Got the Look (22 page)

Three hours later, Andie was riding shotgun in an unmarked vehicle, Atlanta agent Dwayne Carmichael behind the wheel. She'd caught a glimpse of the Atlanta skyline from the airplane, but they were now far from the city lights, in a residential area that could have been just about anywhere. Anywhere except Miami. Atlanta was much colder than Andie had expected, and she'd dashed off to the airport with no time to stop by her house for a coat. Carmichael parked at the end of the cul-de-sac and switched off the headlights. It was a new subdivision, darker than it might have been, as several unsold spec houses were as yet unoccupied. It was typical suburban tract construction, beige or gray paint being the major distinguishing feature between units. Each lot was virtually identical to the next, right down to the same number of needles allocated to the lone six-foot pine tree that graced the front yard in the name of landscaping.

Andie's breath steamed as she stepped onto the concrete driveway, and she folded her arms tightly for warmth.

You sure you don't want my coat? said Carmichael. He was a tall African American with a shaven head that was collecting droplets of moisture in the misty night air. Neither of them had thought to bring an umbrella.

I'm fine. I lived in Seattle till about six months ago.

Great city. You must have hated to leave.

She didn't bother telling him that it had been impossible to stay. Yeah, it was tough. Worse places to land than Miami, though.

They approached the house with the usual caution, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing taken for granted. Their guns remained holstered but within reach. From all indications, this would be a friendly witness. Ever since their list of potential suspects had narrowed to a particular sex offender whose MO was curiously similar to that of the Wrong Number Kidnapper, the FBI had been searching for a woman named Cassandra - albeit under a different surname. It turned out that she'd married a man named NuA+-ez, and even though the name wasn't particularly distinctive, they had enough information to confirm that this was the right Cassandra.

Andie stepped onto the front porch and rang the doorbell. After a minute or so, the porch light switched on, but the door remained closed.

Who is it? a woman asked from inside the house.

FBI, ma'am.

There was a long pause, and the woman again spoke from behind the closed door. What do you want?

It's nothing to be alarmed about. We're just here to speak with Cassandra NuA+-ez. Purely routine.

Another long pause. Okay. Give me a minute.

They waited, and Andie heard people talking inside, though it was impossible to make out what they were saying. The conversation was suddenly drowned out altogether by louder voices. Andie quickly realized that either the entire cast of Friends had coincidentally come to visit Cassandra, or someone inside had cranked up the volume on the television set. She and Agent Carmichael exchanged glances, their figurative antennae on alert.

Both agents started at the sound of what was surely the back door slamming. Instinctively, they drew their weapons and gave chase, Andie going around the two-car garage and Agent Carmichael taking the other way around the house. Andie was first to reach the backyard. She crouched behind a log pile, then signaled to Agent Carmichael on the opposite side of the yard. He returned the hand signal, then made his way toward the door, his shoulder blades flat against the clapboard siding. He was halfway across the wooden deck when he stopped short and listened. Andie heard it, too. Voices. They were coming from the wooded area beyond the chain-link fence that ran the length of the property.

The agents locked eyes and, without a word, made the same decision. They sprinted across the lawn, flew past the swing set, and hopped over the fence. The ground was soft and slippery with the decaying leaves of many autumns past. Low-hanging branches were the real hazard in the darkness, and Andie felt their stinging slap across her face as she sliced through the forest. Agent Carmichael was keeping pace to her left.

Hurry! a woman shouted, and it sounded like the same woman who had refused to open the front door. Her voice gave Andie a specific point of reference, and she was able to discern three silhouettes scaling the slope ahead of them.

Stop, FBI! Andie shouted.

The threesome only accelerated, but one of them stumbled and fell to the ground. The leader kept running, but the other returned to help. Andie did a runner's gut check, found another gear inside herself, and quickly caught up with them. Hold it right there, she said, training her gun on them.

It was two women. The older one was sitting on the ground and trying to catch her breath. The younger woman was on one knee, embracing her and giving comfort.

Hands over your heads, said Andie.

The younger woman complied, then said something in Spanish, and the old woman did likewise. She speaks no English, she told Andie. Don't shoot!

Agent Carmichael burst through the brush, a few seconds behind. Should I pursue the other one? he said, his breath steaming in the cool night air.

No, said Andie. Even in the darkness, she'd seen enough to recognize the third one as a man, obviously not the person they were looking for. She asked the younger woman, Are you Cassandra NuA+-ez?

Yes.

Why did you run?

She glanced at the old Hispanic woman beside her. Why do you think?

Andie quickly surmised that it was an immigration issue. Do you have relatives staying with you?

My husband's aunt and uncle.

Okay. That's all I need to know about that. I'm not here on immigration. I want to talk about your sister.

My sister?

You can put your arms down now, said Andie. Cassandra complied, and with a quick translation from her niece, the older woman did the same. Then Andie signaled to Carmichael. He pulled a photograph and penlight from inside his trench coat, took a few steps closer, and showed the picture to Cassandra.

Do you recognize this woman? asked Andie.

Cassandra looked closely, studying it for what seemed like too long. Andie could suddenly hear herself breathing - not from the run, but from anticipation. A positive ID from Cassandra was the confirmation she needed to support her entire theory on the Wrong Number Kidnapper. It was a photograph of Mia.

Cassandra returned the photograph and said, Never saw her before.

Andie's heart sank. That's not your sister?

No. My sister is dead. Killed by the monster who raped her seven years ago.

Andie paused, choosing her words carefully. I don't mean to sound cold, but if I'm not mistaken, the police never recovered a body, did they?

No.

Then how do you know your sister is dead?

