Текст книги "Thread of Innocence"

Автор книги: Jeff Shelby

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

SEVEN

Mike Lorenzo was walking toward us.

Elizabeth and I had walked to downtown Coronado, enjoying the early afternoon sunshine and quiet streets on a weekday. There were a few people strolling the sidewalks, mostly women pushing strollers or loaded down with shopping bags. If we were an odd sight, a middle-aged man and a teenage girl walking silently, a few feet apart, no one seemed to notice. We’d settled ourselves at an outside table at a small bar and grill just down the street from Bay Books. We were under the awning, Elizabeth chomping away on a hamburger and me picking at a salad when I saw him walking toward us.

“Hey, Elizabeth,” I said, keeping my eye on him as he came down the street.

“Hmm?”

“Guy coming up the street,” I said. “He’s a friend of mine. Just didn’t want him to startle you.”

She turned and looked over her shoulder. He realized we saw him and he held up a hand in greeting.

She turned back to me. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

She picked up the hamburger. “Sure, whatever.”

Interesting.

Mike wore a navy blue polo and tan slacks. His badge was clipped to his belt, but it didn’t look like he was carrying. I hadn’t spoken to him since we’d found Elizabeth. He was there that day and I was sure he’d spoken to Blundell at the Bureau, given that he was the detective who’d handled the case in San Diego. He’d left me several messages, but I hadn’t returned them. I was reluctant for several reasons, not the least of which was that I’d gone from thinking he was the only person I could trust on the force to no longer being sure that I could tell him anything. He’d been my mentor and friend, but I was viewing everyone and everything through a different lens.

He was smiling as he reached our table. “I was driving by and thought I saw you guys.” He offered his hand and we shook. He glanced at Elizabeth. “And you probably have no idea who I am.”

She looked at him, then at me. “No. I don’t.”

“Elizabeth, this is Mike Lorenzo,” I said. “We worked together when I was a police officer here in Coronado. And he helped me find you.”

He offered his hand to her and she hesitated, then shook it.

“It is very nice to see you, Elizabeth,” he said, still smiling.

“Thank you,” she said before turning her attention back to her plate.

Mike looked at me. “Been trying to catch up with you.”

“I know,” I said. “Sorry. We’ve had kind of a long week.”

“I’m sure,” he said, nodding. “How’s Lauren?”

“She’s alright,” I said. “We’re all just trying to get back in the swing of things.”

Elizabeth pushed her chair back and grabbed her cup. “I’m gonna get some more to drink, okay?”

“Yep,” I said.

She turned and went inside the restaurant and I tried to stem the stirrings of panic igniting in my gut. There was only one entrance and exit to the deli and she’d just gone through it. I’d see her come out. I wouldn’t lose her again.

“Why do I feel like you’re avoiding me?” Mike asked, lowering his voice.

“Just been busy,” I said, keeping my eyes trained on the door. “It’s a lot to get used to again.”

“You still looking? To find out what happened?”

I nodded.

“Anything or anybody yet?”

I glanced at him. “No.”

He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Joe, I busted my ass nearly as hard as you did trying to find that girl. Then all of a sudden when you get on her heels, you cut me out. I wanna know why.”

“Now’s not the time, Mike,” I said, cutting my eyes back to the restaurant door. “Not with Elizabeth here.”

“When’s the time then?” he asked.

“We’ll get to it,” I said.

I caught his gaze and his eyes were unkind, filled with the kind of contempt he usually reserved for suspects. “Years, Joe. I gave it years. I passed on other cases. I worked overtime. Because I wanted to get her back. For you.” A muscle in his jaw tightened. “I’m not sure exactly what it is you think I’ve done, but I deserve an explanation.”

I started to say something, but his eyes shifted and his expression cleared and he smiled. I swiveled my head back toward the door of the restaurant and saw Elizabeth headed back to the table, fiddling with the lid and straw on her drink. She slid back into her chair.

“I’ll let you two finish your lunch,” Mike said. “I just wanted to say hello. And to tell you how nice it is to see you on Coronado again, Elizabeth.”

“Thank you,” she said again. She kept her eyes locked on the plate in front of her.

He looked at me. “We’ll talk soon.”

