Five O’Clock Shadow (13 page)

Pauly sat back and looked out the window, not even seeing the criss-crossing of wrought-iron bars that interrupted her view. She just stared at the pale watery-blue sky and thin bank of cirrus clouds that were moving ever so slightly to the right. The powdery rim of the lead cloud touched the edge of a wrought-iron post before pushing slowly past to encounter the second metal bar, and so on. Somewhere beneath the surface of rational thought, a voice prodded her to acknowledge what she knew. What had to be true. But she fought to silence it and continued to sit there.

Finally, when she turned back to the open metal box, she was prepared for the picture lying in the bottom. Somehow she knew there would be one, a snapshot of a happy man, blond hair tousled, standing beside a dark-haired child. The child dressed in the pressed shirt, short pants, anklets and oxfords that said he was not American or, at least, not being raised in this country.

And she couldn't help comparing that photo to the others she had seen of the same child…and even to those minutes, two or three or four, when he had tumbled out of the smoking gondola in front of her, staring at her, frightened beyond his years. Randy's adopted child, Jorge Roberto Suarez Zuniga McIntyre. The child who had flown in a balloon with his father and almost died with him.

Calmly she transferred the adoption papers and passport to her safe deposit box but slipped the picture into her billfold. Finished, she locked her box and left Randy's now-empty box open before she pushed the buzzer that alerted the attendant to come for her.

She called Tony when she got back to the office. He sounded happy to hear from her and advised her to leave Randy's bank accounts untouched, not to consolidate or close them until the investigation was over. But he couldn't tell her when that might be. She detected sounds of his moving to a more private location and after what sounded like a door closing, he continued.

“Did you find any surprises in the safe deposit box?”

“No.” His question had caught her off guard. Had she answered too quickly?

“I don't know how we missed the fact that he had one. In a case of wrongful death, the contents could have been subpoenaed.”

“There was only his passport and title to his truck. Do you need to see them?”

“Probably not, but keep the passport handy. There might be questions about travel.”

Pauly thought Tony seemed hesitant, like he was holding something back. Did they have new evidence?

“I've been wanting to call you. I'd like to think that once this investigation is over, you might want to go out. I mean, it's tough right now, rules and everything. We're not supposed to date anyone who might be involved in an investigation. But later?”

Pauly sighed. Aside from making her feel like pariah of the month, it was cute. And he was cute. At the moment she could do a lot worse.

“Let's see what happens. I appreciate your help in all this.”

“Hey, it's…” He stopped short of saying “just my job” and amended to end with “my pleasure.” He admonished her to stay in touch before hanging up.

She sat for a moment twisting in the swivel chair, then pulled the photo out of her billfold. Randy and Jorge. Father and son. What would Tony say about that? But she knew she wasn't going to find out. She might as well add a couple more pieces of withheld evidence to her growing cache.

Chapter Six

The tambourines gave her a headache. Pauly tried to pay attention, but the jingle-jangle of sound coming from the stage in front of her drowned out any attempt to think clearly.

“Aren't they just wonderful?” Grams leaned across to whisper, the sequin-encrusted fringe on her violet suede western jacket tickling Pauly's arm.

“Who are they?” Not that Pauly cared, but a line-up of four six-year-olds was suspect, even if they were girls.

“Carny kids.” Grams turned back to applaud wildly at the finish of the number, which included a tap dance of sorts and the waving of miniature American flags.

The banner that stretched across the tent some ten feet above the stage read: “Clowns for Christ.” At first, Pauly thought it was a joke but was quickly set straight by a miffed grandmother.

“We've done this once a year now for five years. Of course, it's immensely better now that Hofer's here. He's a natural leader. Usually two or three of the leading evangelists in Albuquerque join in, bring their flocks, kids and all. It's always a nice combination of entertainment and sharing of Christ's word.”

Pauly still marveled at Grams' having embraced religious life. It was difficult to get used to. Her grandmother motioned for Steve to join them, and Pauly found herself uncomfortably sitting next to the man whose ski mask was in her custody, but whose touch still sent shock-waves through her body. How could she still be drawn to this man? A case could probably be made for it being plain old deprivation. What would she do this time if he made a pass?

But he didn't push it. He leaned over once and asked if she thought avoidance behavior ever solved anything. She had thought a moment and whispered back “maybe” and watched him return her own smile that she couldn't keep back. She shivered. It wasn't cold in the tent, yet she couldn't help but think that, perhaps, she was having lewd thoughts about a murderer. For the thousandth time, she admonished herself for not sharing her suspicions and findings with Tony. But she had no reason to think he wasn't owned—one of Sosimo's cops, as Arthur had put it.

“I don't suppose a six-pack of Negra Modelo will work again, get you back to the apartment?” he asked. They had both stayed seated during an intermission that divided two musical numbers from the main program. They were alone. Grams had said she was needed backstage.

“Probably not.” Pauly hoped he knew that she was being serious. She hoped
she
was telling the truth.

