Deadly Blessings (14 page)

One of the young women, a petite girl with
very straight, light brown hair, approached. “Are you Alex?” she
asked.

I nodded.

I could tell that she’d been crying by the
redness in her eyes and the dark smudges of mascara beneath them.
She gave me a serious smile, however, and took my arm. “Tenk you
for coming for Sophia. I am Helena. We are best friends.”

Helena was a pretty girl. Not beautiful, nor
voluptuous in the same way Sophie was, but tiny and pert, with pale
eyes and pale skin that should have made her look washed out, but
didn’t. There was an undeniably foreign look to her, and her
accented English let me know that she hadn’t been in the States
very long at all.

“
There are a lot of people
here,” I said, for lack of anything else.

She nodded, understanding at once. “We take
care of Sophie. It terrible thing for her. She take care of
Maciej,” she said, exhaling a breath that seemed to shudder out of
her. “She like mother to him. She feel—how you say? Like her
fault.”

I hadn’t seen Sophie in the crowded room,
and Helena now led me to one of the doors toward the back of the
apartment. “She in the bedroom. She not good. Maybe you talk with
her? She think you maybe are able to help?”

“
Of course,” I said, having
no clue of what I was in for.

* * * * *

Sophie’s whisper as she called my name
sounded like “Ah-lex,” and held just enough hopefulness and
desperation to put a lump in my throat. I eased the wooden door
behind me till it was nearly shut.

Darkened, the room’s shades had been pulled
to keep the late-afternoon sun from bringing any brightness to the
room, but a slice of gray-blue light shot in, angling across the
bed. There was enough daylight to see, though everything had that
sort of non-color blur like flashbacks in a mood-movie. I could see
a heavy dresser, covered with assorted makeup essentials and
toiletries and the old-fashioned double bed where Sophie reclined.
She pulled herself up onto one elbow when I came in, and I sat in a
kitchen chair that someone had thoughtfully left there. I was sure
each of her friends had been taking turns sitting with her, hoping
to comfort, all the while knowing it was too big, too much to
bear.

“
Sophie,” I said, taking
her outstretched hand. It was cold and clammy, and where there
should have been fingernails, were crusts of dried blood. “What
happened?” I asked her.

“
A police officer came to
my door.” Sophie’s face was coming more into focus as my eyes
adjusted to the lack of light. Her face had welted up again and her
hair had ratted behind her, from tossing on the pillow, no doubt.
She spoke slowly, in Polish, as though pushing out each word,
punctuating every sentence with hiccups and sobs. “I was afraid. I
didn’t answer the door when I looked out the window and saw him.
But he saw me and he knocked and knocked and called out to me until
I opened the door. I was very afraid, Alex.”

A niggle of curiosity wormed through my
brain. Why would she be afraid of the police coming to her door?
Especially if she’d been anxious about her missing brother.

“
What did he say? What
happened?”

“
Maciej was my baby
brother. I should have been more protective. I should have taken
better care. It’s all my fault. He is dead and it is all my
fault.”

She broke down again, her words coming out
with a high-pitched, keening sound. I could hear low mumbles
outside the door and I had no doubt they could hear Sophie. I
wondered why no one came in. They all appeared to know each other,
but they didn’t know me. Why they trusted me here, I didn’t
understand.

Her grief, even her
blaming herself was understandable. I gave her hand a squeeze.
“Tell me what they told you.”

“
The policeman was very
nice to me. He asked me for a picture of Matthew, and he took me
down to the station and asked me many, many questions about
Matthew’s friends and where he might have gone. He asked me why I
didn’t call them when Matthew didn’t come home, and I didn’t know
what to say. I just cried. They took me to the morgue for me to
identify him. And then they let me come home. The policeman brought
me home.”

I nodded. “But they think Matthew was
murdered?”

Sophie sat up in the bed and pulled the
covers away. I noticed bruises on her uncovered arms and bare legs.
“What happened?” I asked.

