The Vanishing (21 page)

‘‘It is!’’ Lateeka said, reading her face.

‘‘Oh my God,’’ Donna repeated. ‘‘You must have made some impression on him.’’

Carrie sat down, stunned. ‘‘I don’t see how. I talked to him for a little while, thanked him like Alex told me to, but . . .’’ Her voice trailed away. Already she was remembering their conversation and the way they’d instantly hit it off. But he was married, wasn’t he? The man couldn’t be hitting on her. Not this publicly. This had to be legitimate, business-related.

But then why the flowers?

‘‘Well?’’ Lateeka asked. ‘‘Are you going to call him?’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’

‘‘That’s a ‘yes,’ ’’ Donna said.

‘‘I . . . don’t . . . know,’’ she repeated more forcefully.

Sanchez poked his head out of his office. ‘‘Ladies?’’ he said. ‘‘Don’t we have some work to do around here?’’ He nodded at the huge display of flowers. ‘‘And let’s find a more convenient place for those.’’

Carrie picked up the vase, looking around for a spot in the office where she could store them until it was time to go home. The other three grudgingly returned to their desks, but not before Donna tapped her on the shoulder. ‘‘It’s the best way to meet people,’’ she said sincerely.

‘‘Through work. That’s how I met my husband.’’ She glanced around, to make sure Sanchez wasn’t in view. ‘‘Call him.’’

As it happened, he called her. She was out on a case at the time—interviewing a seventeen-year-old girl who’d been pretending to be the mother of her ten-year-old sister so the two of them would not be split up and sent to foster homes after their parents had abandoned them—but she got his voice mail when she returned. The tone was light, casual, but the fact that he had called at all meant that he was serious about getting together. He was an important man, a busy man, and if he had taken time out of his day to contact her—
twice!
—then obviously he really wanted to meet with her.

For the next half hour, she tried to write her report on the abandoned sisters, but her gaze kept straying from the computer screen to the miniature envelope that had come with the flowers and now sat propped against her cat cup. Finally, she took out the little card and called the phone number. To her surprise, there was no assistant to go through, no secretary. Lew Haskell himself answered, and she could tell from the change in his voice when he found out it was her that he was happy she had called.

They spoke very briefly. He was about to go to a meeting, and she wasn’t supposed to be using her line for personal calls, so they acknowledged their conversation on Saturday night, said a few words of mutual appreciation and made an appointment to get together for dinner that evening.

Carrie hung up the phone to discover Jan, Donna and Lateeka standing very close by while they pretended to engage in other business.

Donna grinned. ‘‘We couldn’t help overhearing.’’

‘‘A date?’’ Jan said. ‘‘Tonight?’’

‘‘It’s not a date.’’

‘‘You’re going out to dinner,’’ she pointed out.

‘‘But he’s married,’’ Carrie said. ‘‘Isn’t he?’’

‘‘That’s a slippery slope,’’ Lateeka warned. ‘‘Don’t go there.’’

‘‘I’m not going anywhere.’’

‘‘It’s about time,’’ Donna whispered. ‘‘I’m happy for you.’’

Carrie reddened. Was it that obvious? Was her lack of a social life actually discussed and speculated about by her coworkers? ‘‘It’s not a date,’’ she protested. ‘‘It’s just a . . . meeting.’’ Still, the rest of the day seemed long, and she found that she was looking forward to this evening far more than was probably appropriate.

There was a crisis in the late afternoon. She was checking in with Rosalia, just a quick call to let her know the status of her various applications, but the woman was in such distress that her English was nearly indecipherable, and the only information Carrie could get out of her was that she was going to move right away, somewhere where no one would be able to find her.

‘‘Listen to me, Rosalia,’’ Carrie said carefully. ‘‘I’ve been working really hard on your case, and I think we have a very good chance of getting coverage for your medical expenses. But if you drop from sight or change your address or exhibit any behavior that tags you as unreliable, all that will be lost. Do you understand?’’

It was clear from the panicked jumble of English and Spanish that she didn’t understand.

‘‘Don’t go anywhere. Don’t do anything,’’ Carrie told her. ‘‘I’m coming over.’’

‘‘Okay,’’ Rosalia agreed, and hung up the phone.