It wasn’t a question and he wasn’t leaving the door open. He was letting me know that we’d be talking, whether I liked it or not. I knew he was right. He did deserve an explanation. But if he had somehow been involved with Elizabeth’s disappearance and his looking for her had all been some sort of ruse to throw me off, I wasn’t going to just start offering answers to his questions. I needed to do some more digging before I decided which direction I wanted to take with him. Was that unfair if he’d always been on my side? Yeah, it was. But I wasn’t willing to give him the benefit of the doubt anymore.

I extended my hand. “Absolutely.”

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then we shook hands.

“Look forward to it,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

He turned and walked back in the direction he’d come from and I watched him until he turned a corner and I couldn’t see him anymore.

EIGHT

“You used to work with him?” Elizabeth asked as we walked back toward the house.

I nodded. “Yeah. He’s the only detective in the Coronado police department. We were friends before you were taken, but then he helped me a bunch after that. He was actually the one that found the picture of you in Minnesota.”

“The black and white one?”

I nodded. I’d shown her the picture earlier in the week when she’d asked a few tentative questions about how I’d found her. She remembered it and asked if she could have it. I’d handed it to her, no questions asked, but I wondered what she’d done with it. Had she tucked it away some place safe or had she ripped it to shreds? Or was it sitting in a drawer somewhere, stuck in the same sort of limbo she was in?

“Why did you quit being a police officer?” she asked.

We paused at the crosswalk, watching the traffic go by. The light turned green and the Walk sign blinked and we crossed.

“I quit because they were going to fire me,” I told her.

She seemed a little taken aback. “Fire you? Why?”

“When you were taken, there were all sorts of theories about what happened,” I explained. “One that got thrown out there was that I was somehow involved.”

She made a snorting sound. “That’s stupid.”

“It was stupid, but it was out there. And then when my boss got wind of it, he put me on leave. He didn’t like all the attention. I got mad and eventually quit.”

A biker whizzed around us.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I shrugged. “Not your fault.”

“Kinda was.”

I shook my head. “No. It was not, Elizabeth. Nothing was your fault.”

She didn’t say anything and we kept walking, passing the high school and the library. I thought about the case that had brought me back to San Diego, the case at that high school, and I thought about Elizabeth starting school there. The thought made my stomach crawl when I remembered what I’d uncovered there, a teenage prostitution ring being run by students.

“I don’t remember this.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You don’t remember what?”

She motioned with her hands but not to anything specific. “This. Constant sun. Warm winters. It’s so different from ho—I mean, from Minnesota.”

Home. That was the word she’d tripped over. Home.

“I haven’t asked you this question yet, but I need to,” I said.

A frown flickered across her face, but she didn’t say anything.

“The day you were taken,” I said. “What do you remember?”

She remained quiet and I wasn’t sure if she was trying to remember or if she was just ignoring the question. I’d held off asking because I knew it was going to be hard for her to think about. But I wanted a starting point, a new starting point. I needed one and I was hoping I could find it based on what she remembered.

“I remember standing there,” she finally said. “In the yard. Waiting for you. You went in the house to get something, I think.”

I nodded, encouraging her. The Christmas lights. I’d gone back into the house to find more lights. And I’d ended up losing my daughter.

She squinted into the sun as we walked. “Someone came.”

I felt my pulse quicken. “Someone?”

She nodded. “They were in a car.”

“Do you remember what kind?”

She shook her head. “No. I told the FBI lady that. I can’t even see it.”

“Okay.” I tried to slow down, to not pounce on her and demand answers. “Was it a man or a woman who came?”

“Man,” she answered. “Definitely a man. He told me something…” Her voice trailed off.

We walked another block and I counted my steps, trying to keep my mind busy so I didn’t end up interrogating her.

“What did he tell you?” I asked. “The man. Do you remember?”

“He told me that he had a Christmas present,” she said slowly. “For you.”

I swallowed, tried to picture the scene in front of the house. The warm December day almost a decade earlier. The Santa we’d set up in the middle of the yard. Laughing and joking with my daughter. Listening to her suggestion about needing more lights. Taking her seriously and running in to grab them. And leaving her. Alone.

“A present.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I can’t remember what else he said. But he asked if I could come help get it from the car.”

“Elizabeth, why did you even talk to him?” I asked. “You never did that kind of thing, talk to strangers. I don’t see—”

“He was a police officer,” she said abruptly. “Or dressed like one. He had a uniform like yours. I remember thinking that. That his uniform was just like yours. So it was okay to talk to him.”

