The Perfect Mother (5 page)

“Paco? Have you been talking to him? Why isn’t he here?”

Emma looked flustered. “No. I haven’t,” she said quickly, “and I don’t know where he is, but he’ll be back when he hears about this and he’ll advise me.”

“Emma, everyone in the country has heard about this. Your dad is a lawyer. And you have one of Spain’s best criminal lawyers. They’ll advise you.”

Emma was through talking. “Yeah. Of course. Anyway, I’m tired; I need to get some sleep.” She took a last sip of wine and started to get up, but Jennifer stopped her.

“In a minute,” she said. “What do you mean that Paco knows about the police? Is he a lawyer?”

Emma laughed contemptuously. “No, he’s not a
lawyer
, Mom.”

“A policeman?”

“No. No. No. None of those things, none of what you and Dad could understand. That’s what I meant. He knows about the police because he’s always avoiding them, and he avoids them because he’s been in jail and he knows how bad the conditions are,” she blurted with a touch of pride, staring at her mother belligerently.

The other shoe had dropped. Jennifer nodded slowly and replied carefully, trying to keep her voice calm. “What has he been in jail for?”

“Nothing. I’m not sure. Probably disturbing the peace. He’s a social activist, so they hate him. He’s brilliant. He comes from this really poor family. His father is Moroccan and his mother is from a little town near Granada.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“At school.” Emma stood up. “Let’s go. I really need to get some sleep if I’m going to have to face Dad in the morning.”

“Face him? He’s coming to help you, Emma.”

“Yeah, I know. Let’s go.” She turned abruptly and Jennifer scrambled to follow.

“I have to pay, Emma. Wait a minute.”

“La cuenta, por favor,” Emma called to the waitress, the last words she spoke that evening.

J
ennifer and Emma were already seated in Raul’s office drinking espresso when Mark arrived. He was carrying the morning edition of the
Diario de Sevilla
, which he had picked up at the airport but, not knowing Spanish, was unable to read. Another photo of Emma covered the front page, this time an informal snapshot probably taken by some friends. She was sitting on the steps at the Triana Bridge surrounded by other laughing students, smiling flirtatiously at the photographer. She looked beautiful, young, and very happy.

Jennifer rose to greet Mark and they embraced warmly. She introduced him to José and they shook hands. Emma hung back a bit, looking a little embarrassed, before she went to him and submitted to his bear hug. When he released her he held her at arm’s length to get a better look.

“Honey, how are you? How are you bearing up?” he asked.

“I’m okay, Dad.” Her voice was controlled, a little distant. “This isn’t the way I meant to show you Seville. I’m sorry.”

“Forget that. Let’s just focus on getting you out of here.”

He turned to the lawyer, dropping the newspaper on his desk. “I see the local papers wasted no time. What does it say?”

“I read it earlier. It’s mostly a request for the Good Samaritan to appear. It recounts Emma’s story about him to the police and repeats numerous offers to reward him if he shows his face. Today the paper promises to cover his legal expenses. On the whole, the incentive is not harmful to our case and, who knows”—he shrugged, closing his eyes momentarily and extending his palms upward—“it may encourage the man to appear.”

“I don’t think so,” Emma said.

“We will see,” José murmured. He offered Mark a seat and some espresso and Mark accepted.

“What worries me is the story inside the paper,” Emma said. “Did you read the piece on the guy who tried to rape me?”

“You mean the murder victim,” José added.

Emma didn’t answer.

“I read it,” he continued. “The reporter has interviewed dozens of fellow students and friends who maintain that this boy was incapable of such aggressive behavior. He was a good student and they claim he was respectful toward women. They can’t believe he would force a woman into her apartment at knifepoint and try to rape her.”

“Well, that’s exactly what he did. So I guess he had them fooled,” Emma shot back. “I mean, what do they expect his friends to say?”