She pulled the quilt back, in a defensive
move. “I hurt myself. At work.”

She was lying, but I didn’t push it. “What
about Matthew?”

“
They found him in some
place. Near the road. In a bad neighborhood. They took all his
money and they hurt him.” The words coming out of her mouth made
her cringe in pain as she said them. Her face contorted as she
tried to hold back while she spoke, but she couldn’t manage much
more than a whisper. “They hurt him, Alex, they broke his neck. And
he was just trying to help me.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d used those
words, that Matthew was trying to help her. It had piqued my
interest the first time. Now, with her hand squeezing mine and her
eyes on my every move, I knew there was no better time to get
information from her. “What was he trying to do, Sophie? What do
you mean he was trying to help you?”

I felt her reaction as much as saw it. Her
hand went limp before she let go completely. Dropping her head
backwards onto the pillow, her eyes searched the ceiling for
answers to questions I couldn’t even begin to guess at. I wanted to
find whatever it was that caused the vacant stare, and a tiny
flicker of fear in her eyes, but I knew I had to tread lightly.

“
Sophie?” I asked, keeping
my voice soft.

“
I have done many bad
things.”

Her words were so quiet that I had to lean
forward to hear her. She turned to me, fat tears quivering in the
wells of her eyes.

“
What?”

She pressed the bitten-nail fingers of both
hands hard against her face. I waited till her breathing shifted
from erratic to some semblance of normal. “I will tell you,” she
said. She sat up again, sending a nervous glance over to the
bedroom door. I got up to close it completely, turning the knob to
keep the sound quiet. The hum from the kitchen outside remained a
constant, touching reminder that life went on.

“
Matthew, my Maciej, did
not approve of my … job.”

I conjured up my recollection of the Hair to
Dye For salon. “Why?” I asked. “Did they take advantage of you
somehow?”

She smiled then, but a more pained smile,
I’ve never encountered.

“
I have wanted to be a hair
stylist since I was a small girl in my village outside of Krakow. I
have wanted nothing else. Back in Poland, I could not follow this
dream. I could only work in the factory, with metal and punches and
stamping. I never even knew what I was making. I only knew that
there must be a better life. And the machinery frightened me. I
didn’t want to lose my fingers the way many of my friends did. Then
how would I ever realize my dream?”

I kept eye contact with Sophie, knowing that
if I let my gaze wander, it might break the spell. There was more;
I watched and waited.

“
When Father Bruno came to
our town and told us of the opportunities here in America, I wanted
to come here right away. But Matthew, though he is younger … was
younger …” she drew a ragged breath before continuing, “he insisted
on coming with me, to protect me. And my parents were happy. They
were so afraid that they would lose their little girl. And now they
have lost a son.”

She shook her head. “America is a land of
hope and dreams. And I was so happy when Father Bruno found me a
position at the salon. I went to school at night to learn, to get
my license. And I have done a good job. I am proud of my work.” She
focused high on the wall again, as twin tears made their way down
her cheeks. “But, the owner of the beauty shop does not hire us
because we are good hair stylists.”

“
She hires you because
you’re new to the country and you work for minimum
wage?”

Sophie’s smile was one of
deep sadness. Though she was younger than me by a good five years,
I had the sudden feeling of being in the company of a much older,
more world-weary woman, explaining the sad facts of life to me.
“No,” she said, in English. “We are … what is the word?
Prostytutka
. We are
their whores.”

C
hapter Ten

Bass leaned back in the orange plastic
chair, crossing his feet on an upturned wastebasket, which he kept
in this mini-conference room for that express purpose. He’d chosen
the only chair of the stackable set that didn’t wobble, and had
dragged it to the head position nearest the door.

Windowless, this minuscule section of the
office had lived a prior life as a storage area up until several
months ago. After much debate, the station had buckled under
pressure from the constant complaints of frustrated employees about
impossible-to-dig-out files. When space opened up, the
administration leased more capacious facilities five floors above
us.