The knot in my gut hardened into something felt more like a sharp stone. I felt the questions bubble up inside of me.

“But it wasn’t a police car,” she said. “It was parked at the curb, on the other side of the driveway. We were walking to it and I realized it wasn’t a police car and I stopped.” She was breathing hard. “I was going to say something…and then it just goes black. And I can’t remember anything after that. I can’t even see his face.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, tears streaming from her eyes. “It’s not okay. Why can’t I remember? Everyone wants me to remember and I can’t.”

I was torn. She was crying and I knew the only way to get her to stop was if I ended the questions. But it was the most I’d learned about the moment she’d disappeared and I was selfish. I needed to know more, even if it was hard on her.

“Maybe he did something to you,” I said. “He might’ve hit you. He might’ve used drugs. There are plenty of explanations.”

“I don’t know,” she said, the words ragged as she spit them out. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. What’s the very next thing you remember?” I asked. “The very next thing after that?”

She wiped hard again at her eyes, like she was angry with them, like her eyes had somehow betrayed her. “Being cold.”

“Like you were outside?”

She shook her head. “No. I was in Minnesota. And not like I woke up or something. That’s just the next thing.” She closed her eyes, her lashes wet with tears, her eyelids pink and puffy. “Like there’s this giant black spot in my memory that I can’t see. I was outside in the driveway. In Minnesota. I got out of a minivan. I was with the Corzines. And I think I’d been there for awhile. It wasn’t my first day with them.” She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. “And I asked where my parents were.”

A chill ran through me and I felt the goosebumps prickle my skin. We could’ve been standing in Minnesota right then.

“That’s when they told me about the fire,” she said, her voice soft. “The explosion. It had supposedly burned down the house.” She looked at me with almost dry eyes but I could see the tears beginning to pool. “And both of you.”

Sobs choked her voice and tears flooded her eyes. I stepped to her and put my arms around her, feeling her body shake against mine. She buried her face against my shoulder and we stood there on the street corner for a few minutes, me holding on to her, trying to keep my own eyes dry as my daughter’s tears soaked through my shirt. After a few minutes, her sobs subsided and she pulled away, straightening herself. I didn’t want to let her go and my hands fell to my side.

She didn’t say anything and we started walking again. She sniffled a couple of times and she lifted her arm to wipe her shirt across her face. The sleeve of her t-shirt brushed against me and I noticed that she was in closer proximity to me than she had been before. It wasn’t much but I would take it.

Elizabeth cleared her throat, then spoke again. “It’s, like, all patchy after that,” she said, her voice heavier, but quieter than before. “There are snippets that I can remember. Kids in school, going to a park, stuff like that. But all in Minnesota. With the Corzines. There was nothing else from here until I found those papers in the closet and then it just sort of came in flashes.”

She was referring to the adoption papers she’d accidentally found in the Corzine home. Papers that had triggered her running away from their house and the cross-country chase she’d led me on before finally catching up to her in a San Diego warehouse.

We walked in silence for a few minutes.

“So you knew. You knew that you were with a family that wasn’t really your family. Did you wonder about us at all? About your other parents? I mean about things other than the fire.” I hated asking the question, but I needed to know.

She squinted like she was trying to remember. “There would be moments, I guess. Just these really quick…moments. And the memories were like shadows. Like I could see them but I couldn’t make them out. And they were fast, kinda like the way things flash in dreams, and they scared me.” She shook her head. “And I just didn’t want to have the dreams anymore. So I told myself not to have them.”

I didn’t say anything, just listened. We rounded the corner into our neighborhood.

“But I think I always knew that something wasn’t right,” she said. “The fire thing was weird and I didn’t understand it. And when I first asked about it, no one could tell me anything and they didn’t want to talk about it. So I just stopped asking. I mean, I had a good life in Minnesota. I liked my family. I had friends. I did okay in school.” She shook her head again. “But there were just days where I felt…out of place, I guess. Like you’re eating your favorite food or something and you know you love it, but it just doesn’t taste right and you don’t know why. But you don’t say anything because everyone will look at you weird if you say you don’t like it or it doesn’t taste good.” She sighed. “That sounds lame.”

“No,” I said. “It really doesn’t. It makes sense.”

We were on the opposite side of the street from the house and as we got closer, Elizabeth stopped, staring across the street.

