Reclaim: A Recovered Innocence Novel (5 page)

Her gaze swings back to me and it’s like someone turned on a light inside her. “Sweet. So sweet. And good. He was the best. I miss him. So much.”

“I hear he liked superheroes.”

“Mmm, yes. Spider-Man was his favorite. He liked to pretend—” She breaks off and I can see her visibly gather herself to continue. “He made a cape with an old bedsheet. I tried to throw it away, but he had such a fit. I didn’t think…I never imagined. He didn’t have very many toys. So I gave in. I wish I’d thrown it away.”

“It’s not your fault. It was an accident.”

“A stupid accident.” She picks at something on her arm. “Will I have to talk about what I was doing that day?”

“Probably. But I’ll be right there with you.”

“Will you do something for me?”

“Sure. What?”

“Will you take some flowers to his grave. Maybe take a picture of it for me. I don’t know where he is. My father wouldn’t tell me. He blames me for what happened. Maybe he’s right.”

“He’s not right. There’s no one to blame here.”

She doesn’t say anything, absorbed in her own tortured thoughts.

Again I hate to ask, but…“What was the name of your old landlord?”

“Hector Rodriguez.”

I go for another redirect. “Did your lawyer ever have anyone with him when he came to see you in prison?”

She looks up at the ceiling like she’s thinking. “There was this man once…He poked his head in the room to say something to Mr. Martin. He didn’t see me at first. When he finally did he left right away. I knew him.”

“From where? Who was he?”

She has the same expression she had when I asked her what she was doing when Diego died and she won’t look at me all of a sudden.

“Carla? Who was he?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“What do you know about him?”

“I knew him like I knew my landlord.”

“You had sex with him?”

She nods.

“For money?”

She nods again.

“Did Mr. Martin use the man’s name or say anything that might give you an idea who the man was to Mr. Martin?”

“No, but I think Mr. Martin worked for him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It was how they talked to each other. The man did all the asking and Mr. Martin did all the answering. I didn’t understand very much English back then—not as much as I do now—so I don’t know what they were talking about.”

“Can you describe him for me?”

“White. Brown hair. Blue eyes. He had a tattoo on his chest, the word
SACRIFICE,
and one on his left calf of a dagger with a ribbon wrapped around it with words.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He drove up to the curb where I worked and I got in his car. He came back a few more times almost like a regular. Then Diego died and I didn’t work anymore.”

“Where did he take you when you got in his car?”

“I told him where to go. Suede, my handler, had this motel for us to take our customers.”

“How many times did you see him?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Six. Eight times. I don’t know. Maybe more. He wanted to get together and didn’t want to track me down. I had a phone number I gave out for that. Suede took care of my appointments. We met at the same motel every time.”

“What was the name of the motel?”

“The Lucky Inn on Second Avenue. Downtown.”

We talk for a full hour. All the while Nolan sits patiently, smiling reassuringly at Carla whenever she glances at him. I don’t learn anything new, but I do learn quite a bit about Carla as a person and as a mother. She loved her son. His death devastated her. She’s more confused than angry about being convicted for his death. I’m not sure I’d feel the same as her. I’m so angry
for
her there’s no doubt in my mind that I’d be blind with rage if I were in her place.

We say goodbye and as I reach the door to leave I look back to find her watching us. She looks so lost and alone I want to go to her and hug her, but that’s not allowed. I have to remember the warning they gave us in law school not to get attached to our clients or too invested in the outcome of their cases.

But as Carla holds up a hand in goodbye before turning to go back to her cell I have a hard time separating myself from her.
She is me and I am her
is a chant in my head as I walk out of the prison a free woman.

Lila fills me in on her conversation with Carla. I take notes, jotting down names and places. Her tone is flat, her eyes on the road. She rests her elbow on the car door and rubs at her forehead as though she has a headache. I wish the Lila who argued with me and accused me of being a racist would come back. I don’t much like her, but she’s eminently more tolerable than this subdued, sad version of Lila. The visit caused her pain. She’s right. There are things she’s experienced that I will never know. Things she and Carla have both been through that are foreign to me.