Mark leaned over and put his hand on Emma’s. “Calm down, honey,” he said. He took a sip of his espresso and addressed José. “We need someone to help us do our own investigation—talk to the students the police talked to, and hopefully others who might talk to him but not to the police. Do you know anyone like that?”

José said he did and had thought of approaching him as soon as Jennifer had mentioned her desire to find a private investigator. He was a former policeman with an excellent record and good relations with the department. Mark asked why he had left the force, and José explained that the detective had been divorced and found it hard to maintain two households on a policeman’s salary—he simply made more money on his own. Mark nodded and accepted the business card José offered.

“There’s one more thing,” José said. “The newspaper story claims that there is no record of Rodrigo Pérez—the victim,” he went on, seeing the questioning look on Mark’s face, “ever owning or carrying a knife. No one ever saw one and all who knew him found it inconceivable that he would carry one because he was particularly opposed to the use of deadly weapons to settle disputes. He had studied karate for self-defense but hadn’t advanced.”

He looked at Emma, as did Jennifer and Mark, but her face showed no emotion. She shrugged. “I didn’t know him. All I know is he had a weapon that night.”

Mark turned again to José. “You told Jennifer they found the murder weapon.”

José crossed the room to pour himself another cup of coffee. “They think they have,” he said slowly. He looked uncomfortable. “Frankly, this presents a serious problem for us.”

Mark shifted in his chair. His eyes sought Jennifer’s and they exchanged worried looks. He asked José to explain.

“A knife was found in Emma’s kitchen whose blade matches the wounds in the deceased,” José said, using a formal mode of expression. “Emma told the investigators that the intruder held a knife to her to force entry into her apartment. But it appears that the knife was already there.”

“How do they know it was there?”

“It was part of a set of kitchen knives in graduated sizes.”

“What makes them believe that was the murder weapon?” Emma asked. “I mean, how can they tell that it matches the wounds?”

“The blade is serrated and matches exactly the serrations in the wounds.”

“Were there prints on it?” Mark asked.

“No. The police say it had been wiped clean.”

“‘Wiped clean’ is a supposition. Maybe they were never there,” Mark said. He turned to Emma. “Emma, are you absolutely certain that Rodrigo Pérez had a knife when he forced you inside?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Emma exploded. “How many times do I have to tell everyone that?” She looked tearfully at her father. “Don’t you believe me, Daddy?”

“Please, honey. Of course I believe you. I believe you think he had a knife. But that doesn’t mean he did. During crimes, during terrifying circumstances, witnesses and victims are often guided by their panic. Maybe he pretended to have a knife.”

“I felt it in my back. He pushed it against me.” She put her face in her hands and pressed her eyes.

“Maybe it was his finger or his keys. Maybe he wanted you to think it was a knife. You were scared. Isn’t that possible?”

Emma stopped and thought. “Well, yes, I guess it’s possible,” she said in a small voice.

Jennifer let her breath out. She looked gratefully at Mark. How relieved she was that he was here. Mark looked at José and both men nodded.

“But then how did the Samaritan get the knife?” José asked.

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “I’m pretty sure that the Spanish kid pulled it out first. The guy who helped me fought him, and at the last minute he grabbed it from him. I was screaming for them to stop, but the Spanish kid kept coming at him and the Algerian fended him off with the knife. I think the Spanish kid tried to take it back and got stabbed accidentally; I’m not sure—but it was definitely self-defense.” Emma had worked herself up to a frenzy, and now, turning toward her father, she burst into tears. “I can’t think about it anymore, Daddy. I keep dreaming about it and seeing the blood. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Please.”