“I blame myself for going too fast.” He turned to face her. “Damn it, I want you to like me, trust me. I want to at least be a friend.” Then he lowered his voice. “Did I tell you too much about myself?”

How did he mean that? Actually, that wasn't far from the truth.

“If you mean the part about doing time, no, that doesn't bother me. I know I'm beginning to sound boring, but I can't seem to just jump back into a relationship. Trust is an issue all to itself. One I can't seem to ignore. Sort of an internal chastity belt.” She smiled ruefully and watched him shrug before he turned back and asked, “What are my chances for a friendship?”

“We'll see.” She knew her turning him down bothered him. But she was saved from saying anything further by the overhead lights being flicked on and off. Those gathered at the refreshment table in back began finding their seats.

Pauly was amazed that there were over two hundred people in the audience, men, women, and children. The blue and white striped circus tent had been set up behind Grams' house in a leveled, graded field that offered ample parking, and not far from the rows of travel trailers and motor homes that housed the carnival troupe. And if she could believe the crowd's enthusiasm, this was a much-anticipated event. By now every child was hanging onto a helium-filled balloon. Blue and white balls tethered by ribbons tied to wrists or clutched in small hands bobbed and bounced around her.

“Kids love it,” Steve said as if reading her thoughts.

“But what's it for? I mean, is Grams raising money for some worthy cause?”

“You could say that. She offers the circus for any number of fund-raisers. Clowns for Christ helps your grandmother's missionary projects in Mexico and Central America.”

“I had no idea.” And she didn't. Pauly was amazed at her grandmother's altruistic leanings.

“She's invested rather heavily in missions and church groups down there that help the poor. Probably one reason she continues to get a permit to cross the border and perform. There's got to be something in it for them.” Steve paused to rub his thumb back and forth across middle and index fingers—sign language for “money.”

Pauly nodded. Of course, that made sense. And she was beginning to get a picture of Grams, one that she hadn't had before. Funny how as adults it was so easy to just drift away, get caught up in one's own life, not really knowing relatives, even close ones.

Whatever else she might have learned was put on hold as amid horns and streams of water squirting from plastic flowers on lapels and hats, clowns crowded onto the stage, one on a unicycle, two on tricycles. Orange hair, purple hair, red cheeks, mouths outlined in white, tall hats, crushed hats, iridescent baseball caps, hoop-embellished skirts, baggy pants—it was all there. And at first it was a free-for-all. Posturing for effect, twenty-five clowns pushed and shoved and somersaulted, all in good fun, and to the supportive shrieks of the audience.

Pauly used to berate herself for not liking slapstick humor. But in reality, she hated this sort of thing. She didn't watch cartoons. An Elmer Fudd or Roadrunner left her unmoved. She never wanted clowns for her birthday parties, and her grandmother had almost never forgiven her for turning down a trip to Disneyland. Could she pick out Lulu? Odd—when it came to business, she thought of her grandmother by her stage name.

“Not exactly your thing?” Steve whispered.

She nodded. Was it that apparent? She consciously tried not to frown. Actually, Lulu was difficult to spot. Makeup hid a lot. Things like years, Pauly decided. The four-inch false eyelashes batted against the pink stars of rouge on her cheeks. The wig was violet, a bushel-basket-sized mass of curls, some sticking straight out from her head. But she was amazingly supple as she twisted and turned, feigning her disgust at being shot with water.

“Your grandmother's pretty good at this.”

“Yes.” She didn't offer more but gave her attention to the stage. The first group of clowns had finished their segment with a finale and were high-kicking off stage, trying not to interfere with a new bunch who bounded forward to set up for what appeared to be an animal act.

Bright red and green, two-foot-high plastic tunnels were laid end to end near a slippery slide and next to a miniature merry-go-round. Once they were snapped together, they snaked across the edge of the stage. Then came the vaults, bars placed at different heights, some with streamers and balloons tied to their wooden frames.

A piercing whistle brought the terriers, Jack Russells mostly, some with bandannas around their necks, others with bows, ten in all. She didn't see the monkey until it circled the stage right in front of her. She hated monkeys. This one was small, gray, with a long tail and a wizened, know-it-all face. It rode on the back of a small, black and white spotted dog that raced around darting into the tunnel only to emerge with its rider still aboard.

“Great, huh?” She wished Steve didn't feel that he had to comment. It was obvious that he was enjoying himself. But a part-owner probably had to look enthused. She didn't, and it had crossed her mind to excuse herself and walk back to the house. She had a big day at work tomorrow. And she wasn't looking forward to listening to Hofer's sermon, which came next according to the program.

The dogs were continuing to jump and tumble, being directed and encouraged by handlers, all in costume. Some were obviously children. Suddenly Pauly leaned forward. A lithe child in fuzzy spotted leotard and matching mask intended to make him a human terrier had stepped forward from the shadows to replace a bar in one of the jumps. He was maybe fifteen feet in front of her when their eyes met…and held.