Carrie considered bringing along someone who was fluent in Spanish, but she knew that Rosalia would close down in the presence of an unfamiliar person. Even if she couldn’t understand everything Rosalia said, it was still better for Carrie to go it alone and try to muddle through. The two of them had developed a sort of rapport, and she was counting on that to see them through whatever had arisen.

Carrie reached across her desk, opened the tiny envelope once again, got out the card and called Lew Haskell. He answered on the second ring. ‘‘Hello, Carrie.’’

‘‘Hello. Mr. Haskell—’’

‘‘Lew,’’ he said. ‘‘Call me Lew.’’

‘‘Okay, Lew, I—’’ She frowned. ‘‘How did you know it was me?’’

‘‘Caller ID. Who else would be calling me from Social Services?’’

‘‘Right. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I have to cancel tonight.’’

He sounded genuinely disappointed. ‘‘What happened? Second thoughts?’’

‘‘No,’’ she said. ‘‘Nothing like that. It’s one of my clients. She has a . . . problem that I need to address right away, and I doubt that I’ll be able to get away before six. By the time I go home and change—’’

‘‘I’ll wait.’’

‘‘No, really.’’

‘‘You don’t even have to go home. Why don’t I just pick you up at your office?’’

Carrie looked down at her unfashionable jeans and plain cotton blouse. ‘‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’’

‘‘We’ll play it by ear. Give me a call at this number when you’re through, and if I can’t convince you to relax and unwind a little after a hard day’s work, well then we’ll call it a night and reschedule. How about it?’’

She really did want to see him. And if everything went smoothly, there was no reason she couldn’t be ready to go by seven o’clock. ‘‘Okay,’’ she agreed. ‘‘But I have to leave now. I’ll call you later.’’

‘‘I’ll be waiting.’’

He’s married,
she told herself as she gathered Rosalia’s case file. But maybe he wasn’t
happily
married, maybe he and his wife were separated, maybe . . .

Rosalia had calmed down quite a bit by the time Carrie arrived at the Oliveras’ apartment. She had started to pack a suitcase, but she hadn’t finished, and Carrie considered that a good sign. At the moment, she was sitting on the faded sofa, watching a judge show on her little black-and-white television, Juan cuddling next to her.

After all these visits, she should have been used to Juan, or at least not shocked every time she saw him. But as usual, the inscrutable expression on his animal face caused her heart to beat faster, the skin on the back of her neck to prickle, and for a few brief seconds she was back in the abattoir of Holly’s apartment, staring at the Rhino Boy’s head on top of the bureau.

She concentrated on Rosalia, not looking at her son. ‘‘Now, Rosalia, tell me what’s the matter. I’ll do anything I can to—’’

‘‘I see him!’’

Carrie frowned. ‘‘You saw him? Saw who?’’

‘‘Him!’’

An idea occurred to her. ‘‘Juan’s father?’’

Rosalia nodded vigorously. ‘‘He see me, too! And he shake his fist like this.’’ She demonstrated. ‘‘He is after me!’’

‘‘Wait a minute. Slow down. First of all, where did this happen? And when?’’

‘‘It happen today, this afternoon, by bus stop. I see him across the street. Only because other people there he leave me alone. But he shake his fist at me!’’ Her pretty features were contorted in an expression of anguish. Next to her on the couch, Juan was sitting up straight, but Carrie did not look at his face.

‘‘Listen to me,’’ Carrie said. ‘‘Did he come after you? Did he try to follow you?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Does he know where you live or where you work?’’

‘‘I do not think so.’’

‘‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’’

Carrie spent the next half hour convincing Rosalia that she was safe and that it was in her best interests to remain where she was. In the back of her mind, she was not at all sure that her reassurances were true. In fact, she was possessed of a completely unfounded belief that Rosalia and Juan were in grave danger—

—but at least if they remained where they were, she would be able to keep an eye on them, look out for them. If they took off and disappeared, they would be completely on their own, and Carrie suspected that that would be far more dangerous.

She was finally able to extract a promise from Rosalia that everything would remain as is for now, and she returned to the office much earlier than expected. Calling Lew Haskell, she asked him what his plan was for tonight. He seemed caught off guard. ‘‘Well . . . I thought we’d have a nice dinner and then . . . see where the evening leads from there.’’ He sounded suddenly embarrassed. ‘‘I like to keep my options open. I mean,’’ he said quickly, ‘‘there are a lot of other places we could go after dinner . . .’’