“Right there,” she said, pointing to the space just past our house. “The car was right there.”

I pictured a car there. It would’ve been impossible to see, hidden from all of the windows at the front of the house. And it would’ve been easy to move quickly out of the neighborhood, with easy access to the cross street in order to get away.

She looked at me, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let him take me.”

I looked at her, really looked at her. I took her gently by the arms and pulled her closer. She dropped her gaze.

“Look at me,” I said.

She shook her head.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, she lifted her head. Her eyes were still puffy, her nose bright red, her complexion mottled from the flurry of tears. But she had never looked more beautiful, at least not to me. Because I was holding her. My daughter.

“Stop apologizing,” I said. “You did nothing wrong. Do not say I’m sorry again to me or to anyone else. You did nothing wrong.”

“But it feels like…”

“I don’t care what it feels like. You did nothing wrong, Elizabeth. Nothing. Do not apologize.” I shook her gently, trying to make her understand. “Someone took you against your will. You did what you had to do to protect yourself and that was block out the bad stuff.” I locked my eyes with hers. “You have nothing to apologize for. Do you understand me?”

She stared at me, her eyes still cloudy with tears.

“Do you understand me?” I asked again.

She blinked several times, then nodded her head and whispered, “Yeah.”

I knew it was going to take more than a speech from me to make her understand that, but I hoped that it would at least convince her that I didn’t hold her responsible for anything that had happened to her. I knew I couldn’t fix things for her. I didn’t have the words or the skills to help her through the emotional trauma that she needed to address. She’d have to work that out with a counselor, but I wanted her to at least hear the words come out of my mouth. She had nothing to apologize for.

I took my daughter by the hand and her fingers closed around mine and we crossed the street to our home.

NINE

Elizabeth spent the rest of the afternoon upstairs. I asked her if she wanted to get in the car and driver over to Lauren’s office, but she said she didn’t feel like going out. I didn’t try to talk her down or try to make small conversation. I figured after the afternoon we’d had, if she really wanted to come and talk or wanted company, she’d do that. She didn’t and I was fine letting her be up in her room. At least I knew where she was.

I spent the day reading through and answering the emails I’d been avoiding. As predicted, there were several seeking my help. I set them aside without answering, unsure of what I was going to do. I didn’t see myself leaving Elizabeth or Lauren anytime soon, but I didn’t want to shut the door, either. I wasn’t sure any longer what I was qualified to do. The only thing I’d done for a decade was locate missing people. At some point, I was going to have to start my life again and that would mean going to work. I didn’t know what else I’d do, but I also didn’t know if I’d be any good at looking anymore. My motivation was back in her bedroom.

I worked my way through the emails and when I was about to close up, another popped up with “Congratulations” in the subject line. The email address wasn’t one I recognized, a Yahoo exchange from J. Smith. I clicked on it.

“Congratulations. You found her. Hope you don’t lose her again. Be careful.”

I read it at least six times, my heart beating faster with each reading. There was no signature and I knew the email address it had been sent from was phony, probably masked several times over so it couldn’t be traced back to the sender.

I touched the screen and ran my finger over the words. Probably someone messing with me. Someone who’d never met me, who’d read that she was home and decided to mess with me. It happened. Families with missing kids were often tormented with bullshit emails and phone calls from people who were just looking to get under their skin, who got off on fucking with people. Someone had read that Elizabeth was found and decided to mess with me a little bit, probably some jackass in a basement with no life.

Probably.

I stared at it for another moment, then closed the computer. I didn’t delete the email. I thought about it, then decided against it. I wasn’t going to let it keep me up at night, but I wasn’t going to forget about it either.

Just in case it was something else.

Lauren came home from her office around six. She’d gone back to spending part of the day at work, as long as she knew I’d be with Elizabeth. I was pretty sure she wasn’t doing much more than clearing her schedule for the next few weeks so she could be at home, too, but she seemed to need the time out of the house.

She went up and sat with Elizabeth for awhile after she’d changed clothes and I could hear their voices, but wasn’t sure what they were saying. That was okay. Lauren needed her time with her, too, time that didn’t involve me.

While she was upstairs, I threw together a large salad, mixing together lettuce, turkey, tomatoes, blue cheese crumbles and croutons. I tossed it all in a big bowl with a blue cheese dressing and warmed up half a loaf of French bread. I was pulling it out of the oven when Lauren came downstairs.

