Stealing Phin (19 page)

“What about the Argentinian?” I insisted again. “Are you going to look for him? He’s the one who should be in jail for drugging me.”

The detective snickered, just as he did the first time I’d told him about Marco.

“What’s so funny?” My voice cracked with fury. “You think this is
funny
?”

The detective looked contrite. “No, it is not funny. Not at all.”

“So then you’re going to look for that creep, right? Before he goes to another club tonight with his bag of roofies looking for a new girl to molest?”

“Amiga,” he said as he tapped the ash off the end of his cigar into his empty Styrofoam cup, “the drug you were given was very powerful. It is common for people to imagine things when they are high on it.”

“Why do people keep telling me this!” I threw my hands into the air with exasperation. “I
wasn’t
imagining things. I
wasn’t
hallucinating. The Argentinian’s name is Marco. I can describe how he looks. Don’t you have one of those sketch artists here?”

“Si, but—”

“No but’s!” my voice rose as I pounded a fist on the table. “Bring the sketch artist in here, and I’ll show you what this guy looks like. I’m not going to let you convict a guy for doing something he’s innocent of!”

Another officer came in. He and the detective exchanged some words in Spanish.

I waited impatiently for them to finish, wanting to tell them that it was rude to speak in foreign languages when there were English-only speakers in the room. I glanced at my reflection in the big mirror on the wall behind the detective. Above me, the fluorescent light buzzed and cast a greenish tint onto my skin. I looked pale and sickly. My hair was a mess and my eyes had a slightly crazed look in them. I wondered if there were other officers standing behind it, watching and laughing at the crazy American girl rant about imaginary Argentinians.

After the officer left, I tried again. “If you’re not going to go after the Argentinian, then find Carlito. He knows his cousin was there that night.”

“Yes, we have been looking for this Carlito.” The detective took a long draw from his cigar. “The officer just came in to tell me he could not be found.”

“Did you ask Estevan? Call the tour company he works for— Desafío. Somebody’s gotta know where he is.”

“Unfortunately, chica, in a country that is covered forty-seven percent by rainforest, it is not hard for someone who does not want to be found to disappear. We will not waste our resources looking for a person to vouch for the existence of a man—this so-called Argentinian—we have no reason to question.”

“Besides the fact that he drugged me?”

“By
reason
, I mean
evidence
.”

“My testimony isn’t evidence enough?”

“I am going to be honest with you.” He put out his cigar. “The testimony of victims who have been drugged is unreliable, at best. So, no, it is not enough. I am sorry.” He gathered his pen and the sheet of paper he barely wrote anything on and rose from his chair. “Thank you for coming in. You have been through so much. You should go back to your hotel and rest.”

At the door, he turned around. “I am very sorry this happened to you while you were in my country. But it gives me a little comfort knowing we caught the man who committed this crime against you.”

After the door shut behind him, I sat in disbelief. Could this really be happening? I was starting to understand how the insane must feel. I knew the truth, but no one else would believe it.

Dez and Estevan entered the room.

“How’d it go?” Dez asked.

“Not well,” I said dejectedly.

“Shit, they’re not going to let him go, are they?”

“No. They think he’s guilty.”

“Oh, good.” Dez breathed a sigh of relief. “Then as far as I’m concerned, it sounds like everything went pretty fucking well.”

Ignoring her comment, I turned to Estevan. “Where’s Carlito?” If no one else believed the truth, then it was up to me to keep trying,

“Not this again, Phin!” Dez wailed.

“I came down here for you, Dez. I didn’t want any part of this investigation. But I answered all their questions truthfully. And not only did I have to relive the entire humiliating experience at the club last night, but I had to sit here and be pitied and laughed at. I think I deserve to ask a few questions of my own.”

Dez opened her mouth to say something, but instead she pursed her lips and stepped back by the door.

“Where is Carlito?” I asked Estevan again.

He shook his head apologetically. “I have not seen him since the Aqua Disco. He will not answer his phone. I’ve tried to call him a hundred times.”

“What about this cousin of his? Marco from Argentina.” My steady tone belied my appearance as I questioned him.

“Carlito never spoke of such a cousin. And I know his family very well.”

“So even if we find Carlito, he might not be able to help us find the Argentinian?” I despaired. “I don’t get it. If they’re not cousins, then how did Marco know who Carlito is?”

“Everybody knows Carlito around here,” Estevan said. “Even if Carlito doesn’t know them.”

I grew frustrated. This was going nowhere. Unless we found Carlito and got some answers out of him, Byron would stay in jail for Marco’s crime. That might suit Dez just fine, but I wasn’t okay with it. I didn’t know why he took those photos of me, and I sure as hell didn’t know what he planned on doing with them. All I knew was since the moment I met him, he’d occupied a corner of my mind as well. More than just a corner. Although I didn’t have photographic evidence, the fact remained that he was just as much
my
obsession as I was
his
.

My shoulders slumped helplessly. I didn’t know what else to do.

Dez came over and gave me a squeeze. “Come on, Phinny. Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

After we left the policía station, I was in a bad state. As the distance between me and Byron grew, I became increasingly frantic. I’d kept insisting we go look for Carlito. No matter how many times Dez and Estevan said it’d be impossible to find him, I repeated the demand over and over again like a skipping CD…or a woman gone mad.

When I’d realized that maybe they were right, I’d insisted on going to the Embassy to get Byron a lawyer. Dez had finally caved and driven me there. But after hours of talking to officials who listened unsympathetically, all they could offer me in the end was, “We’ll look into it.” For the rest of the day, I’d wondered and fretted over whether they’d written me off as a ranting lunatic who’d had one too many hits of jungle weed during her vacation.