‘‘I understand,’’ she said, laughing. ‘‘Why don’t you tell me where you’d like to eat, and I’ll meet you there at, say, six thirty?’’

‘‘But I thought I’d pick you up.’’

‘‘I’d rather drive myself and meet you,’’ she said. ‘‘If that’s all right.’’

There was a slight pause. ‘‘Sure. Of course. Whatever you want would be fine.’’ He gave her the name of an expensive Italian restaurant downtown, asked her if she needed directions, and when she said she didn’t, he told her he’d see her there.

Carrie hung up the phone, not quite sure why she hadn’t agreed to let him pick her up with his car or his limo or whatever he’d had planned. Part of it, she supposed, was her natural pessimism and paranoia—after all this time out of the trenches, she needed a quick escape route handy—but part of it was probably the nebulous nature of this ‘‘date.’’ Was he married or wasn’t he? Was this a business meeting, a friendly get-together or a romantic evening?

There were too many variables, too much unknown. She needed to maintain control.

And she was probably just a teensy weensy bit embarrassed by the shabbiness of her rental house.

‘‘I heard about your big date,’’ Sanchez said, coming out of his office. ‘‘Congratulations.’’

The office was nearly empty, and Carrie reddened. This was definitely a conversation she did not want to have. ‘‘Thanks,’’ she said.

The supervisor grinned. ‘‘I knew if I could just get you out and about, get you to stop moping alone at home, that you would once again rejoin the human race.’’

‘‘I’m not
that
pathetic,’’ she protested.

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised, Spock style.

‘‘Okay, maybe I am.’’

Sanchez clapped a friendly hand on her shoulder. ‘‘Have fun. And if you come to work tomorrow wearing the same clothes you’re wearing today, I will not only understand but I will be very proud of you.’’

‘‘You
are
aware of the department’s policy on sexual harassment, aren’t you?’’

‘‘Joking,’’ he said, holding his hands up innocently. ‘‘Joking.’’

Marcello’s was one of those old-school restaurants with dim lighting, dark wood and red upholstered booths. Haskell—
Lew
—had gotten there first, and immediately upon entering, the maître d’ led Carrie to a nearby table. It was neither hidden in a corner nor on public display. She didn’t know what, if anything, to make of that, so she simply smiled, said hello and slipped easily into the booth.

He reached across the table and put his hands on hers. ‘‘I’m so glad you could make it.’’

She pulled her hands away, deciding to get it all out in the open before anything started. ‘‘Is this a date?’’ she asked.

‘‘I certainly hope so.’’

‘‘I thought you were married,’’ she said carefully.

‘‘No. That’s just what we tell the press in order to keep away the bloodsuckers.’’ He smiled easily. ‘‘It’s amazing how attractive a single man with money suddenly becomes.’’

She blushed. ‘‘That’s not why I . . . I mean, I’m not . . .’’

He laughed. ‘‘No need to explain. But I’m single, this is a date, and as far as I’m concerned, we’re at the beginning of a beautiful evening.’’

‘‘Okay, then,’’ she said, smiling. ‘‘Okay.’’

A waiter came, they ordered drinks, the drinks were delivered and the waiter promised to return for their dinner order. ‘‘Give us some time,’’ Lew requested.

He was as easy to talk to in the restaurant as he had been at the fund-raiser, and it wasn’t until the waiter returned a discreet fifteen minutes later that Carrie realized neither of them had bothered to look at the menu. She quickly opened hers and scanned the fish and pasta dishes while Lew made inquiries about the specials of the day and their specific ingredients. It sounded as though he had allergies, and she looked at him quizzically.

‘‘I eat only organic,’’ he explained, and though she herself was a fast-food devotee, she liked that. It showed a commitment to principle that she found admirable and that no doubt manifested itself in other aspects of his life.

She ordered chicken marsala while he ordered a capellini pomodoro with whole wheat pasta.

Carrie was dying to ask him about his work, his life, the whole rarefied world in which he lived—all of the things that her coworkers would quiz her about tomorrow. But he seemed more interested in
her
work, and he asked intelligent, probing questions about her job, the department, and the economically disadvantaged people with whom they worked. She’d never talked shop with Matt and ordinarily didn’t enjoy discussing the ins and outs of social work—it was too emotionally draining— but sharing the details of her day with Lew made her feel energized and alive. Excited. He had the money and power to get things done, to turn ideas into action, and she knew that talking over problems with him could lead to solutions.