“How is she?” I asked.

“Pretty good,” she said. “But not hungry. Said she’d come down for something later.”

“We can eat,” I said. “I made a salad to go with the bread.”

“I smelled the bread upstairs,” she said. “Probably why I came down.”

I set the bowl on the table and grabbed two plates out of the cabinet above the stove. I sliced the bread and set that on another plate. I put it and the butter on the table.

“You still know where everything is,” Lauren said.

“Didn’t think you reorganized the kitchen,” I said, grabbing forks and knives for each of us, then finally sitting down across from her.

“I got in the habit of eating out,” she said. She looked at the salad but didn’t put any on her plate. “You were always the cook.”

I nodded. “I’ve had enough fast food to last me a lifetime, living out of hotels.”

She grabbed a piece of the bread, buttered it and tore half it off and put it in her mouth. “I did miss these meals.”

“Are you having salad?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Why not?” We might have been separated for almost a decade, but I knew my ex-wife. And she loved salad.

Lauren made a face. “The turkey. I just…I can’t eat it right now.”

The pregnancy.

“Shit. Sorry. You want me to throw something else together?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Not super hungry anyway.”

I scooped a large helping of salad on my plate. “She tell you about our afternoon?”

“Just that you went to lunch. More to it than that?”

I told her about seeing Mike and then our conversation on the way home as we ate. She listened but didn’t say anything, tearing off hunks of bread as I talked.

“She didn’t say anything,” she said when I’d finished. “She was in a decent mood.”

“Good,” I said. “I figured she just needed some time alone.”

Lauren nodded. “Yeah, probably.”

I watched her eat another slice of bread. She picked a tomato from the salad bowl and popped it into her mouth.

She finally realized I was watching her. “What?”

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Lauren. What’s wrong?”

“Why do you think something’s wrong?”

“You didn’t interrupt me once while I told you about this afternoon,” I said. “And you’re fine letting her stay up in her room, with no additional commentary. The last time you were this quiet was never. So what’s wrong?”

She made a grunting sound and I wasn’t sure if it was because I was right or because she thought I was full of crap. She pushed the plate away and glanced up at the stairs, then back at me. “I was working through my calendar today. At work.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve got a case that doesn’t look like it will settle,” she said. “We hoped it was going to and there’s still time, but we have to get it calendared. So we were working with the opposing council to clear some dates. We’ve still got discovery to get through and some other crap that needs to get done, so it’s not an immediate thing.”

“Okay,” I said, still not understanding.

“The date the opposing council is pushing for is about nine months away,” she said, crumpling up her paper napkin and throwing it on the plate. “And it got me thinking.”

Nine months away. The pregnancy.

I stood and gathered the dishes, setting them in the sink. I tossed away the napkins, covered the salad bowl with plastic wrap and put it in the fridge. I wrapped up the leftover bread and set it on the counter. Then I took my seat at the table again.

“So we need to talk about it,” I said.

She pushed the hair away from her face, suddenly looking tired. “Yeah.”

“What do you want to do?”

She held up a hand. “Whoa. Let’s stop right there. This isn’t going to be just my decision. It’s ours.”

“I know that.”

“So don’t ask me what I want to do. It’s about what we want to do.”

I leaned back in the chair. I wasn’t sure what she was telling me. I agreed. It was our decision to make. But, ultimately, she would bear more of the physical burden, no matter what we decided. That was the only point I was trying to make. Clearly, I hadn’t made it.

“Whether you like it or not, this affects you differently than it does me,” I said. “In a number of ways. All I was trying to say was that if you feel strongly, one way or another, I will support you. I’m not going to overrule or veto anything you want.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That sounds like indifference to me.”

“It’s not. It’s me being supportive.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Are you just looking for a fight?” I asked. “Because I don’t really want to have one.”

She shook her head. “I’m not looking for a fight.”

“Then accept the fact that I just want to support you isn’t indifference,” I said. “I’m not looking to impose my will here, Lauren. I just…”

She pushed away from the table. “Got it. Thanks.”

I bristled at the fact she was dismissing me, but I genuinely did not want to fight and I felt like whatever I said or did was going to lead to an argument. I couldn’t win.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said over her shoulder. “And just so you’re clear. That’s not indifference. I just don’t know.”

Touché.