Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) (18 page)

I opened the trunk and poked around under the carpet. There was a tire in there, but it wasn’t normal size. How far would it get me? Certainly not through a day of surveillance. If nothing else, I’d be spotted immediately. Like it or not, I definitely had to ask for help. And promptly sign up for one of those “I’m a woman, so no one ever taught me how to take care of essential shit” classes. I vowed to pass on whatever I learned to Sophie.

Pirate Dad walked up just in time, sans eye patch and pirate accent.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

“I’m embarrassed to say I do,” I said. “But it can wait ’til after the party.” It really couldn’t, or I’d be late.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m just the cheap entertainment. What have you got in there?”

I showed him the mini tire, some tools I couldn’t name, and the sealant. “Please ignore the mess,” I added, waving at a laundry basket full of jumper cables, flares, baby wipes, first aid supplies, recently purchased makeup, and practically everything recommended in case of a terrorist attack. The car was a rolling surplus store.

“I could put on the spare,” he said, with a glance toward the party. He picked up the sealant. “Or we could shoot this stuff into the tire, and that’ll hold you for a while. At least it should. Only problem is it tends to piss off the tire repair guys.”

“Why?”

“It’s messy stuff.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t thinking about the tire repairmen. I was imagining evidence technicians. If the van had been shot, I had to preserve the proof.

“Do you think I can drive on it? Just to get home? I’m about two miles away.”

“Maybe. It looks like a slow leak. But I wouldn’t advise it.” I decided Pirate Dad was cool, not weird. At least not in a bad way.

“Okay.” I considered my options. “Let me think about it.” I knew what I had to do, and I’d have to talk myself into it. Maybe some birthday cake would help.

Sixteen

AAA towed us to a nearby service station, where I rented a car, moved our stuff into it, and started for home. I’d asked the police to meet me there. The kids were ecstatic to see a cruiser in our driveway when we arrived. I tried to act excited, but I was anxious. On the way, I viewed every car I passed as a possible threat. If someone had shot at me, would they try it again? Was someone trying to scare me off the case? Or was it because I’d witnessed Marcus’s shooting? Did someone think I’d seen the shooter?

I didn’t want the kids to overhear this conversation, no matter how fascinating police, bad guys, bullets, and tires might be to them. Come to think of it, I didn’t want Mom to know what happened, either, because she’d probably try to talk me out of helping Kenna. I couldn’t hide the truth from her, though. She and the kids had to be safe.

Tears eked their way out of my ducts as I forced myself to sing along with the kids’ made-up song, “The police are at our house! The police are at our house!” to the tune of
The Farmer in the Dell
. My voice cracked as I pulled up to the curb and considered the possibility of these perfectly innocent kids getting hurt by my snooping around. Even if they were fine, what if something happened to me? They’d already lost one parent.

“Are you okay, Mommy?” Sophie asked. “Your voice sounds funny.”

“Yes, sweetie. I’m fine. I’m just thinking about how much I love you and Jack. So much!”

I slid her door open and prayed I’d do the right thing, whatever that was. The kids bounded toward the officer with so much enthusiasm he could have claimed self-defense. Instead, he chuckled as I cautioned them to slow down and walk with me. He introduced himself as Detective Walters and shook our hands.

“Mrs. Valentine?” he asked.

“Yes.” I preferred Ms., but I didn’t correct him. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I need to get them settled inside, and then we can talk. Feel free to have a seat on the porch, and I’ll be right back. Is that okay?”

“Yes ma’am.”

While he waited, I ushered the kids inside to the only child care available: snacks and TV. I moved a baby monitor to the den and carried another outside so we could talk in private.

Detective Walters had the law enforcement look. Buzz cut. Trimmed mustache. Respectful but stern expression. He appeared in his fifties and exuded fatherly vibes that put me at ease.

I told him the story and handed him a card from the auto shop. “So what do you think?” I asked nervously. “I know it sounds crazy. But it’s true.”

“Let’s call them,” he said, pulling out a cell phone. “See what they have to say.” He squinted at the card, dialed, identified himself to someone, and listened without giving anything away.

“You’re right,” he said when he hung up. “Your van was shot.” It was exactly what I expected, and yet I couldn’t believe it. He probably couldn’t either. “The bullet went right through the tread and into the wheel well, which is great, because the bullet’s intact.”

My mouth hung open in what must have been a particularly attractive look.

As he asked questions and I answered honestly, I realized he was focused primarily on physical evidence (he mentioned casings), potential witnesses, and gangs. We discussed Marcus’s shooting and the little I knew.