“Let’s stop for today,” José said as Mark put his arm around Emma. Jennifer got up to embrace her, but she curled tighter into her father’s arms. Jennifer watched Mark comfort Emma, relieved that Emma accepted it and sad that she had rejected comfort from her. Emma had been so close to her just a few months ago, she thought again; the thought kept recurring and tormenting her. She knew that Emma had admired her. She remembered how, when she was young, Emma used to want to model herself after her. Jennifer had been her prototype of the perfect woman. She thought of all those birthday and Mother’s Day cards addressed to “The Most Wonderful Mother in the World.” As a young teenager, when Emma happened to see Jennifer change shirts and noticed the softness and slight droop of her breasts, Emma had worried. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” she had asked. “I mean, mine just stick straight out.” Jennifer had looked at her daughter’s young firm breasts and smiled to think how beautiful they were. She told her that, of course, but secretly felt touched at Emma’s innocence and flattered by her adulation.

Well, those days were certainly over, and she told herself that was as it should be. But why had it changed to this? It seemed so unfair. All those years of coddling and sacrifice and making excuses for Daddy, who wasn’t always home or at every event. She’d consciously built him up so the kids would appreciate him even if he had left most of the parenting to her, immersed in his work and his golf and his world outside the home. And now he was the one she turned to. And not her. Not her. She reprimanded herself severely for being so petty, for allowing herself to feel this hurt and, she had to admit, anger, when the important thing was to get Emma home and comfort her in whatever way worked.

As they gathered their personal belongings and got ready to leave, Mark pulled José aside. “Did they question her about the knife yet?”

“Yes. Last night.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she bought that knife set here in Sevilla and there must be people all over town who have similar ones.”

Mark nodded and shook José’s hand, thanking him for his help.

They went straight to the Alfonso XIII and booked another room. Emma went to what was now her own room to rest, and Jennifer and Mark checked in to the new room together.

“Well, what do you think?” Jennifer asked as soon as the door closed behind them.

“I don’t know. I’m worried. This knife business is not good.”

“Anyone could have had a knife just like it. And the Spanish kid could have had it in his pocket and used it to get entry, just as Emma said. Especially if his friends say he would never carry a knife—then if he had one it would more likely be a kitchen knife than a switchblade, for example.”

“But why would a nice kid who’s a good student suddenly decide to put a kitchen knife in his pocket and rape another student? It doesn’t make sense.”

Jennifer had been pouring a drink from the bar, but now she put down the bottle and whirled around. Her voice was sharp. “What do you mean? You believe Emma, don’t you?”

“I didn’t say I don’t believe her. I’m trying to think like a jury. Or a policeman.”

“I don’t know why. Obviously we don’t know everything about this Spanish kid. We need to call our own investigator and not rely on the police.”

Mark fished around in his pocket for the card José had given him. “Do you want to call him, or should I?”

“How long will you be here?” Jennifer asked.

“Just a few days. I have to get back to this case. Jerry can handle it for now, but I’ll need to be there when it goes to court.”

“Well, then, I guess I’d better be the one to call, since I’ll clearly be the one to deal with him,” she said coldly. “You’d better tell Emma.”

“Jen, you know I have to finish this case. It’s not my choice. Even if Emma doesn’t understand that, I’d have thought you would.”

She looked down. Her eyes filled with tears she had a hard time holding back. Her emotional state had been unbearably volatile since she’d arrived. She rubbed her eyes hard, and when she looked up they were red and moist.

“I do understand. I’m sorry. I just feel so worried,” she said. “And so alone.” She stopped fighting and let the tears come, sobbing as he took her in his arms.

She let herself be comforted, but she held on to a residual sense of anxiety, a gnawing feeling in her solar plexus. This was caused, she knew, by the horror of Emma’s plight and worry about what the future would hold. But it was also something more, something she didn’t expect: her own scary, vague sense of loss.

She looked at the card. “Roberto Ortiz,” she read. “Investigationes Privadas.” She reached for the phone.

R
oberto Ortiz was nothing like Jennifer had expected. She had formed her image of private detectives from stories and films, especially her favorites, which dated from the middle years of the twentieth century: Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade, Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer, and Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe. They were tough, straight-talking men who could sniff out deception like bloodhounds and didn’t waste words.

