but I did not look any further at him after your documents stopped cross-referencing his.”

“That's fine. I just need you to tell me where to begin. My son has had at least a six-month start on his attempts at finding his father. You research people, places, and things for a living. Surely you can tell me how to do this.”

“I research for news stories, Sienna. What's the angle for me? What am I going to gain out of this search?” Laz narrowed his eyes, and I knew we were at a critical stage of negotiations. He knew that I needed him, and in a way, he needed me. After his journalistic fall from grace, Laz appeared to be chasing that one breaking news story of significance that would earn him back full respect.

I realized then that was probably the real reason why he didn't offer any information to his colleague in Vegas. It had nothing to do with protecting me or Roman; it wasn't a big enough story. It wasn't
the
story.

I needed his help. I needed him to care.

I reached into the side of my purse and pulled out the lion's head ring. Then I took out the faded letter from Portugal, smoothed it out on the table, and patted it in front of him.

“Murder. Lies. False identity . . . I don't know. I've never known with RiChard. This is international, Laz. My husband, or whatever he is—if he's even still alive—could be anywhere in the world.”

I watched as he picked up the lion's head ring, tilting it toward the flame of the candlelight, trapping a myriad of brilliant, colorful flashes in the gems. He set it back down on the table, and raised an eyebrow at the letter written in Portuguese.

“I have a translation for that,” I said quickly. “And I—”

He placed a single finger over my lips to silence me. “Sienna, I do not know where all of this will lead.” He paused, squinting at me. “But I will help you. If helping you somehow means reclaiming that fierce woman inside of you, I don't mind helping.”

If I were white, I knew that my face would be bright red. And it wasn't merely because his words held layered meaning. The idea of me blushing was embarrassing, but it had been well over a decade since any part of a man had touched my lips. Leon, respecting my stated wishes of staying in the hug zone, hadn't even crossed that barrier.

Laz had just gone for it.

It was a finger, a single finger that he'd pressed against my lips. Was I that messed up that just the index finger of a man touching my face was enough to send me into a spin cycle?

Laz was looking at me as if he had a question, but Melinda was back, our orders in hand.

She was placing my plate in front of me when my cell phone rang.

It was Leon.

“I . . . I'm sorry, I have to go,” I stammered, though I wasn't sure why, or where exactly I was going to go. I could not answer my phone, and could not stay at the restaurant either. I put away the ring and the letter and pulled out my check card as both Laz and Melinda looked at me curiously. “I'm sorry . . .” My words faded away as I stood. Laz waved away my card.

“No, I definitely am not letting you pay for me.” I pressed my check card into Melinda's hand.

“Again, I think you're misinterpreting my actions.” Laz pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “Think, Sienna, do you really want a paper trail? Here, Melinda. I'm paying for appetizers, our meal to go, and the rest is your tip for being so wonderful.”

Melinda looked from his single bill to my check card and back to his bill.

“Sorry, Benjamin wins.” She laughed a loud, hearty laugh that reminded me for some reason of family potluck get-togethers on cold winter nights. Her laughter was still in my ears as I marched out the front door of the restaurant and my ankle boots crunched on the thick gravel of the parking lot. Laz was right behind me.

“Don't mind me.” He grinned mischievously. “I wanted to see where you were going to go.”

My phone began ringing again and Leon's name flashed like an alarm across the face of my screen. Why did I feel so sick? Guilty . . . I had not done anything wrong, I assured myself, remembering that I had seen him earlier that day having breakfast with another woman.

My lunch with Laz was purely business. If anything, the business it was addressing could help me finally get true closure from RiChard and closer to Leon.

If it wasn't already too late.

“You're not answering your phone, and you're not talking to me.” Laz sighed. “Tell you what. Take my car. Go wherever you have to go. I can call a driving service I use from time to time. I want you to be okay, Sienna, and I can tell you want to handle things on your own for the moment. I respect that. An independent woman.” He winked, and I felt icky and warm all at the same time. “I'll get our food boxed and get it to you later today. Here, my keys.” He tossed them and I had no choice but to catch.

As he stepped back into the restaurant, I stepped into the driver's seat of his top-of-the-line BMW. As I debated why I was even sitting in his car and where to go next, one of his last sentences echoed through my mind.
Think, Sienna, do you really want a paper trail?

Paper trail.

Laz had not offered any reaction over the Portuguese letter I laid in front of him. Indeed, he barely glanced at it as he'd picked up the ring. Of course, that could be the steel journalist in him, trained not to show any bias or emotion; or, more logically, the multi-carat gems of the ring had commanded all of his attention.

