Face of Betrayal (10 page)

But they were finding nothing.

Nicole stood up to stretch, her holster catching briefly on the back of the cheap folding chair. After eight years in the FBI, her Glock was part of her. She was required to be armed, available, and fit for duty at all times, whether she was at work or not. She carried her gun on planes. She carried it when she met her friends for dinner. She took it to Makayla’s fourth-grade play. Makayla was now the class celebrity, thanks to some kid sitting on the floor catching a glimpse of Nic’s gun when her jacket fell open. It was underneath her left arm, snug against her side, just below her breast.

The FBI had trained her to shoot in all kinds of weather, during daylight and at night, in any position. She had drawn her weapon and fired her weapon hundreds of time. But she had never fired it at a human being.

At home, the gun went into the gun safe. Makayla knew she could ask to see the gun as often as she liked, but only when they were alone at home. She was never to touch it.

Luckily, Makayla didn’t seem at all curious about it, or about Nicole’s job in general. Which was good. Nicole didn’t exactly want to explain to her daughter that there were men who liked girls Makayla’s age.

As she turned her head from side to side and massaged her tense shoulders, she thought about how they had busted PDXer the day before. With a subpoena, Nicole had been able to trace the computer’s address to the home of a fifty-two-year-old shoe salesman. BubbleBeth had agreed to meet him at a bus stop downtown. The FBI weren’t allowed to use decoys to fool the perp, so there was no real girl to meet him. Instead, there were fifteen agents, including Nicole, all of them stationed around the stop.

PDXer turned out to be tubby, with a bad, graying perm. He paced up and down, holding a dozen roses, looking for the thirteen-year-old BubbleBeth but seeing only joggers, shoppers, construction workers, and people waiting for the bus.

Nicole walked up, pulled out her badge, and said, “I know why you’re here.”

He didn’t even bother to hang his head. Some perps were relieved when their problems finally caught up with them. “Yeah, I’m here to meet a thirteen-year-old girl and take her to my house and have sex.”

She had cuffed him a little tighter than was strictly necessary. The only thing that had helped curb her anger was knowing that Innocent Images had a 98 percent conviction rate.

Wincing in pain, Nicole pressed her fingers as far back along her neck and down her spine as she could. She hadn’t noticed that Leif had stood up, too, until he said, “Hey, try this to get the kinks out. First, put your hands up.” He turned to face her, and she was conscious of his height. A lot of guys in the Bureau were shorter than Nic, but Leif was well over six feet.

He held out his hands, palms facing forward, on either side of his head, looking like someone about to be arrested. “It’s called a dorsal glide.” He waited until Nic put her hands up, then tucked his chin as he slowly moved his back in a straight line. She did the same.

Something clicked into place between her shoulder blades. The pain wasn’t gone, but it lessened remarkably.

“Hey,” she said. “Thanks.”

She saw a few of the other agents looking at them, and she grabbed her headset and quickly sat down. She liked Leif, and respected him, which weren’t always the same thing, but she didn’t want to send the wrong message. Being a single woman meant she was grist for the office rumor mill. Nicole knew what some of them said about her behind her back. That she was a lesbian. And/or a man-hater.

Nicole ignored Leif ’s sideways glance when he sat back down next to her. She had a reason for the way she acted. A better reason than she would ever tell any of them.

SAFE HARBOR SHELTER

December 21

H
ello, you must be Sonika. I’m Allison Pierce. I’m a lawyer.” When Allison stuck out her hand, the slender woman with huge, dark eyes flinched.

“Sorry,” Sonika said. She hid her mouth with her hand, reminding Allison of Nicole. Only Sonika’s teeth were already perfect, even and white. Glossy black hair framed her heart-shaped face.

The caseworker had told Allison that Sonika was a Cambodian immigrant without much English. And that her husband beat her. Sonika had come to the shelter several times, but always said she couldn’t stay. She wouldn’t even take a brochure, out of fear that her husband might find it. The hope was that Allison could get her to change her mind about accepting help.