Those dark, expressive eyes fringed with lashes were the only part of his body not covered by the costume. But she saw the terror. This time not because he had just fallen from a burning gondola, but because she might recognize him. He dropped the bar and darted backstage. Pauly stood then, fumbled for her purse under her chair, and scooping it up pushed along the row of seated onlookers to her right, stepping on toes and mumbling “excuse me” but not slowing until she had thrust aside the canvas flap that opened to the outside.

The night was clear and cold. Even Pauly's down vest didn't keep her from shivering. But maybe it wasn't from the temperature. She paused and searched the columns of trailers for movement. There wasn't any. Lights gleamed from curtained windows; some trailers were dark. The yip of a dog from somewhere by the river encouraged a sleepy half-hearted answer from a cousin towards the end of the first row.

The strangely reassuring sound of traffic roared in the distance from the freeway a couple miles to her left. Behind her was the muffled clapping and cheering of the crowd inside the tent, nothing else; the moonlit night was quiet. Could he have stayed inside, the child in the dog suit, recognizable only by his eyes? Was he hiding among the clowns watching as she left? Or had he already disappeared somewhere along the long row of portable homes that stretched in front of her?

Someone pushed out the tent in back of her.

“Are you all right?” Steve was at her side, taking her arm, turning her towards him, concern in his voice.

“Flu. The tent suddenly got a little hot. I thought I was going to be sick.” Would he buy it? More importantly, why was she lying? Why did it suddenly seem so important that he believe her stomach was queasy? She'd told him about the boy in the gondola. Maybe he could help. But then again, maybe he was part of the problem.

“I thought you seemed a little quiet. Let me walk you back to the house.” His voice was sympathetic and he put an arm around her shoulders.

“Thanks.”

At the door he waited to be invited in. Or, at least, it seemed that way.

“I'm not going to be very good company. I really need to get some rest.”

Steve nodded. If he'd thought to kiss her, she didn't give him a chance. The back door was open and she slipped inside, hanging her vest on a peg before walking ahead and flipping on the kitchen light. A glass of milk? Cup of tea? Beer? She needed something. Then abruptly she switched off the light and inched back along the hallway to peer out a side window at the figure crossing the ground between house and tent. She felt better as she watched Steve reach the tent and disappear from view. Pauly went back to the kitchen relieved and more than a little thankful to be alone.

This time she left the light off, found a bottle of Samuel Adams in the fridge door, flipped the cap off, and went upstairs to her bedroom. She sat the teddy bear in front of her on the bed. Was she surprised to find its owner here, at Grams'? Actually it made sense to think of him as a carny kid, a kid lured to the river to watch a hot-air balloon, thrilled probably to be pulled into the gondola for that short, memorable flight.

She wondered when Randy would have told her about the boy, about his son—but then, what made her think that he would have ever done that? What need was there to spill the beans? Certainly not before they had tried to have a child of their own, of that she was certain, months, years maybe of frustratingly hopeless, fruitless longing…and her never knowing how futile their attempts were. But why did the child live here? Even if he was a part of the carnival, that didn't explain the other part of what she knew. The pictures.

She couldn't waste the night, couldn't run the risk of the child's getting away. She had to find out more. Quickly she slipped on a flannel shirt, pulled on a sweater, and grabbed a blanket and the teddy bear. It was her one link to this child, a peace offering, maybe the one thing that would get her close enough to talk.

She loaded her vest with matches and a flashlight, tissue, a scarf, and her trusty wool stocking cap. She'd be inconspicuous if she stayed in the shadows and found a place to wait. A place that would put her in full view of the back of the tent but keep her hidden at the same time.

She took the long way around. She wondered if Steve were watching the house, not even relaxing when he saw the light in her room go out. But she had no reason to think he'd spy on her. And, she reminded herself, no reason to think he wouldn't.

She stopped twice when she heard someone leave the tent. Both times it was parents with cranky children. Nine o'clock was bedtime for most little guys. She came up behind the first row of ten trailers from the north and kept close to their metal sides as she worked her way closer to the tent. She had her eye on a truck parked with hood up and propped on blocks not far from the back door.

When she got close enough to inspect the arrangement, the truck looked sturdy enough for an adult to wiggle underneath and wrapped in a blanket keep completely out of sight. She dropped to all fours and paused to see if anyone was watching. So far, so good. She stretched out prone and pulled herself under, then towards the back, realizing too late that she'd put a mittened hand in something black and sticky. Oil. She allowed a short whispered curse under her breath and tried to wipe the residue from the wool by grinding it in the sandy soil. No luck. She carefully took the mitten off, turned it inside out, and stuck it in her pocket.

With luck, the child had stayed in the tent and was still there. The only good thing about being squashed under a disabled truck was the fact she didn't have to wait long. At somewhere close to nine thirty, cars and trucks parked to the front and side of the tent started to pull out. Pauly inched up on her elbows, banging her head on what was probably the axle. Would the clowns take off their makeup in the tent or go back to their homes first? She had no idea.