Lost (27 page)

The man exhales slowly, seems to shrink a little as beads of sweat the size of small, oily bullets form on his brow. “You know I had nothing to do with this, right?”

“Do I? We have information that the abduction was carried out by a member of the tribe. I believe the description was ‘some crazy big-shot Indian everybody is scared of.’ I’m guessing the crazy part is right on, considering the consequences and, from the panicked way the tribal council is responding, the gentleman really does inspire fear. I’m also guessing, from the little lightbulb that just went on over your head, that a name popped into your mind.”

The security chief nods miserably.

18. Begging Is Good

My first wedding gown was for my friend Fern. Fern’s January wedding to Edgar who was impossibly slim and good-looking at the time. Fern, always gorgeous in her own unique way, had put on fifty pounds in pregnancy but still managed to glow. She had insisted that I not attempt to hide her baby-full belly when draping the gown. As if. There she is on the steps outside the church, posing for the formal photograph, looking like she was having quintuplets at least. But that smile, and her fabulous eyes, and the way she’s looking at Edgar, like she’s ready to eat him in one big bite. I’m there, too, a skinny, nervous, teenage bridesmaid, one of three in identical blue satin gowns. We look like frosting accents on Fern’s fabulous white wedding cake.

That was the idea, that the bridesmaids would echo the colors on the cake. A totally stupid concept, all mine, but somehow it worked because somehow a wedding always seems to work, even if the marriage itself is doomed to end badly, with poor Edgar begging for his favorite recliner and Fern crossing her arms and saying no, like a scene out of a bad sitcom,
Men Behaving Pathetically.

All these years later, I’m still not sure what got into me, volunteering to make the gowns. There was more to it than Fern not having the money for a proper bridal shop gown, which even then were outrageous. Maybe it was about me wanting to be involved in the wedding itself, as more than a best friend and bridesmaid. Putting my mark on the event. All I really remember is looking in the shop window with Fern, announcing with great virginal confidence that I could make her a gown like that, no problem. I’d been sewing my
own stuff for a year or two at that point, what was the big deal? A pattern, a little nice lace, a few ruffles, nothing to it.

Could I have been that naive? Or maybe I knew what I was getting into, the panic and the endless fittings, all the hand-stitching because the lovely silk kept bunching in the machine. The other two bridesmaids squirming like eels, worried about staining their underarms with flop sweat. Fern’s dad bursting into tears when he saw her, and not of happiness. Her mom dragging him off for a lecture about pregnancy being a gift from God. Fern snorting and rolling her eyes, telling me to ignore her ridiculous parents and make her look beautiful please. Which she did, and yes I helped it happen because the gown really was amazing, and we bridesmaids really did look like perfectly matching, skinny little planets orbiting a wonderfully round sun goddess.

Once upon a time I used to stare at this photo—it remains a precious keepsake, living in my purse—and imagine myself not as the bridesmaid, but as the bride. I could see myself in Fern’s place, in a smaller gown, of course. And not as beautiful as Fern, that goes without saying. But for the life of me I could never picture the groom.

Total blank. An empty space.

Less than a year after the photograph was taken, eight months to be exact, I was pregnant with Kelly. Secretly, deniably pregnant. No wedding for me, not then, not ever. And my father didn’t burst into tears. He said the kind of things that can’t be taken back and walked out the door. He’s gone now, forever gone, as is my mother. Kelly, if she’s alive, is the same age as me when I got pregnant with her. Can the world be so cruel as to let a precious child survive cancer, only to have her die because she’s in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong guy?

The answer, of course, is yes, the world can be that cruel. Check the newspapers if you disagree. Except that in my daughter’s case Shane thinks there may still be a chance. He’s taking risks, pulling out all the stops.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t already too late.

Unless it isn’t too late.

Unless it is.

All of which is swirling around in my throbbing head when the phone rings. Not my cell, the hotel phone. Takes me a minute to find it, focusing through the blur.

“Any news?” Fern wants to know. She sounds almost jovial.

“I can’t believe it,” I say, rubbing a tissue at my leaky nose. “I was just looking at your picture.”

“This is your psychic hotline,” says Fern, into character instantly. “I predict you’ll tell me what’s happening.”

So Irecount the meeting with Special Agent Healy, checking into the outrageous Europa, spying on Manning’s penthouse from the balcony, following the Hummer to the casino complex. Me in my ridiculous disguise. Then the strange and terrible scene of Edwin Manning breaking down, begging.