Our staff meetings, which Bass called from
time to time with no discernible pattern, were always held in here,
despite the fact that the large, windowed conference room was
nearly always available. I sensed that Bass liked the close
quarters; being in a smaller pond undoubtedly made him feel like a
bigger fish. While I’m not claustrophobic, I disliked the tight
airless warmth of these meetings. I wondered if Bass did that on
purpose. Keeping us uncomfortable ensured our time here would be
brief.

Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand, Bass read
his notes from the leather portfolio on his lap. He favored
wide-striped ties and those blue shirts with white collars that
went out of style when I was a teenager. But no matter what he
wore, he looked scruffy and unkempt. If I had the chance to pick
the perfect outfit for him, I would have gone with a navy blue bow
tie and red plaid short pants. Maybe even a red clown nose,
too.

William sat next to me. We’d taken the two
seats farthest away from Bass. To my right was David Gonzales and
two seats away on William’s left was Fenton. There were three empty
chairs, no longer needed, now that the research and writing staff
had been pared down to just four. And in the center was a long, low
table, ridiculously out of place in a business meeting. It might
have been someone’s coffee table from a 1950s living room. Brown,
with fake wood grain, it sported long matching angled-out legs with
tiny gold caps at the feet.

“
Everybody here, then?
Let’s begin,” Bass said unnecessarily. He leaned forward to place
his cup on the squat table. His voice, just a couple of notches too
high, took on an ominous quality as he dropped his feet to the
floor and began his next conversation with a long, wound up,
“Ohhhhkay.”

I’d attended Bass’s meetings for a long
time. So had David. We exchanged sidelong glances. When Bass went
“feet to the floor” it was never a good sign. Next to me, David put
his notebook on the table, then leaned back, interlacing his
fingers across his stomach. While not an enormous man, David was
big. A consequence of possessing an unhurried demeanor and a love
of all things edible. On the few occasions we’d gone out to lunch
together, I’d been amazed at how much the guy could put away. His
dark hair, dark eyes, and olive complexion however, more than made
up for the added weight. Taken as a whole package, David was a
hunk.

Bass shot an angry glance at each of us in
turn. “So, what’s up? Why aren’t we producing stories here? Have
you all gone on vacation and forgotten to let me know?”

Fenton wasted no time. “You gave me an extra
week on the Millie story. Remember? I told you all the problems I
was having and you told me not to worry.”

Bass telling somebody not to worry, was like
the Pope asking new converts if they might not like to consider
Judaism before taking the baptismal plunge.

“
I told you to get the
research done so that Gonzales here has something to write about.
You told me you wanted an extra week. I never agreed. How much you
got, Gonzales?”

David didn’t move from his position of
feigned relaxation. “Not enough. I’ve got the stuff that Alex did.
All the background. Very thorough, as always, Alex.” He gave me an
abbreviated nod. “But a lot has happened on the story since it
switched hands. From that point on I got nada.”

Bass turned to Fenton. “What have you been
doing?”

“
You know, she could have
given me a little help here. It’s not like she’s working on
anything real important or anything. I asked her. She won’t do
anything for me.”

Oooh. A tantrum. This might turn out to be a
fun meeting after all.

Bass let the question of my
involvement slide, instead shaking a finger dangerously close to
the Nephew’s nose. For a short fellow, Bass had some major
cojones
. “You are one
lucky punk. I got a call this morning from Hank. Just found out
we’ve got political specials we need to run.” He addressed his
spiel to the rest of us. “Elections are coming up and some of the
small, local races are garnering interest. Hank’s got Gabriela set
up to do interviews for the next airing.”

David sat up. He loved political stuff.
Really excelled at it.

As though anticipating the question, Bass
raised a hand. “No, not like that. These are going to be all
pabulum. Pre-set questions provided by the candidates’
headquarters. Sincere, well-crafted answers to help educate the
voting public.” He rolled his eyes. “We’re just the vehicle.”