The subject of Kenna’s adoption didn’t come up, and although it was potentially relevant, I was too scared to go there without her permission. Plus, gangs were infamous for intimidating witnesses, Walters said, and I couldn’t imagine anyone thinking I was a real threat to find Beth. Who knew I was even looking for her? April, April’s mom, the convenience store owner, a mailman, her neighbors, and anyone those people told. Uh oh. The list was longer than I thought.

“Ma’am?” Detective Walters got my attention. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”

I took his card and promised to call if there was.

“I’m going to have someone from the gang unit get in touch,” he said. “They’ll give you advice on dealing with this stuff. And we’ll probably send someone from the lab to check around for casings or bullets. Meanwhile, be smart. If you don’t have to be alone, don’t be. And see if the kids can stay somewhere else.”

By the time Mom pulled up, Walters was gone, and my nerves were raw. Unfortunately, as much as I wanted to miss PI class and stay home with the kids, I had to go. There were no makeup classes. And I needed to talk to Dean.

Mom was understandably panicked by the entire thing and begged me to give up. She even played the Mommy card—mine, not hers. “What about Jack and Sophie? You’re willing to put them in danger over this?”

“I know. I know.” I put my head in my hands. “I think it’s too late to turn back. I was already at Marcus’s shooting, and I’m sure that’s what this is about. I can’t turn back time and
not
be there. And I don’t think looking for Beth is going to hurt anyone. But
not
looking for her could hurt a lot of people.”

Mom shook her head in disapproval. “I don’t like what you’re doing,” she said.

“I don’t either. But you’ll help me—and Kenna and Beth—anyway?”

“No.” My stomach dropped. “But I’ll help the kids. Lord knows what you’d get them into without me.”

A wave of heat rose from my chest to my face.
I’d never knowingly put them in danger,
I wanted to argue. But truthfully, I wasn’t sure I could defend my choices, and without her help, I’d have to quit. I bit my tongue and said, “Okay.”

Mom followed up with an offer I wanted to refuse but couldn’t. She’d take the kids to her un-childproofed, full of fragile objects, “be quiet because the neighbors are grumpy” condo, and they’d return when the coast was clear. I couldn’t bear the thought of turning them over. She was a wonderful, caring grandmother, but she hadn’t raised a kid since babies slept on their stomachs, kindergarteners walked to school alone, and superhero cartoon characters had values. There was a steep learning curve and big margin for error.

After packing, transferring car seats to her Lexus, and deciding how the visit would go (trips to the park, eating out, swimming, watching too many DVDs, and sleeping in Mom’s bed so everyone would stay in one place), I released the kids into her care. I cried as they drove away, waving enthusiastically, as if I—and everything else—was okay.

I showed up at PI class a mess. An emotional mess at the very least, but not physically impressive, either. I’d broken into multiple sweats through the day, driven a stinky rental car, and “freshened up” by throwing on blush and face powder.

Dean, meanwhile, looked so good I wanted to crawl under my desk and hide. At the same time, I knew I’d have to do the opposite—approach him after class for a serious face-to-face, so I might as well buck up and act confident. As long as I learned something and he didn’t visibly recoil, I’d consider the class a success.

“We’ll divide into pairs today,” he told everyone. “Each two-person team will take a car. You’ll link up with another two-person team by walkie talkie. It’s your job to cooperate with your partners and trail our volunteer targets today. But you can’t let them spot you. If they identify who’s following them, or you lose them,
not good
.”

The first target, Dean explained, was a female FBI agent driving a silver Ford SUV. The other was a retired police officer with a black GMC pickup. Both were parked on nearby major roads waiting to be followed. They’d cruise around for a while and finally lead the teams back to the academy.

I braced myself as Dean called out assignments. I was fine with almost anyone in the group except Jeremy, a kid in his twenties who asked too many questions and never had the right answers. He was also obsessed with cop shows and talked about them incessantly. I’d heard there were a lot of law enforcement wannabes (or can’t be’s) in the PI and security industries, and maybe he was one of them.

The other guy I wanted to avoid was Scott. He was a quiet, mop-headed security guard who was already looking at me every time I glanced his way. Creepy. My only comfort was that in Virginia, becoming a PI requires a thorough background check, including fingerprinting. I tried to forget that plenty of horrible criminals had clean records before they were caught.

Early on, Dean called my name and first choice for a partner, Dorothy, a retired accountant with a tell-it-like-it-is attitude and special interest in financial investigations. We didn’t have much in common, but we were the only women in the class, and that was bond enough. I desperately hoped she’d drive, because I was too preoccupied to focus well. I also wasn’t familiar enough with my rental car.

We were teamed with a retired DEA agent and Jeremy, with whom we’d follow Ginny, the FBI agent. She was described as 5’10”, 130 pounds, blond and wearing a pink sundress. Sounded like we might not be the only people checking her out. We were given her license plate, location, and expected departure time.

