Snapshot (21 page)

“But—are you going to make me go home?”

“Honey, you're only eleven.”

“My dad's getting old. He could die. He must be fifty, my mom says.”

With a life expectancy that diminished with each photo in the international press.

Paolina said, “I can't wait much longer. I need to meet him is all. To see what he looks like. If he looks like me. Can't you understand?”

I was tempted to get on a plane with her. Forget about Emily Woodrow and Tina Sukhia. Go to South America. Find the delinquent father. Get it the hell over with.

I didn't relish the thought of being arrested for kidnapping in Miami. Bad class of people in the jails down there, I hear.

“Oh, honey,” I said softly. “I'm so sorry.”

“You won't let me go?”

“Can't.”

Tears filled her eyes and welled over. I held her until the sobs turned to sniffles. We used up more toilet paper blowing her nose and wiping her eyes.

“Well, if I'm not going to die,” she announced solemnly, “maybe I could wait just a little longer. I'm really, really tired.”

“Come home with me?”

“But I'm so messy.” Her voice started to shake again. “I'm such a mess.”

“I can fix that,” I said, patting her shoulder, squeezing her hard.

We found other clothes in the battered gray carryon that she'd shoved to the side of the stall—underpants, dark slacks. She seemed to have packed half clothes, half stuffed animals, all in a jumble. I rinsed her tan slacks and bloody underwear in icy water and stuck them in a plastic bag she'd used to hold a pair of sneakers.

“You look great,” I said, after she'd patted her swollen eyes with a soaking paper towel. She was taking big deep breaths, trying to accept that she wouldn't die in the airport ladies' room after all.

My little sister.

“Ready?” I asked.

“Ready.”

Holding hands, we went out of the bathroom.

24

I could hear far-off shouting as soon as I opened the door, coming from the direction of the ticket counter. I thought I recognized Sam's voice.

I tugged at Paolina's arm.

“I can't run,” she moaned. “I can't. My stomach hurts.”

A six-foot-long black vinyl bench stretched along one wall of the corridor.

“Sit right here and don't move,” I said. “I'll be back for you in five minutes. Don't move, Paolina. Promise me.”

“Come soon.”

I was already twenty yards down the hall, running toward the commotion.

I saw Roz first. Flanked by two much-taller men, ringed by curious onlookers, she stood out because everyone else seemed to be staring at her, either mesmerized by the green-white hair and partially shaved skull or taken with her black leather shorts and metal-studded T-shirt.

The heavyset man was the same one I'd seen walking with Paolina.

“Leave her alone.” That was Sam. His voice was low, but its menace carried.

The two of them, Sam and Roz, were herding Sanchez in my direction. If they kept him backing up, he'd bump smack into me.

I swiveled and searched for uniforms—airport security or Boston police. I saw neither, just some gold-braided flight attendants. One was speaking urgently and softly into a red phone.

Security would be on its way.

I couldn't wait for Roz and Sam to push Sanchez closer. I sped toward him. “Forget about going anywhere with Paolina,” I said firmly. My voice turned him around. If I'd had a gun, I would have aimed it, kept him immobile until the cops arrived. Maybe done something worse.

That's one of the reasons I don't usually carry.

“Do you own a gun?” Emily Woodrow had asked
.

“Can you use it?”

“Have you used it?”

“Would you do it again?”

Use it for what, Emily? Couldn't you have told me that before you disappeared?

The defiant grin on Sanchez's face altered when he saw me. Two to one, he'd seemed almost comfortable with. Three made him sweat. “What the fuck you talking about? Get the hell out of my way.”

He lowered his head and tried to charge past me, but Paolina was down that corridor and I wasn't planning to let him get a single step closer to her. I faked to the left, let him pass me on the right, did a fast reverse, and dived for his ankles. Damn, damn, damn. It stings so much less when I wear my volleyball kneepads and fling myself across a wooden gym floor. I cursed while I brought him down, and hoped it hurt him more than it did me.

He was quick, up in an instant, sprinting the other way, toward an automatic exit door, past a suddenly frozen Roz and a Sam who'd gallantly stopped to help me.

