Little Girl Lost (Georgiana Germaine Book 1) Page 6

  I turned to the side and stared at a framed photo of Lark I’d taken the last time I’d seen her. In the photo, Lark held a pink unicorn she’d painted, and she smiled for the camera, unaware of the dried pink and purple smudge marks on her face. She’d been so happy that day. I’d intended on telling her I was leaving town for a while, but when I stared into her big, bright eyes, I couldn’t do it. It was one of the reasons Phoebe had been so angry with me when I left. I’d made it her responsibility to tell Lark. Phoebe had every right to get irritated. I should have been the one to tell Lark.

  I stared at the photo, wishing I knew where she was and how to find her.

  Come back to me, baby girl.

  Come back to us.

  Don’t leave me.

  Please.

  I can’t take it if ...

  My tears tried to force their way in. But I wouldn’t cave. I wouldn’t give in to them.

  I reached for the photo frame, and, in doing so, knocked the set of Sense and Sensibility off the shelf. The first volume spilled out, opening to the inscription penned on the first page.

  I will never forget what you’ve done for my family, Georgiana.

  If you’re ever in need of me, you can reach me at 718-238-0935.

  I am in your debt forever.

  Your friend, Giovanni

  I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him, missed our talks, and the fact I could always tell him anything, and it never altered his opinion of me. And though we hadn’t spoken in many years, I felt drawn to him now. I blinked at the phone number and assumed the landline he’d jotted down was no longer in service. But what if there was a sliver of a chance it was?

  I took my phone out and dialed. It rang a few times and then was answered by a much older man.

  “Hello,” he said. “Who’s calling?”

  “Hello,” I said. “I used to go to school with Giovanni, and I thought I’d reach out to see if you know him.”

  “Which Giovanni you after, sweetheart?” he asked.

  “Luciana.”

  “Right. My nephew. He don’t live here no more, not for a long time now. I’m his uncle. I live here with his mother.”

  “Can you tell me how to get in touch with him?”

  He paused then said, “How do you know him again?”

  “We were in college together. His sister Daniela was my roommate for a couple of years.”

  “I see. Tell you what—you give me your name and number, and I’ll give it to him, and he can call you if he wants to, okay? Sound good to you?”

  I wondered what he’d say if I said no.

  After another pause, he yelled, “Hey, Joe, you got a pen and paper? I need to write something down.”

  “You need to what?” Another male voice asked.

  “Pen and paper. You got it somewhere or what?”

  I waited.

  “Give me your details,” he said.

  He took my information down.

  “All right,” he said. “I got it down. I guess ... ahh ... well, I guess if he wants to reach out, he will.”

  Eggs. Whenever I worked a case, I made eggs. Scrambled, poached, fried, hard boiled, basted—it didn’t matter. Eggs were the answer to every question that ailed me. Today I was in a hurry to get out the door, so I scrambled a few eggs and served them on top of a piece of avocado toast. I stabbed a fork into my creation, and there was a knock on my door, which sounded like less of a knock and more of a light, apprehensive tap.

  Thinking it might be my sister, I sprang up and opened the door. It wasn’t her. I offered a distasteful look to my unwelcome guest, closed the door, and returned to the table.

  “Go away,” I said. “I’m eating.”

  She knocked again, harder this time.

  “Come on, Georgiana,” Tasha said. “I just want to talk. Please.”

  “I told you I didn’t want to see you again until I was ready to see you. It’s been one day. I’m not.”

  “I, umm, I mean, I know what you said. I’m not trying to disrespect your boundary. If I could just explain ...”

  Disrespect my boundary?

  Someone was in counseling.

  “You were drunk,” I said. “We don’t need to talk about it.”

  There was a long silence, and I wished she’d taken her leave, even though I knew she hadn’t. I could see her lanky frame through the filtered blinds of my kitchen window.

  “I don’t hate you,” she said. “It was an awful thing to say yesterday. I didn’t mean it.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me whether you mean it or not. We don’t have to do this, whatever this is.”

  She tapped on the door again. I wasn’t getting rid of her. I wasn’t clearing my head. Not today.

  “Can I come in?” she asked.

  I sighed. “It’s open.”

  She turned the handle and pulled the door back slowly like she fretted over what awaited her on the other side.

  “Come in if you’re going to come in,” I said. “I have a busy day today.”

  She ducked inside and looked around. She didn’t need words to express her opinion. Her eyes said it all.

  “My maid is off today,” I said.

  “It’s cute,” she said.

  “And messy.” I angled the fork in her direction. “Sit.”

  Luka blinked at Tasha and placed a paw on my leg, showing his loyalty.

  “Talk,” I said.

  She nodded. “I did something I shouldn’t have done.”

  Once she uttered the words she’d been dying to say, she let them hang there, like I was supposed to do the math and figure out the rest on my own. I hated math almost as much as I hated it when people didn’t get to the point.

  “I do things I shouldn’t do every day,” I said. “So, what?”

  “I slept with your husband.”