Because of Lindsay, Allison had done a little research on domestic violence. It accounted for more injuries to women in America than anything else—more than heart attacks, cancer, strokes, car wrecks, muggings, and rapes combined. To try to help, Allison did a little pro bono work for the shelter. Not as much as she thought she should, but far more than she had time for. Especially now. But so many volunteers were unavailable so close to Christmas that the shelter had begged Allison to come today. To come right away, before this Sonika got too frightened. Allison had reluctantly agreed.

Once the baby came—the idea was now a refrain that played through her mind every few seconds—Allison would probably have to stop volunteering altogether. She put her hand on her abdomen for a second, then dropped it when she saw the other woman take it in. Sonika had the hyperawareness typical of abused women.

They were in the children’s room, but at the moment there were no children in it. The smell of Play-Doh made Allison’s mouth water, which was better than her reaction to most smells these days. She sat on a green plastic Playskool chair and gestured for Sonika to pull up the red one.

Instead, Sonika sank down until she crouched on her heels. She held the position easily, looking far more comfortable than Allison felt perched on her tiny seat.

In two years of volunteering, Allison had learned the unspoken rules for dealing with victims of domestic violence. You took your time. You nodded when they said that he wasn’t so bad, that it was complicated. You told them to write down the hotline number next to a fake name, so that no one would suspect. You didn’t call a marriage an “abusive relationship” until they were ready. You didn’t scare women by trying to force them to go into the shelter. And you never berated them for not leaving—or for going back.

“What brings you here?” Allison asked.

Sonika’s fingers hovered over the top button on her high-necked blouse, then cupped her knees. “Very private.”

Allison nodded. For five minutes, they sat in silence. Finally, Sonika brought her fingers up to her blouse again. She unbuttoned the top button and the next. Holding the edges of her blouse, she pulled them open and turned her head away.

Small black bruises were lined up on each side of her neck. Someone had tried to strangle her.

“I’m sorry,” Allison said. “You can button your blouse back up.”

Sonika did, her eyes still not meeting Allison’s.

“Your husband?”

Sonika didn’t answer, just pushed up her sleeve. More bruises braceleted her wrist. These were older, a greenish-yellow.

“These my husband.”

“Then who tried to . . .” Allison veered away from the word
strangle—
this woman was like a frightened deer. “Who hurt your neck?”

“My father.”

“Your father?” Her voice betrayed her surprise.
Give me guidance, Lord.

“I ask if I could live at home again. He say I bring shame on our family. He say better for me to be dead than disgrace.”

“Where does your husband think you are right now?”

“Grocery store.”

“I can help you. We can make it so that your father and your husband have to stay away from you. I am a lawyer. I can make the police and the courts protect you.”

Sonika snorted and shook her head as if Allison had just said something wryly funny. “The police! They want money. My father, my husband, they have money. Not me.”

Allison had run into this problem before with immigrants from countries where justice was available to the highest bidder.

“Not here, Sonika. I can make it so that your husband and father won’t be able to come near you without being put in jail. We can help you get housing, food stamps, eventually a job. We can help you get a new life, Sonika. One where nobody hurts you.”

“You don’t understand. My father was in army. He knows how to kill people. He knows how to make them disappear.” Sonika flicked her slender hand to show how fast it could happen.

“But you’re his daughter.”

“He has five daughters. I am disobeying.”

“But—,” Allison started, when her phone buzzed on her waist.

She looked down at the display. Nicole. Nicole knew where Allison was, knew not to call unless it was an emergency.

“Excuse me,” she said, knowing she was losing Sonika. Knowing she would have lost her anyway. “I have to take this.”

She went out into the hall. “Yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt you, Allison. But it’s about Katie Converse.”

Her stomach felt like she was in an elevator that had lurched down half a foot. “You found her?”

“No. We found her dog.”

MYSPACE.COM/THEDCPAGE

Happy Birthday to Me

September 13

Y
esterday was my birthday. My roommates made a big fuss over me & took me to Starbucks for lemon squares & chai tea. I got a lot of stuff from my family in the mail & a CD from L, my best friend at home. Daddy sent me something separate. Even before I opened it I could tell it was from him. It was lumpy & had way too much tape.