But Roberto Ortiz didn’t fit that mold. His face was almost feminine in its beauty—more Johnny Depp than Humphrey Bogart—and he was elegant in his dress and manners. He was soft-spoken and polite and seemed acutely sensitive to Jennifer’s concerns. On top of that, he was a painter—a very good one, judging from a striking abstract work that hung in his waiting room with his signature on it.

She met him in his office a few days after Mark returned to the States. The upscale Avenida de la Constitución was not far from town hall. A perfect view of the Giralda was complemented by beautifully appointed, sleek modern furniture and a few Spanish and French antiques carefully placed by someone with a defined, spare aesthetic. It was late in the afternoon and he offered her coffee. She said she’d appreciate a Scotch, if he had one, and he opened an inlaid teak cabinet to reveal a well-stocked bar. He poured the Scotch into a leaded crystal glass and looked inquiringly at her. “Ice, please,” she said, “and a little water.” Taking a cup of coffee for himself, he sat down at his desk and gestured for her to sit opposite him.

“And now,” he said in only slightly accented English, “perhaps you will tell me how I can help you, senora.”

She told him. When she said she hoped he would reinterview the sources the police had contacted and find ones they hadn’t, he nodded. “Of course, senora
.
That is what I do,” he said. “I think you were wise to come to me. I will be able to help you in many ways. Do you speak Spanish?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I speak some French.”

“Yes, that would perhaps be more helpful in Paris.” He smiled, but she didn’t smile back. He looked at her with apparent sympathy. “I understand how difficult this is for you, a mother whose daughter is charged with a terrible crime in a strange country, unable to communicate or even understand much of what is happening.”

Jennifer was surprised at the direction he was taking. “I’m okay,” she said, with a short, slightly embarrassed laugh. “I’m managing. And, you know, this isn’t about me. It’s about her. And, by the way, she hasn’t been charged.”

He got up to refill his coffee cup. “Ah, yes, senora. But I think she will be. And you must be ready for it.”

Jennifer started to object, but he cut her off and spoke with quiet authority. “Let me be precise. I speak of you and your emotions because if I take this case, I will need them to be very controlled. From everything you’ve told me and from what I’ve read in the papers, this isn’t going to go away quickly. You will need to be strong and you will need to do everything I tell you if we are to have success in helping your daughter.”

She frowned. “I’m confused,” she said. “I thought you were a private detective. Now you are sounding more like a lawyer.”

He smiled. “Sí, comprendo. You have seen
The Maltese Falcon
, correct? An old film but a great one. And perhaps too you have seen
Columbo
on American television. I like very much this Columbo. I have known detectives like him.”

Jennifer waited for him to continue. Her frown deepened.

“But I am different, senora. Think of me more as a case manager. I work with the lawyer—José, in this case, and if I may say so, he is a very good choice—and we investigate, we do many investigations, but we also build a narrative that is plausible and different from the story the police will assemble. I will not promise to find this Algerian for you—to be frank, I doubt he exists—and I will not promise to find the real murderer. But if you do everything I tell you to, I will do my best to free your daughter—although for all I know she may in fact be guilty.”

At this, Jennifer stiffened. “Of course she’s not guilty. I believe her completely. She says the Algerian was there, so he was there, I assure you. You don’t know her, but when you meet her you will see for yourself. You must see. How can you help to free her if you don’t believe in her?”

“I don’t believe things that are not proven, senora. If belief is what you seek, you must find a priest. There are many of them in Spain.”

Jennifer was silent. For the first time, she felt a slight easing of the fear that had gripped her from the moment Emma had called. This man seemed to know what to do, and he seemed fearless.

“You said, ‘If I take the case.’ Is there a problem?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“What do we do now?” she asked.

He smiled and walked to his filing cabinet, from which he withdrew a bound printed document containing several pages. He handed it to Jennifer.

“This is an employment contract,” he said. “It is in Spanish, but I have included an English translation for you. You and your husband should read it. My terms are clearly stated. To begin, as a goodwill gesture, I ask for my first payment of five thousand euros in advance. This goes toward both salary and my expenses, which I will enumerate and give you weekly. After these formalities are concluded, I will begin.”