  I stopped chewing mid-chew. At least she’d said something I hadn’t expected, something I’d never thought about before. Liam with someone else, anyone else, other than me. I considered my feelings on the matter. At the moment, I felt ambivalent, which came as a surprise.

  “He’s not my husband,” I said. “He’s my ex. We’re divorced. And he’s free to do whatever he likes. You, on the other hand, are married to my brother.”

  She glanced down at her trembling hands and fiddled with the sleeve on her shirt. Her fingernails were short and jagged. She’d been biting them.

  “Paul’s in love with someone else,” she said.

  It was a brazen accusation. I put the fork down. Breakfast could wait.

  “You think my brother is stepping out?” I asked. “Who’s the woman?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then how do you know he’s cheating?”

  “He sits outside the house sometimes, in his truck. I watch him out the window. He’s on the phone, talking.”

  “And?”

  “He smiles, and he laughs. It’s the same smile he gave me when we dated. And last month he went to watch a Lakers game in LA. He told me he was going with his friend Toby, but I ran into Toby the same weekend, so he couldn’t have been with him.”

  I still wasn’t convinced.

  “How long has this alleged affair been going on?” I asked.

  “Several months, I think.”

  “And you haven’t confronted Paul about it?”

  “Not with words, no.”

  “Let me guess. You’ve been acting out with bad behavior and too much alcohol.”

  “I’m not proud of it,” she said. “I’m in therapy twice a week.”

  I nodded. “I know. I can tell.”

  “I love your brother. I don’t want to lose him.”

  “If he has been cheating on you for months, there’s a good chance you already have. You were mad at me yesterday. Why? Because of Liam? I don’t care what he does or who with, okay?”

  “I went to a bar one night. Liam was there, drinking alone. We got to talking. He made me laugh, and I hadn’t laughed in a long time
.”

  Liam had a superb sense of humor. It was one of the reasons I’d been so drawn to him in the beginning. Beginnings were simple and uncomplicated. Beginnings masked the flaws. It was only when the incubation period ended that things were exposed, things I hadn’t noticed before, the nits and flaws becoming nails on a chalkboard. My flaws. His flaws. The flaws we’d created by being together. And we were left to wonder how we missed them all before. They had been right in front of us the entire time. We just didn’t have our eyes open enough to see it.

  “I don’t need to know what happened with you and Liam,” I said.

  “It was just the one time. He’s, uhh ... he still cares for you. A lot.”

  And I cared for him.

  I always would.

  But Liam needed to make his own life now.

  So did I.

  “What I care about is my brother,” I said. “Did you tell him about Liam?”

  “I didn’t. One of the girls at the bar knows Liam, and she saw us leave together. She told Paul.”

  “Let me guess—was it Tracy Rhodes?”

  She nodded.

  “Tracy tattled because she’s always had a crush on Liam but lacks the nerve to act on it. What did my brother say?”

  “He just said he knew. That was it.”

  “Have you tried talking to him again?”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  Anything. Say anything.

  “You’re an adult, Tasha. Start acting like one. You need to get this all out into the open. The fear you have about it won’t change the outcome, so you may as well talk it out. You can’t remain in limbo. It isn’t fair to either one of you.”

  Look at me, a modern-day Dear Abby.

  I was the last person who should have been giving advice.

  She leaned back and crossed her arms like she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I was restive, and my eggs were getting cold.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “I guess not.”

  “All right. I’ll see you later, then.”

  She stood, dug into her purse, and set a decent bottle of red wine on the counter.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “A peace offering,” she said. “If you ever want to talk to me about anything, I’m here for you. It might help to have a conversation about what happened before you left. Just a suggestion.”

  I pushed the eggs to the side, leaned over, and opened the door. “I’ve made peace with it. I don’t need to talk to anyone.”

  Joseph Coldwell’s secretary called to say she had the list of names I’d requested at the news station, and she asked for my email address. I gave it to her. She also said Joseph wanted her to pass along a message, which I could tell by the tone of her voice wasn’t a message she was comfortable sharing.

  The message was: This concludes our business, Detective Germaine.

  Maybe it did.

  Maybe it didn’t.

  I called Silas to check in. He had pulled several prints off the notes I’d given him. Most were partials, and more than half were smaller and belonged to my sister. But there was one thumb print he was excited about. I asked him to wait an hour and then send the results to Harvey. I needed to talk to Harvey first.

  It was quiet at the police station when I arrived. I scanned the room for any signs of intelligent life. The phone rang in the office next to where I stood. I pushed the door open. The room was empty.

  “They’re not here,” Harvey said as he swept past, “and you’re late.”

  “Late for what?”

  “The briefing.”

  “I wasn’t aware of a briefing.”

  “Check your messages.”

  I picked my phone out of my bag and clicked on the screen. Nothing happened. I switched it off and fired it up again. Still nothing.

  “You gonna fiddle with your phone all morning, or are you going to join us?” he asked.

  “Sorry, something’s wrong with it.”