“Get him,” I yelled, standing and rubbing one aching knee before scurrying back to Paolina. I could have joined in the chase, but I figured she'd be worried, all alone.

Besides, I didn't think they'd catch him. Too many places to run, too many places to hide. Roz is a good karate student; a sprinter, she's not. Sam's big, but slow, and once outside the terminal building, Sanchez's dark pants and shirt would ease him into the shadows.

So I wasn't surprised when the two of them came back, Sam empty-handed; Roz shaking her oddly coiffed head and clutching a flat manila envelope.

Both greeted Paolina, who was practically asleep, her relief converted to exhaustion, her head lolling against my shoulder.

“You can pick that creep up again, can't you Roz?” I asked quietly.

“Sure, but he's no creep,” she said.

Never trust Roz's judgment, that's one thing I've learned.

“Surprise!” she went on. “The creep's a PI, same as you.”

“You're kidding,” I said after a pause.

“Hey, like, I tailed him all day. The maggot works for Griffith. You know, old Carl Griffith, that slime in the Pru Center?”

I admit that Carl Griffith, an ex-cop with a colorful reputation, has never struck me as a stand-up prince on the few occasions we've met, but—“I don't understand this,” I muttered.

Sam said, “Hey, how are you, Paolina? Long time. You sure have grown.”

She kept on staring at the floor, but a faint, pleased smile spread over her face.

“What's in the envelope?” I asked Roz.

“Jerk dropped it.”

“On purpose?”

“I don't think so. It was early on. See, I didn't know he knew I was tailing him. I thought I did a hell of a job, by the way, him being a pro, and not knowing I'd tracked him all over town. Lemon's van—”

“That jerk is nothing more than a semipro at best. I tailed him to the Pru and he never—for Chrisake,” I said, “look at this.”

Inside the envelope was a passport. A single navy-blue U.S. passport, for one Maria Elena Vargas, age 13. The photo was of Paolina.

There it was. Proof that Paco Sanchez had planned to help Paolina leave the country. Had he also intended to accompany her? And why?

“Honey,” I said, nudging her awake. “You know anything about this?”

“No,” she said.

“You had to pose for the picture.”

“I remember when Paco took it. See, that's the wall over by the school, next to the playground.”

“Here,” I said, pointing to Maria Elena's signature, scrawled across the photograph. “Did you sign that?”

“No. Honest. What's wrong?”

“Good. Nothing. Listen.” I motioned Sam to sit next to Paolina while I pulled Roz aside. “Roz, go back to Sanchez's home address. Pick him up and stick to him. Use Lemon. I'll even pay him. Follow this guy everywhere.”

“But he's seen me.”

“Wear glasses,” I said. “Get a wig. Change into something conservative. I want to know who he sees, what he does. If he goes near a train station, a bus depot, an airport, stop him.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said sarcastically. “How?”

“Use your charm,” I suggested. “If that fails, try a karate kick.”

25

Paolina dozed in the car and so was spared the additional embarrassment of a stop at a Store 24 where the register was operated by a teenage boy who blushed at the sight of a box of maxi pads.

I placed them on the bedside table in the guest room. She didn't wake, just moaned softly when Sam carried her up the stairs. I decided to let her sleep in her clothes.

After ten minutes of telephone sparring, I managed to convince Marta that Paolina would hardly come to grief in a single night spent under my roof.

“I'm surprised Paolina didn't know,” Sam said, when I explained. “Street-smart kid like her.”

“Street-smart, right. Means she's heard the jokes, not the facts. She gets her period and panics, so she goes to church. Period ends; prayer works. When it starts up again, she figures she's gonna die any minute. Goddamn Marta.”

“Marta's mom probably never enlightened her either,” Sam offered.

“You defending her?”

“Not if it pisses you off.”

I smiled grudgingly. “It doesn't.” I put my arms around him and nestled my face into his neck. “Thanks for coming along.”

“Will it piss you off further if I go now? I've got a major meeting tomorrow, and I could use a couple hours of sleep.”

I'd have liked him to stay, but after a few hard hugs and a little body massage—just enough to get me started—he went home.