We don’t talk about the kiss. We especially don’t talk about what we think about it or why it happened. There’s a third passenger in the car, hanging its arms over our shoulders, trying to get us to acknowledge it—the improbable attraction between us. I know she can feel it. I’m not even sure she likes me, but she’s thinking about that kiss. Maybe not as obsessively as I am. But she’s thinking about it and that will have to be enough for now.

Glancing down at the notes I made of the meeting, I’m struck by how much work there is to do. We have to track down the neighbor, Carla’s landlord, her attorney, and a mysterious man who paid to have sex with her. It was hard for Lila to tell me about what Carla did to support herself and her son. I think she thinks I’ll be judgmental about it. I’ll admit that there was a moment or two where I had a hard time not thinking badly about Carla for screwing her landlord while her child suffocated to death in the next room. I’m still having trouble with that. I think Lila is too, although she would never admit it.

Now I understand why they put Carla on suicide watch when she was arrested. I imagine she blames herself for Diego’s death. She was
right there
in the next room. The what-ifs must have nearly broken her. They probably still do. I don’t know how she deals with it on top of the loss of her child. Pain is etched into her features, making her look older than twenty-three. She lost everything that day. Her son and her whole family. Lila told me that Carla’s father hasn’t spoken to her since Diego died. I can’t imagine what that must be like.

My family is small but we’re tight. I glance at Lila and wonder if she’s close to her family. I want to learn more about her. What makes her tick. What her likes and dislikes are. What gets her hot. What makes her sigh. What makes her beg for
more.

I glance out the window, trying to put the brakes on those thoughts. This isn’t the time or the place. The only consolation is that she’s just as messed up about that kiss as I am. What she’ll do about it is a total unknown. I’d better back off…for now. Better to give her some room. This case is messing with her head. She’s gone from the calm, cool, and collected woman in charge I met in the office to the pissed-off, chip-on-her-shoulder woman on the defense I met on the car ride out to the prison to the hotter-than-the-California-desert woman turned on by my kiss to the contemplative, saddened woman identifying with her client I’m faced with now.

“Do you want me to reschedule with Mrs. Martin?” I ask, trying to coax her out of her funk.

“No. I don’t want her to change her mind about helping us.”

“I doubt it. She thinks we’re going to help her find her missing husband. She doesn’t know the real reason we’re coming to see her.”

She whips her head my direction.
“What?”

“I wasn’t sure how cooperative she’d be if I told her we thought her husband was an incompetent hack who caused an innocent woman to go to prison for a crime she didn’t commit.”

“What exactly did you tell her?”

“I told her that I was a PI, working with the police on cold cases. You’re my assistant by the way.”

“I’m your—Why?”

“I thought I covered that with the whole can’t-tell-her-that-her-husband-screwed-up explanation.”

“Do you lie often in your line of work?”

“Almost constantly. This might shock you, but not everyone is enthusiastic about talking to a PI. We’re not like cops where people feel compelled by the law to spill their guts. So sometimes we have to improvise. This is me improvising and getting us info we might not get any other way.”

“Any legitimate way, you mean.”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“It’s that easy for you to lie?”

“No. It’s not easy, but it’s necessary. It’s taken me a while to get used to it. I’m not all that sure I’m very good at it.”

“You have a point about the wife,” she concedes. “She definitely wouldn’t let us near her husband’s files if she thought we were going to discredit him.”

“I was thinking of subtly suggesting that her husband’s disappearance might be linked to one of his cases, hoping she’ll open his files to us. If there are any files. It’s been long enough since he disappeared that his office files are probably in storage somewhere. His law office would never let us look through them. I’m betting everything that he kept a second set at home.”