Inside was a necklace from my mom. My real mom. She died from breast cancer when I was just a baby. I don’t have many pictures of her. I’m pretty sure V threw them all away as soon as she married Daddy. The necklace is an amethyst on a silver chain. I’m wearing it right now. I’m never going to take it off.

The whole family talked to me, but finally Daddy took the phone & went out in the backyard to talk to me alone. On my birthday we always go for a hike in Forest Park together, just the two of us. When I get back home we’ll still have to go on our hike, just a few months late. Just him & me. And I’ll tell him I’ve been thinking I could be a senator myself one day, the way Senator X says. Maybe even president.

At dinner, one of the other pages asked where I was from & told me I had a cute accent. That made me smile. Do I really have an accent? In the state I’m from, we pretty much talk like TV newscasters. On the other hand, you should hear him. And just in case he’s reading this, let me say that
he’s
the one with an accent.

Later we were in the dayroom together with a bunch of other people watching TV. Eventually everyone left, until we were the only ones there.

And that’s all I’m going to say about my birthday.

BLUE MOON TAVERN

December 21

A
llison found herself scanning the faces of the people on the sidewalks as she hunted for one of Northwest Portland’s scarce parking spaces. Knowing she wouldn’t see Katie, but all too aware that another day had gone by without a break in the case.

As she walked down the poorly lit sidewalk toward McMenamin’s Blue Moon Tavern, the restaurant Cassidy had chosen, Allison’s thoughts took another, even darker, turn. Whoever had put the threatening note on her car could be anyplace. She interlaced her keys between the fingers of her left hand and held her cell phone ready in her right. Her heels tick-tocked on the sidewalk of the deserted side street. But once she was on the busy main street she relaxed, at least a little.

She found Nicole inside the restaurant, and the two women ordered. About twenty minutes later Cassidy turned heads as she rushed in. Her customary bright colors—including an orange raincoat—stood out among the jeans and dark parkas.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, leaning over to hug Nicole. “The bridge was up.” She gave Allison an air kiss, then stepped back to appraise her. “So how are you feeling?”

“Fine. The only difference I’ve noticed is that I can smell things a lot better. I was in PetSmart, and I could smell the shavings in the hamsters’ cages and the chemicals in the fish tanks.”

And Cassidy’s perfume bordered on overwhelming, but Allison decided not to mention that.

Cassidy went up to the counter. From the guy behind the beer taps she ordered a Wilbur’s Jumbo Deluxe Burger, a pint of Hammerhead, and an order of McMenamin’s famous fries.

Nicole called out, “Cass, we already have fries!”

“I need my own,” Cassidy answered, taking the glass of beer and walking back to the table. “Why do you think I picked this place anyway?”

The Blue Moon had been in Northwest Portland long before the neighborhood’s housing values shot out of sight. Now its funky artwork and battered wooden chairs were a throwback to the time when the area had been a cheap refuge for artists and college students.

When Cassidy looped her heavy Coach purse over the back of her chair, the seat went up on two legs. With an ease born of long experience, she caught the purse with one hand while slipping out of her coat and draping it over the back of the chair with the other. Just before the whole thing tipped over, she sat down.

Nicole snorted. “Ever thought of getting a purse with luggage wheels?”

“Oh, shut up! If you ever need a Band-Aid or a complete change of clothes, don’t come crying to me.” Cassidy turned back to Allison. “Have you been to the doctor yet?”

“I have an appointment in three weeks. They want to be able to hear the baby’s heart rate, and they can’t do that until it’s bigger.”

Allison had been surprised by how casually the receptionist at her doctor’s office had treated her. Did they really think that she could do the right thing all by herself? She had spent the last couple of evenings reading
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
instead of the files she had lugged home from work.

“So how big is it now?” Cassidy reached over to help herself to some of their fries. “Do you know?”

“According to what I’m reading, I’ve already gone through the grain of rice and green pea stages. I think it’s somewhere between pinto bean and olive size.”

“Why is it always food?” Nicole pointed a french fry at Allison. “At this rate, you’re going to give birth to a fryer chicken.”