Morning came quickly, a raw gray morning more like February than April. Paolina breathed quietly, the blankets wildly scattered, as if she'd attacked them in the night. An untidy sleeper, she sprawled across three quarters of the big bed, arms outflung, as if she needed to occupy all available space.

I hesitated, hating to wake her. But I couldn't stick around. I had a nine-thirty, don't-be-late appointment with Harold Woodrow. Maybe I'd leave a note on the kitchen table, along with breakfast. She looked so happy asleep, so unconcerned and childlike.

Downstairs, the mail carrier had littered the foyer with Stop & Shop coupons and ads. No blue envelopes. Nothing from Emily Woodrow. The message counter on the answering machine stood at zero. Roz hadn't called in.

Just as well I had a date with Woodrow. I'd have to stay out most of the day to keep a step ahead of Mooney. Once he discovered the relationship between Emily and Tina … well, maybe I could put the threat to good use. Cooperate, I'd order Harold Woodrow, or I talk to the police.

After Woodrow, I'd try to track down Savannah, Dr. Muir's gorgeous second-string receptionist. Approached the right way, she might tell me a lot about the day three patients died.

If I were a more domestic soul, I could have left a nice platter of homemade waffles for Paolina, on one of those warming trays, along with a glass of freshly squeezed juice. As it was, with Roz responsible for stocking my shelves, there was nothing to eat.

I opened the freezer in hopes of a frozen bagel, stared at glacier formations, and wondered if Roz would ever defrost it short of an engraved invitation. I found sixteen cans of peaches at the back of a cupboard; she must have hit a sale. Also a suspiciously large number of cans of jellied cranberry logs. Maybe she was planning to use them for hair dye. Or finger paint.

I wound up eating peanut butter straight from the jar, a trick I've picked up from watching Roz too often. About all she eats is peanut butter; she uses her finger for a scoop, as part of her continuing effort to avoid washing dishes or silverware. I'm proud to say I used a spoon. A can opener is the only kitchen utensil Roz ever needs.

The phone shrilled, and I figured it must be her, reporting from surveillance. I'd have her come in and take Paolina out to breakfast at the IHOP. Lemon ought to be able to cover Paco Sanchez for a couple of hours.

The phone blared twice before I caught it.

“Hello,” I said.

Nothing.

“Hello?” I thought I could hear faint breathing on the other end.

“Roz?” I said, breaking the first commandment of answering the phone to possible dial freaks: Never give them a name to use. I heard more breathy noises and a distant grunt, then banged the receiver down.

Since I already had my hand on the phone, I called Donovan. If Emily had been in touch with him, I wouldn't have to tackle Woodrow.

The psychiatrist picked up after I'd started my standard answering machine spiel. I hate that. What am I supposed to do, feel grateful that, after careful screening, somebody's decided to accept my call?

“Heard from Emily Woodrow?” I asked.

“Who is this?” He sounded angry.

“Carlotta. Your friendly investigator down the street, remember?”

“Sorry about the machine. I keep getting hang-up calls. That's why I—”

“I got one, too. Just a minute ago.”

“They're out there,” he said. “The weirdo patrol. And no, I haven't heard from Emily, and I'm pretty worried about it.”

I'd have to threaten Harold after all. “You get Rebecca Woodrow's medical records yet?”

“No. And hello, good morning, how are you?”

“Busy.”

“Me, too. That's why I haven't picked them up.”

“Good.”

His voice took on an edge. “Now you don't need them? I went through a lot—”

“I do need them. And more. I need the records of two other patients who died the same day as Rebecca.”

“How am I supposed to—”

“You're the doctor. Use your imagination. Snow the clerks at the medical records office. Wave your M.D. in front of them.”

“Who are these other people?”

“I don't have names.”

“You don't have names?”

“Stop repeating me. Three patients died under Tina Sukhia's care that day.”

He took his time responding, and when he did, he spoke in measured flat tones. “At a smaller hospital, like JHHI, that would be unusual.”

“Find me three deaths on the same day—I assume from complications of acute lymphoblastic leukemia, certificates signed by the same doctor—”