“The files I keep at home are a limited version of my office files, but there might be enough in there to give us some clue as to why he didn’t put up his best defense. Before Carla’s trial he had a pretty good record as a public defender.”

“The wife also might know who the mystery man was who used to pay Carla for sex.” I gesture toward the freeway exit. “Get off here and turn left.”

“Good point. She’d know his co-workers.” She eases the car off the freeway, stops at the light, and turns toward me with a slight smile. “Why can’t
you
be
my
assistant?”

“Because I’m the PI.” I consider her for a moment. “Is it going to be tough for you to let me be in charge for a while?”

“Maybe.”

I laugh. “I didn’t have an issue with you being in charge back at the office or driving us today or with Carla. Does that make me more evolved than you?”

“Probably.” The light changes and I get her profile again as she makes the turn. “I prefer being in control.”

“Noted.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What’s not what you meant?”

“You took that to mean sexually.”

“I took it to mean in every situation. In bed, out of bed. In the car, out of the car. In the office, out of the office. I have no problem with you being in charge, by the way.”

“Stop it.”

“Make a right at the next light.”

“I mean it. This thing, this whatever you think it is between us, isn’t a thing.”

“So you admit there’s something between us.”

She makes an exasperated sound at the back of her throat. “I’m not doing this.”

“Just because we’re attracted to each other doesn’t mean we have to act on it. I think you’re right.” I turn my head to look out the window like I’m bored when I’m really trying not to smile. “We should ignore it. Pretend there’s nothing there. That kiss was a one-off, never to happen again.”

I can feel her gaze on me. Taking a slow breath in for composure, I turn to look at her. There’s a puzzled crease between her brows as we wait at another light. She studies me with the concentration of a scientist examining a specimen. I don’t fit her mold for me. Good. I’m glad we’re both at a loss as to how to deal with each other. I’d hate to be the only one struggling here. I also think she’s right to a certain extent. I have a lot to prove with this case, a lot to make up for. Trying to get into the pants of a lawyer from The Freedom Project would probably be a really bad way to prove I’m a professional.

Not that she’s not worth the effort. I just can’t afford to give in to the temptation that is her gorgeous, curvy body and beautiful face. But
damn.
What I’m giving up for my career.

“I’m glad you agree.” But she doesn’t sound like she agrees. She sounds like she wishes I’d try to talk her into another kiss. Or three. Or something beyond kissing.

“Make a left where that white car is.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence broken only by the directions I give her.

John Martin’s house looks like every other house on the block only more run-down. Like its occupants went on vacation for a month or two. The lawn is mostly dead except for the nearly knee-high weeds here and there. The screen door hangs loosely from its frame at a slight angle. There are two cars parked in the driveway. As we walk past them I notice one of them is covered in dust. Probably Mr. Martin’s car. A trail of faded ceramic gnomes runs along the walk. The last one’s been decapitated, the head totally gone.

I ring the bell, scanning the neighborhood. “We might want to talk to some of the neighbors,” I whisper to Lila. “They might give us more info than the missus. You never know. Nosy neighbors can be a PI’s best friend.”

A woman answers the door. She’s younger than I expected. More attractive too. But then I’m not really sure exactly what I expected.

“Hello, Mrs. Martin,” I say. “I’m Nolan Perry from Nash Security and Investigation, and this is my assistant Lila Garcia.”

She holds the door open for us. “Come in.”

The inside of the house is in much better shape than the outside. Everything’s clean and tidy. The air smells like fresh-baked cookies.

“Can I get you two something to drink,” Mrs. Martin asks. “I made some cookies. Chocolate chip.”

Lila’s stomach rumbles followed closely by mine and I realize that we never stopped to eat lunch.

“They smell wonderful,” Lila says. “I’d love some cookies and milk if you have it.”

“That actually sounds amazing,” I tell her. “I’d love some too. Thank you, Mrs. Martin.”

She laughs. “You sound like my kids. Please have a seat and call me Debbie.” She waves toward the living room sofa. “I’ll be right back.”