Later that night, Dez had given me a couple of her valium pills to calm me down. Still, my sleep was fitful. I kept waking up in a cold sweat. Images of the Argentinian, Carlito, and Byron haunted my dreams and lingered during those moments in between wakefulness and sleep when the mind is vulnerable to its darker segments. The segments that keep hold of your secrets, your fears, your regrets—the stuff of nightmares.

At one point, I dreamed I was in the prison searching for Byron. One by one, I looked in every jail cell. They were all empty. At the last empty cell, I knelt in front of it and sobbed. Suddenly, I realized I was on the other side of the bars—
inside
the prison cell. I yelled and screamed for someone to let me free, but no one came. On the bed lay the picture of the lovely orchid I’d seen on Byron’s laptop. I held the photo, but as I stared at it, the flower began to fade. Its white and pink petals turned brown and wilted before falling victim to the wind.

A moment later, the photo was blank. I woke up crying.

The next day, I was sitting on a beach. The sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky directly overhead. I looked out over the water. The sunlight reflected off the Pacific, making it look like a sea full of jewels. It was a pristine day. It was also our last full day in Costa Rica. Tomorrow morning, Dez and I would get on a plane and fly away from this forsaken place. This place where people fall in love.

It was true. I had come to Costa Rica and fallen in love. The irony was that I’d arrived with a broken heart, and I was leaving with one just the same. Except now it wasn’t just my heart that was broken. All of me felt irrevocably shattered.

I heard a giggly shriek. Estevan was teaching Dez to surf. The lesson wasn’t going very well because Dez wasn’t taking it seriously. The two of them laughed and played in the water. Dez splashed water at Estevan, and then screamed with delight when he started swimming towards her to exact revenge. She let him catch her, and they kissed. I smiled. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. I’d never seen Dez this happy with a guy. Or with the same guy for this long. It looked like the Costa Rican love curse had struck my friend as well, and I was so happy for her.

As my two cohorts in love began to do things that were sure to frighten away any sea creatures swimming in the vicinity, I looked away to give them privacy…and to hide my tears. I reached for the sunglasses I’d propped on my head and lowered them over my eyes.

“Un collar bonito para una chica bonita?” a voice said.

Startled, I looked to my left to see an old man with white hair and kind, wrinkly eyes. He carried a portable rack strung with colorful beaded necklaces.

I quickly swiped at my tears. “They are very beautiful. But no thank you, señor.”

He tilted his head and frowned. “You are sad, señorita. But why? When it is a perfect day?”

I sniffed and tried to smile but failed. The pity in the man’s eyes triggered another sob in me. I looked away, back to Dez and Estevan, who were standing in waist-deep water. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, and his around her waist. Their faces were close, their foreheads touching, as they whispered things to each other that I didn’t need to hear to understand. The smiles that played on their lips, the kisses they stole even while the other person was talking, the sheer joy that lit their body language with a lightness–said it all. These were the signs of a budding love.

“You’re right,” I said. “It is a perfect day.”

The man unhooked a string of beads from his rack and handed it to me. I held my hands up and shook my head. “I don’t have any money on me.”

“It is a gift.” He smiled kindly. “These beads are carved from the Caro Caro tree. It is a special tree. Said to lift pain and bring balance to your spirit.” He bent down and gently put the necklace over my head. He pointed to where the deep burgundy colored beads rested over my heart. “They will give you
claridad
, amiga.”

“Clarity,” I repeated. “Si, I could use some of that. Gracias,” I whispered. Tears fell down my face, dripping off my chin and onto my chest, where they slid down until they touched the beads.

“Con mucho gusto.” The man nodded and continued his way down the beach.

An hour later, the tide had settled. Estevan and Dez were sitting with me, happily making plans for our last night in Costa Rica, and I listened with a smile pasted on my face, nodding when appropriate. After causing Dez so much worry with my disappearance from the club, I was determined to make sure the rest of our time here was positive and drama-free. Although, I put on a halfway decent act, my mind was always on Byron.

“You two should go out and have fun together tonight,” I insisted, unsure that I would be able to keep up a front for an entire evening. Plus, as much as I loved what Dez and Estevan had, I didn’t particularly feel like being a third wheel tonight. “I might just eat at the resort and crash early.”

“No way,” Dez set her jaw. “I am not going to let you out of my sight of the rest of this trip. You’ll try to take the rental car again to look for Carlito or drive back to the Embassy. Not gonna happen.”

Estevan stood up from his beach chair and rubbed Dez’s shoulders. “She is right, Phin. It is no good for you to be alone.” Suddenly, he looked past my shoulder. “No, gracias, señor. No queremos comprar nada.”

“I am not here to sell my wares.”

I recognized the voice before I turned my head to see who Estevan addressed. It was the bead peddler. He looked at me and smiled again.

“Hola again, amiga. I have another gift for you.” From his satchel, he withdrew something and held it out to me. It was a red rose and a note.

“Who is it from?” Dez asked.

My hands shook as I opened the note because I already knew the answer. The message, in handwriting I knew well, said:

Meet
me
at
Soda
Viquez
for
dinner
tonight.
7
o’clock.
Love,
Douglas.

“You’re not going,” Dez threw her beach bag and towel onto her bed. Her one-woman intervention had made the walk from the beach to the resort a long one. “And that’s final.”

“I have to go.” I heard the words come out of my mouth for the hundredth time since the bead peddler delivered the message from Douglas, but I didn’t understand the reason behind them myself.