“It’s like he knows his son is already gone,” I tell her, clutching the phone to my ear like a lifeline. “Like he knows he’s dead.”

“Janey, stop it!” Fern commands. “You’re obsessing. I don’t know this jerk from a crack in the sidewalk, but if he’s begging for help, then he thinks the boy is alive. Dead he’d be arranging a funeral or seeking revenge, but not begging. Begging is good.”

“Begging is good? You really think?”

“Trust me. What’s Mr. Incredible doing now?”

“Um, checking out a lead, a possible suspect. I’m supposed to be lining up a lawyer, in case he gets arrested.”

“Shane?”

“Yeah. He may have to break a few laws.”

Fern squeals with pleasure. “I love it! Send lawyers, guns and money. Plus he’s worried about you. He wants you in a safe place while he does the dangerous stuff.”

“Or out of the way so I don’t mess things up. I’m useless, Fern. I keep bursting into tears.”

“Panic attacks?”

I think about it. “Um, not since I got here. Not a full-blown attack, no.”

“No? That’s interesting, don’t you think?”

“Not very. I wish you were here, Fern. You’re the strong one.”

Her big laugh is unforced, genuine. “Me? Are you serious? Maybe I could beat you arm-wrestling, but you’re strong where it counts, Janey poo. Doing what you did when Kelly was sick? In and out of the hospital for years? Always, always being strong for her, not letting her see how scared you were? Earning a living with your talent, making a business? Then dealing with your poor mother? Don’t you know what I tell everyone? That my friend Jane Garner may look as sweet as a bowl of Hershey’s Kisses, but you better watch out because she’s made of diamonds and tungsten steel. She’s like that cute guy in
Terminator 2,
knock her down, blow her up, she keeps on coming.”

“He was a bad guy,” I remind her.

“You can be a bad guy if you need to be. And a good guy when you need to be. Whatever you need to be, Janey, that’s what you’ll be, guaranteed. Diamonds and steel.”

“Now you’re making me cry.”

“Crying is natural. Go ahead, blow your nose. I was going to fill you in on all the business calls. Problems with fittings—somebody ate too many Fritos—a cancellation,
some other stuff. But you know what? You don’t need to know. Alex is helping Tracy take care of it. He’s really good.” “Alex is good? I thought you hated Alex.” “Hate? No, no. I hate things like cellulite, I never hated Alex. And if I did I’ve changed my mind. He knows what he’s doing, he’s good with customers, all these nervous women love him, plus, and I never knew this, he can sew on a button. What’s not to like?”

What can I say? I can’t say anything, I just cry some more. Big strong me.

After Fern gets off, I follow her advice and take a long hot shower. One of her main prescriptions for what ails you, the other being “take a pill,” by which she means a sleeping pill. Take a long hot shower or knock yourself out, or both. Sage advice, in my opinion. Nothing more I’d like to do than take a pill, sleep like the dead in my own bed. In the middle of the day, just sleep. No dreams though. Dreams would be dangerous.

Conversation with a loving friend leaves me cried out, free of the emotional roller coaster for now. You get to a point where you’re so wrung, so whacked, that your mind can’t handle any more anxiety. You become calm by default, because there’s nothing else left. That’s where I’m at, all soaped up with the shower pulsing, wondering idly how Edwin Manning is coping. Does he have anybody to talk to besides his dopey guards? Anybody to share with? Friends, relatives, associates, where are they? Sure looks like he’s all alone out there, hanging off the edge by his well-buffed fingernails. Being a financial master of the universe isn’t doing him much good at the moment.

What does he know and why won’t he talk to us? Is Shane the problem? The cop look of him? Hadn’t occurred to me, but that might be it. Why not? From Manning’s point of view,
Shane represents a force that, in the full pursuit of justice, may threaten his son’s life rather than save it. And if that’s true, if that’s what he he’s afraid of, maybe I can use that to our advantage.

That’s right,
our
advantage. Me and Kelly. It’s like she’s in my head, encouraging me. Go Mom, do it.

Edwin Manning is a widower, never remarried, a doting father, maybe he’ll respond to me as a mother, a parent. It’s worth a shot, I’m thinking. Ring his doorbell while Shane is otherwise engaged, see what happens.