Lila sits on the couch, but I roam the room, getting a feel for how the Martins lived. There’s a neat little row of photographs on the mantel. Family vacation pictures from before Martin disappeared, I’d guess, since he’s in them. There are two children—a boy and a girl. The four of them pose together in one frame. Another is of Mr. and Mrs. Martin alone, their arms around each other. This was clearly a happy family. Not the kind of family a man willingly leaves.

My mind circles back to the conversation I had with Cora and Lila about what might have happened to Martin. He’s either dead or in some other way unable to return to his life. I hope we find him for a whole set of new reasons. One of which is approaching us now.

Mrs. Martin—Debbie—returns with a tray filled with a plate of cookies and three glasses of milk. She sets it on the coffee table. I take a seat next to Lila in time to be handed a napkin and a small plate. Debbie sits in a chair to my left.

“Thank you,” I say. “I was just admiring your family photos. That was Yellowstone, wasn’t it?”

She looks wistfully at the mantel. “Yes. We took that trip just before John disappeared.”

“How exactly did he
disappear
?”

Debbie examines a cookie like she’s going to take a bite before laying it back down on the plate in her lap. “He left for work one day and just didn’t come home. I called him in the afternoon, but he didn’t answer. He’d do that if he was with a client or in the courtroom so I didn’t think anything about it. Then when he didn’t come home around the time he usually did I called him a second time. He didn’t answer that call either. I didn’t start to panic until a few hours later when he hadn’t called or returned any of my texts. I knew something was wrong.

“I called the police and filed a missing persons report right away. They found his car parked where he usually parks at work, but no one in the office had seen him come in. Somewhere between the parking lot and the office he vanished. I’m hoping you coming here today means that the police are looking into his disappearance again. Since the trail grew cold it seems like they gave up trying to find him.”

“We’ll do our best,” I tell her. “Had he gotten any unusual phone calls in the days before his disappearance?”

“No. Not that I noticed.”

“Did the police find his cellphone?”

“No. They tried to see if they could catch its signal, but the phone seems to have vanished with John. Don’t you have all of this information from the police?”

“Some, but it doesn’t hurt to go over it again with you. You knew him better than anyone. What was his mood in the days before he went missing? Did there seem to be anything bothering him?”

“No. Not that I noticed. Just the usual stresses.”

“Did he have any visitors or change his schedule in any way?”

“No. Everything was exactly as it always had been until the day he vanished.”

I thought about this next question during the ride to the Martin house and just how I could phrase it to accomplish what we are really here to do. “Did he ever talk to you about any of his cases? Were there any that might have bothered him more than the others?”

“He talked to me about them in general terms. Mostly about his frustrations with a judge or opposing counsel. No specifics about the cases themselves. He believed deeply in the attorney–client privilege and had very high ethical standards for himself and those he worked with. It was one of the things I really loved about him, his devotion to his clients.”

Beside me Lila chokes on her cookie and starts coughing.

I give her a couple of thumps on the back. “Are you okay?”

She nods and takes a sip of milk.

I turn back to Debbie when I’m sure Lila’s all right. “Did he keep a home office?”

“Yes.” She gestures over her shoulder. “Down the hall.”

“Would you mind if we had a look?”

“The police already went through it.”

“There might be something they overlooked in their initial investigation. You never know.”

“I haven’t touched it since…” She gives the hall a troubled look. “I suppose a fresh set of eyes couldn’t hurt.”

I have to put a hand on Lila’s lower leg where Debbie can’t see so she doesn’t bolt up off the couch. “We’ll be respectful of his space. We don’t want to disturb anything, just have a look around.”

Debbie rises without a word and goes down the hall. Lila and I exchange a look in which I try to warn her to have patience and let me continue to lead. She glances up at the ceiling like she’s searching for that patience and then nods in agreement. We follow Debbie to a closed door at the end of the hall.