“Let’s go out to the parking lot,” Dean told everyone. “Take your valuables with you and give me a head start. I’m riding with Ginny.” Amber, the receptionist, would ride with the other target.

The pressure was on as Dorothy and I headed out. She asked if she could drive while I worked the walkie talkie and navigated.

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Where’s your car?”

She pointed to a dark green Honda CR-V. Not the best in terms of visibility, but not the worst either.

I climbed in and admired what I didn’t see: trash, juice boxes, receipts, pens, change, coupons, snacks, CDs, library books, barrettes, and other items that resided in my van. Not even dust! I expressed my awe.

“It’s retirement, honey,” she explained. “I’m so bored that cleaning is fun.” Boredom was a foreign concept to me. So was organization. I doubted either one would change.

“Is that why you’re becoming a PI?”

“That’s part of it,” she said as she checked her rearview mirror.

I wanted to know her other reasons, but we had to focus on the task at hand. I contacted Jeremy and Brent.

“We’re pulling out,” I told them.

“Right behind you.”

I swiveled my head and saw Jeremy driving a blue sedan. At least Brent would do all the talking.

“We have the eyeball,” I reported, using lingo we’d learned in class. That meant we had the target in sight. “She’s parked at a convenience store on the corner.” I glanced at Dorothy’s navigation system and called out cross streets.

“We’ll pull into a lot across the street,” Brent said. “You take her side. No matter which way she goes, someone can follow her.”

“Sounds good,” I replied. Dorothy pulled into a nearby lot in view of the store’s exit. We didn’t have a direct sightline to Ginny’s car, but there was no way she’d leave without being seen, unless she was on foot. Jeremy and Brent confirmed they’d watch from across the street.

When Brent said Ginny was on the move, we waited until she’d pulled into traffic, and then we hung several cars back at a stoplight. Once she was a little further ahead, we practiced surveillance tricks, such as pulling over briefly so Brent’s car could take the eyeball while we tailed him.

When Ginny turned, Brent went straight and did a U-turn, and we took the eyeball. Switching back and forth was so helpful that it was daunting to imagine doing mobile surveillance alone.

It was my job to be especially observant while Dorothy drove, so I couldn’t help noticing Dean laughing a lot with Ginny. She mostly kept her eyes on the road, but he kept turning to look at her. Occasionally she’d throw her ponytailed head back to guffaw.

“So do you think you’ll do much surveillance as a PI?” I asked Dorothy. I had the impression she was destined for bigger things.

“Not a chance,” she answered. “Too much time on my ass. I’ve already got hemorrhoids.” We laughed. “I want to do undercover corporate work. What about you?”

“I’m not sure yet.” I needed to give it more thought. I told her what interested me so far—background checks, process serving, and surveillance. I longed to help with criminal investigations, too, but I wasn’t qualified. Looking for Beth drove that point home.

“What do you think about infidelity cases?” Dorothy asked, stopping my heart.

How could I separate Jason from my answer? Truth was, I’d been an idiot about him. The clues had been there, and I’d ignored them. I was so busy parenting that I’d been resentful, not suspicious, when he “worked late” or went out with “friends.” When we didn’t have sex, I was relieved. My days were full of breastfeeding, doing laundry, carrying kids, managing tantrums, drying tears (sometimes my own), and feeling mortified by the state of my house and body. If he wasn’t interested, I understood, and I assumed we’d work it out when life calmed down. Eventually the kids would go to preschool, I’d get the house and myself in shape, and we’d reconnect. Ha.

If I’d given our marriage the attention it deserved, maybe we would have been okay. At the very least, I wouldn’t have been blindsided. Sucker punched. Decimated.

Poor Dorothy had no idea she’d opened a can of worms.

“I’ve got some personal feelings about infidelity cases,” I confessed, a rare occurrence for me. “So I probably wouldn’t be the best investigator for that job.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, hon. It’s not my business, but whatever some two-timer did to you might make you a better PI.” She gave me a sympathetic glance. I looked out the window.

“I think it brings back too many...,” I choked on
memories
. How embarrassing. I hardly knew Dorothy, and here I was on the verge of tears. I thought I was over this. Or getting over it. As much as anyone can get over loss and betrayal. “You know what?” I said. I forced my eyes back to Ginny and Dean’s car. “You have a point. I have to be optimistic.”

Eventually Ginny turned back toward the academy, followed by us and then Brent and Jeremy. We parked a good distance from the strip mall and watched her and Dean walk into the office—all smiles.

“They’re hot stuff,” Dorothy said. “I wonder if they’re an item.” She wiggled her eyebrows comically.

I smiled, feeling a little depressed. I hoped not.