Jennifer started to read.

“Excuse me, senora,” Roberto said.

She looked up.

“I apologize, but I have another appointment. Would you please read this later and discuss it with your husband?”

She folded the papers and put them in her bag. “Yes, of course. But I would like you to start right away and my husband is not here. I will read the papers, and if we go forward, I will sign myself.”

“As you like . . . May I ask why your husband is not here?”

She was about to answer when he added, “I have a little girl. If she was in trouble, I would be there with her.” He spoke sadly, with quiet sincerity.

Jennifer bristled with the outrage one feels when someone says something one has thought but tried to stifle. “I’m sure you would try to be with her, as he has,” she said in a cold tone. “Perhaps you think we are rich Americans. We are not. We are not poor, but we are not independently wealthy. My husband has to work to pay all these bills, including yours. And we have two other children who need at least one of us at home. I don’t think it’s right to find fault with him.”

Roberto was contrite. “You are right, senora. I meant no harm. I apologize. I misspoke because of my own sadness.” He waited for her to politely inquire what that was, but she was silent.

“I am divorced,” he said finally. “My child lives with my former wife in another city. I find the separation very painful.”

She resisted her natural impulse for compassion. She didn’t want to swerve from her main concern. This man offered some hope, yet his manner was both peremptory and surprisingly intimate and, she thought, inappropriate. She put this down to cultural differences, but she was determined to stay strictly on an American business-only basis. “I’m sure it is,” she murmured. Then she gathered her belongings, said good-bye, and told him she would be in touch very soon.

Jennifer went straight to the hotel to tell Emma that she had found someone who seemed like he could help them. She took the elevator to the third floor and knocked on the door of the room they had reverted to sharing after Mark left. Emma had been sleeping a lot lately, or just hanging around in her pajamas—signs, Jennifer knew, of depression. Not that Jennifer blamed her, under the circumstances. Still . . . She used her key to let herself in, calling Emma’s name as she entered. There was no sign of her daughter but rumpled sheets and some of her clothes flung around the room. At least Emma was awake, Jennifer thought, and was probably out getting a bite to eat. It would have been nice if she’d left a note, though.

She sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs. She had pulled out the contract, turned to the English translation, and started to read when she noticed that the hotel phone was flashing. The message was from José. He had bad news. The pathology report was completed. The investigators had determined that the victim’s wounds could not possibly have been made by a person who fit the description Emma had given the police. They were pressing forward with the theory that Emma had invented the story of the Good Samaritan, that there was no Algerian. Along with the knife found in her kitchen, they felt they had enough to hold her. Jennifer took a deep breath and called José. He answered on the first ring.

“I got your message,” she blurted as soon as she heard his voice. “But it doesn’t make sense. It’s all circumstantial. Maybe her description was wrong. She was traumatized; she can’t be expected to have an accurate memory of what he looked like.”

“We can argue that point in court, if necessary. But they have enough to suspect she is withholding evidence. They believe she knows more than she says. . . .” He paused, then continued quietly, “And there is another problem. The boy’s parents have arrived from Madrid. In Spain, even if the police don’t think they have enough evidence to press charges against a suspect, they must hold her and continue to investigate if the victim’s family makes an accusation. Emma has already been picked up and is at the police station.”

“Where are you?”

“I am with her. She is very upset. You should come quickly. And one more thing—the reporter for the
Diario
is here. Whatever she asks, don’t answer.”

Jennifer headed for the door but then stopped. She rummaged through her bag until she found Roberto’s card and quickly dialed his number. “Habla Roberto,” his recorded voice sounded. “Digame lo que quiera.”

“Roberto, this is Mrs. Lewis. I haven’t read your terms, but I agree to whatever they are. My daughter is in jail at the police station. I don’t know what to do. Please, can you come?”

He picked up the phone. “I will meet you there, senora.”