But, it occurred to me that the man I'd spoken to from Almada had said there had been three inquiries into the link that led to who I knew to be Kisu.

Three.

A part of me could not help but wonder if Laz had done more research about RiChard than he had let on; but if he had, why would he not tell me?

It was a passing thought in the midst of stormier ones, but a thought nonetheless.

Laz's car had hints of citrus, sandalwood, and other aromatic hints of leathery spice I could not identify. As I sat in the driver's seat inhaling, I could not help if I was working under some kind of intoxicating effect of Laz, some craze that was affecting my better judgment.

I did not like the man.

Something about his cockiness, his sharp tongue, his know-it-all demeanor grated my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. And yet I was sitting in the driver's seat of his car, inhaling the scent of him, when my phone rang a third time.

This time I picked up. “Hey,” I answered, afraid that saying more would incriminate me of some crime I wasn't aware that I was committing.

“Sienna, where are you?” I heard panic in his voice. “I talked to the detail sitting out in front of your house into letting me take over, but I've been knocking on your front door for the past twenty minutes. What's going on?”

“I . . . I had to run an errand. A friend, a friend came to pick me up, but I'll be back home soon.”

“An errand? Sienna, what could you possibly have to do that is more important than being home right now? A woman is missing and the police think you have something to do with it!”

I tried to sort out an acceptable answer to respond to his loud sighs and groans but could not come up with a single word.

“Sienna, is there something you're not telling me?” Leon was nearly yelling. “Of course there is; what am I asking?”

The silence that ensued for the next several moments was the most intense conversation we'd ever had. It ended with him speaking again.

“Sienna, you need to get back here as soon as you can.” His voice was quieter, calmer—but full of exasperation.

“I will,” I whispered as he hung up in my ear.

Another first.

In my lifetime—and especially it seemed over the past couple of years—I'd had a lot of people hang up on me, clicking off on my request for answers, making statements of irritation, attempting to assert some form of power over me.

But none of those people had ever been Leon.

Shock, grief, sorrow, ache filled me as I pondered what to do next. I picked up the phone to call him back, to tell him that I was on my way back home, that we could work together to make a grand meal of my Hawaiian chicken recipe and his crab cakes, pop open a two liter of cranberry ginger ale, and finally have the big talk we had been prevented from having the past few days.

I wanted to believe that despite my conflicting feelings and conversations with Laz, in spite of the pretty young girl who had Leon laughing in a diner booth, that I was ready to wholeheartedly move past my past and embrace my future with him.

The phone was still in my hand and I was poised to dial him when it rang again. The phone number was not familiar, but I had a vague recollection of the weird call I'd gotten earlier that day, when the caller had not spoken but simply hung up.

“Hello,” I answered, almost certain that it was the same number.

My suspicions were confirmed as only silence greeted me.

“Hello?” I asked again, but then decided to hang up before I was forced to hear another dial tone in my ear.

Let me get home,
I decided, throwing my phone onto the passenger seat. I didn't even feel like calling Leon, deciding just to do the talking in person.

Laz's BMW roared to life and I began the fifteen-minute drive back to my house. As I turned onto Rossville Boulevard, it occurred to me that I had no idea how I was going to get back inside. I couldn't just pull up in front of it, and I wasn't going to abandon Laz's luxury car on the side of the road.

And there was no way I could call Leon back to ask for help. How would I even begin to explain the car I was driving?

Maybe Laz really had not meant for me to take his car. Perhaps he really didn't think I would drive away.
I wanted to kick myself.
Or maybe he thought I was going to go somewhere that held clues to finding RiChard.

The second option seemed more plausible. But where would I go? And what did I do about getting myself back home where Leon was waiting?

I was two blocks away from my home at a stoplight, imagining an entire sequence of me driving down to the main Enoch Pratt Free Library downtown on Cathedral Street to begin an intensive research-and-find mission, when my phone rang once more. This time the number was blocked. I let it ring, with no intention of answering, but then reconsidered at the slight possibility it was my son deciding to reach out to me.

I answered on what was probably the last ring.

“Hello?” I held my breath, hoping, praying to hear my son. Instead it was a young woman's voice who answered me.

“Hi. Hello?” There was a brief pause. “Sienna? Sienna St. James?”

“Yes, this is me. Who is this?” My hope had not diminished. Perhaps this woman knew where Roman was.

“This is Anastasia Simmons.”

“I'm sorry, who?” My face wrinkled as I tried to think of why that name sounded so familiar.

“Anastasia Simmons,” she stated again, “but everyone calls me Silver.”