Because we were sisters. Family. She leaned closer to the old woman. We look after our family.

I understand.

No, you could never understand, she said, her voice shaking. My sister was all I had when we came to this country. She would never cut me out of her life if she could help it. Somehow, sometime in the last seven years, I would have heard from her. She's not alive. She's dead. So if you want to make good use of your time, look for the creep who killed her.

Andie breathed in the cool night air, confused. But not totally confused. Can we go back to the house and talk, please? Something tells me we may have found the man you're talking about.

Chapter
33

Cassandra went to bed at 12:30 A. M., but she didn't sleep. She lay awake in her darkened room, her thoughts consuming her.

After the FBI had chased her down, she and Agent Henning went back to talk in Cassandra's kitchen. Agent Henning did most of the talking, and at her request, Cassandra retrieved some old photographs of her sister. Henning laid them side by side against the FBI photograph of Mia Salazar. There were similarities, to be sure, which Agent Henning emphasized repeatedly. But Cassandra easily saw the differences.

It wasn't nearly so easy, however, to dredge up the past all over again.

Cassandra glanced at the clock on the nightstand. The green liquid crystal numbers glowed in the darkness. It was approaching 1 A. M., and she was reminded of the bad old days. Back then, when her sister had disappeared, Cassandra had routinely seen 1 A. M., 2 A. M., 3 A. M. Sleep was an ever-elusive escape from the harsh reality. Counseling finally helped her to control the awful nightmares, but the memories were still there. She was fighting with the past again, and despite the two-hour conversation with the FBI about her sister, she'd somehow managed to keep the demons at bay. Until now. Maybe it was the quietude of morning's smallest hours. Or maybe it was the gaping emotional wound inside her that had never really healed. Whatever the catalyst, she could feel her defenses weakening. Her grip on the present was failing, and her mind was taking her back to another place, another time - to a time in her life when she idolized her beautiful older sister, Teresa.

Lookin' hot, ladies, said the muscular young bouncer standing at the entrance to Club Vertigo II. His rock-solid frame was the proverbial keeper of the gate to the hottest new dance club on the Atlanta night scene. The waiting line extended down the sidewalk, around the corner, and halfway up the block again. Three-fourths of the hopefuls would never see beyond the bouncers. Fat chance for the khaki-clad conventioneer from Buffalo who was dressed to sell insurance. The Latin babe in the stiletto heels was a shoo-in. Most of the rejects would shrug it off and launch Plan B. Others would plead and beg to no avail, only embarrassing themselves. A few would curse at the bouncers, maybe even come at them, driven by a dangerous combination of drugs and testosterone, only to find out that the eighteen-inch biceps weren't just for show.

Cassandra was standing at the velvet rope with her sister Teresa.

You're looking pretty good yourself, Cassandra told the bouncer.

Thanks, he said. Who's your friend?

My sister. Teresa.

Lookin' really good.

Teresa was wearing black high heels and leopard-print Lycra. She cut a deadpan expression and said, Got a keen eye for the obvious there, don't you, big guy?

Ooh, and attitude too. Guess I'll just have to waive the cover, he said as he pulled the velvet rope aside. Have a good time, ladies.

The main doors opened, and the two young women were immediately hit with a flash of swirling lights and a blast of music. They were just beyond the bouncer's earshot when they broke into laughter. Cassandra said, I told you to be cool, not the ice princess.

You want in, you have to play the game, said Teresa.

As the name implied, Club Vertigo II was the second of its kind. The owner had enjoyed a good long run with the original Club Vertigo on Miami Beach, and he was cashing in all over again at a new Buckhead location. The look and feel of the place were the same, the inside of the four-story warehouse having been gutted and completely reconfigured with a tall and narrow atrium. The main bar and dancing were on the ground floor, and several large mirrors suspended directly overhead at different angles made it difficult at times to discern whether you were looking up or down. With even a slight buzz, the pounding music, swirling lights, and throngs of sweaty bodies were enough to give anyone a sense of vertigo. The sensation worked both ways, with hordes of people-watchers looking down on the dance crowd from the balconies.

Cassandra and her sister found a place at the bar and checked things out over apple martinis. They could feel the vibration in their feet, almost smell the mix of perfume and perspiration wafting up from the crowd. It wasn't long before they were invited to show their stuff on the dance floor. After two numbers, the guys followed them back to the bar and obviously wanted to hang out, which was when Teresa pulled out her cellular phone and pretended to take an emergency call from her supervisor at the Drug Enforcement Administration. She didn't really work for the DEA; there wasn't even an incoming call. But it worked every time.

See you later, boys, she said as they disappeared into the crowd.

They bought themselves another round of drinks, beholden to no one. Fire Girl was onstage, a Vegas-style act in which a ballet dancer with a body even better than Teresa's managed to keep time to the music while tiptoeing around flames. The sisters watched from their barstools. At the end of the routine, Cassandra noticed that the bouncer was headed straight toward them. A mild wave of panic washed over Cassandra, as if somehow their secret was out and management had learned that they weren't nearly as cool as they pretended to be - and that Cassandra was underage.

The bouncer showed no expression as he approached and placed a card on the bar in front of Teresa. He kept walking, leaving without a word.

Cassandra's mouth was hanging open. He gave you a card.

Teresa swirled her martini glass, coating the inside with what remained of her martini. So?

Do you know what that means?

He's actually a lawyer and wants to know if I've been injured?

Cut it out, will you? Look at it.

The business card was facedown on the bar, the back plain white. Teresa gave it to Cassandra, who read it to herself.

Oh my God, said Cassandra, punctuating each word.