Go Mom.

I’m actually smiling as I get out of the shower and grab a towel. Having decided to do it, to visit the lion in his own den. Me playing the part of the little mouse, offering to pull the splinter from the lion’s paw.

And that, of course, is when the phone rings.

“It’s me,” Shane says in a hushed voice. “Write this down.”

“I’m just out of the shower, hang on,” I stammer.

As I hurry for pen and paper, dripping all over everything, I’m glad he can’t see me blushing. Ridiculous as it may be, I’ve never been comfortable speaking to a man on the phone while naked. Which, as Kelly would say, explains a lot.

“Okay,” I say, fumbling with the pen. “Go.”

“Ricky Lang,” he whispers. “Twelve twenty-three Bay Vista Drive, Cable Grove. Got it?”

“Got it. Is this the guy?” I ask, a flush of pure excitement replacing the blush of embarrassment. “Is this the guy who took Kelly?”

“Too soon to say,” says Shane, still whispering. “This is a lead based on a rumor based on hearsay. Right now all I know for sure is that he’s a member of the tribe and he’s had some sort of long-running conflict with the tribal council. Apparently
Lang is a very common name among the Nakosha. Doesn’t sound Indian to me, but there it is.”

“What should I do?”

“Right, sorry. Call Special Agent Healy for me. If you can’t find his card, his number will be on my laptop in the address book. Give him the name and address and tell him Shane says he’s a person of interest. Can you do that?”

“Of course.”

“I’d do it myself but I’m kind of in a situation here.”

“Where are you?”

“At the address I just gave you.”

“At this guy’s house?” I ask, alarmed.

“In it, actually,” Shane whispers. “Gotta go.”

Leaving me with a dial tone, wet hair, and a few million questions.

19. Mr. Goldilocks And The One Bear

It was not like breaking and entering, not in the classic sense. Entering, obviously, because here he is, prowling the cool tile floors of a lovely expanded bungalow in one of the most exclusive waterfront enclaves in Miami. Four-bedroom Mediterranean style, recently refurbished, on a one-acre enclosed lot with water access, had to have set Mr. Lang back a few mil. Not grand enough or new enough for the rock stars and celebrities who gravitated to the area, but very tasty, and beautifully landscaped with palms, cactus, and a lush Bermuda grass lawn that looked like it would need to suck up half of Biscayne Bay on a hot day.

What Shane thinks of as pre-Scarface Miami, before wannabe crime bosses and Internet zillionaires who’d seen too many episodes of
Miami Vice
came to town demanding
homes so gaudily, obviously expensive they resemble drive-thru banks with big stucco hats.

Shane isn’t a fan of recent architectural trends, to say the least. This joint he likes. Big enough so he has room to move, cozy enough so it feels like a home, not a hotel lobby. True, he has to duck under the ceiling fans, and he’s a slightly put off to realize he and a potential suspect have similar taste in dream houses, but still.

Getting inside had been a piece of cake. The place has the usual security, and warning signs testifying to that effect, but the gated driveway was left open. Shane had his driver—the same baby-faced Haitian—drop him a few blocks away, and he’d simply strolled up the driveway, expecting to find the owner at home, given the open gate.

On the way to the front entrance he takes a peek through the windows of the four-stall garage. Only one vehicle in residence, a spiffy little convertible Mini Cooper. Whereas there are two, possibly three oil spots on the concrete. Interesting. Maybe the suspect isn’t at home. The Mini Cooper strikes him as a wife or girlfriend’s car, a fashion accessory, given the neighborhood.

He tries the buzzer, listens to the echo. No response. After the buzzer fades, hushed silence pervades, nothing to indicate that anyone is home.

Thinking maybe the three bears are out shopping or, who knows, kidnapping, Shane decides to play Goldilocks. Casual stroll around back, his Nikes easing into the lush grass as he comes upon the cool sapphire swimming pool with a neatly constructed tiki hut bar, and what looks like a recently erected cabana. The backyard kingdom of the pool. Beyond that, glimpsed through the rustling palm fronds, some sort of high-speed craft on a boat hoist, blocking the wind-dappled waters of the bay.

Yup, a man could live here, no problem. Put up his big tired feet and never leave. Spend a year or two staring at the pool, grab a frosty at the tiki hut, then amble out to the seawall, try fishing without a hook for the rest of his days.