  I slipped it back into my purse and followed him into a room. The moment I stepped inside, I was met with shocked stares and lingering whispers. It was what I’d left town to avoid—the stares, the whispers, the opinions. Everyone was my harshest critic.

  Harvey glanced at me, and then at the curious crowd, and said, “Yesterday, I made you all aware Detective Germaine would be joining us on this case. Let’s make her feel welcome. We’re lucky to have her back.”

  His declaration drew some weak smiles from the crowd as well as some overexcited ones. My eyes fell on Lilia Hunter, who turned away the moment my focus shifted to her. I wondered how she felt about being demoted to her old job while I took back mine. If I were her, I would have contemplated revenge. Whatever she was feeling, she had every right to feel it.

  I took a seat at the back of the class and waited for Harvey to begin.

  “Just want to bring you all up to speed on where we’re at,” he said.

  He attached several photos to the whiteboard and explained what they were and how they were relevant to the case. The photos were the same ones Silas had shown me the day before. Nothing new there.

  Then he discussed a possible lead, a neighbor on the next street who’d said he saw a car speed down the road around the time of Jack’s murder. Harvey was sending Hunter to follow up. He closed with a photo I hadn’t seen before, a photo of a young girl, one of Jack’s patients. Her name was Everly Navarro, and she’d been born with only one lung. Jack had performed an experimental surgery on her, a stem cell-engineered trachea transplant. He’d told her parents there was a good chance her airway would give up without the procedure, and they’d signed off on it. Weeks after the surgery, Everly died when her trachea collapsed. She suffocated and experienced fatal brain damage. Her parents were furious. They sued, but so far, no judgment had been reached.

  I remembered Phoebe telling me about the case. At the time, she worried it would ruin Jack’s reputation in the city. Jack was a fearless guy. A confident guy. Not only was he sure he wouldn’t be found guilty, he’d planned to attempt the surgery again in the future.

  Harvey announced I would follow up with Everly Navarro’s parents, and the meeting was adjourned. Higgins made a beeline in my direction, but I blew him off. My attention was on Hunter, who grabbed her cell phone off the table and brushed by me without saying a word.

  I caught up to her and said, “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  She considered the request. “Yeah, I guess.”

  We walked to my office, which I wasn’t sure was even still mine—until we walked in. I found it had been preserved, frozen in time from the last day I was there. Even my black, vintage, beaded clutch was still hanging from the hook on the back of the door.

  “Huh,” I said. “I thought he’d give my office to someone else.”

  “He hoped you’d come back one day,” she said. “Looks like he got what he wanted.”

  She sat down. I remained standing.

  “You’re mad at me,” I said. “I get it. I’d be mad too.”

  “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was relieved when I heard you were back.”

  It wasn’t anger she felt. It was guilt. I was all too familiar with the feeling.

  “There’s nothing wrong with feeling that way.”

  She leaned back in the chair and shook her head. “Isn’t there? I’ve aspired to become a detective for years. Then it was handed to me, and I hate it. I mean, hate is a stronger word than I should use, I guess. It feels like I’ve let everyone down, and it’s embarrassing, being demoted instead of promoted. No one looks at me the same, and the thing is, they didn’t look at me the same when I made detective, either. It was like they all knew it wouldn’t last.”

  “What do you want?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “What are you passionate about? If you could do anything, be anything, what would it
be? Would it still be a job on the police force? Or would it be something else?”

  “I’d still be doing this.” She paused. “Actually, no. It’s not true. I wouldn’t. I like helping people, but this case, it’s too much pressure.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Good?”

  “You’ve taken the first step to becoming true to yourself. Now you need to figure out what you want to do. Just do me a favor and wait until after this case is solved, all right? It’s selfish of me, but I need all the help I can get.”

  She nodded. “Sure. And, hey, thanks for the chat. I’m glad you’re back.”

  And relieved.

  I could tell.

  I’d put out one fire and set off to start another. I left my office and walked to Harvey’s.

  “I need to tell you something about Phoebe,” I said.

  Harvey offered a slight nod and motioned for me to sit down. I shut his office door and took a seat.

  “What I’m about to tell you can’t leave this room,” I said. “Mom isn’t to know. I’m aware you don’t like keeping things from her, but this isn’t our secret to tell.”

  He leaned back, entwined his fingers behind his head, and squinted at me. “Mmmph. How bad of a secret are we talking here?”

  “Do I have your word?”

  The silence lasted so long I thought he might say no.

  “Of course,” he said. “You’d never put me in this position if it wasn’t necessary.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and filled him in on Phoebe’s stalker, the notes she’d received, and my visit with Joseph Coldwell.

  When I finished, he scratched his forehead and said, “I never liked him. Coldwell. Never liked the idea of her working with him, either. Thinks he’s better than everyone else. He isn’t. I still remember when he was a scrawny, doe-eyed kid in high school. He was a punk then, and he’s a punk now.”

  It wasn’t like Harvey to speak ill of others, and I assumed there must have been something more between the two of them, something he didn’t want to share.