Swept Away (22 page)

Joey was running back and forth around the trees with a couple of neighbor kids, churning up the hot dust of the grassless yard. The windows were open, though it was already in the high eighties. A rusty air-conditioning unit hung from a window; Jennifer suspected it didn't work. Spring had given way to summer, and by the height of the afternoon it would be nearly one hundred degrees in the Las Vegas valley, a few degrees cooler in Boulder City.

She listened at the screen door but heard nothing from inside. She rapped on the screen door and called, “Yooo-hooo.”

She heard a groan. Then, “Who is it?”

“Doris. From the diner.”

It was a while before Sylvia came to the door, tucking her wrinkled blouse into her jeans. Her hair was stringy and there were dark circles under her eyes. “Hedda in trouble?” was her first question.

Jennifer laughed. “Hedda? When's Hedda ever been in trouble? She's a dream come true.”

“That so?”

She turned around and walked back into the living room without inviting Jennifer in. So, she opened the door and invited herself. “I hope I'm not intruding,” she said with a decided lack of sincerity.

“I'm just waking up,” she said. She sat on the couch and lit a cigarette; the couch seemed to list to the starboard. “I was on my feet till after two.”

It was nearly four. Jennifer looked around the room and saw that there was no other place to sit. The kitchen, though tiny, had room enough for a little table and two aluminum chairs, so she pulled one into the living room.

“That's a tough job,” Jennifer said. “And in those shoes!”

“Yeah, it is.” She took a draw on her cigarette and tapped it into an overflowing ashtray. “What can I do for you?” she asked with the exhalation. The tone of voice and unpleasant look on her face suggested that Sylvia felt cheated. Robbed. Shat upon.

“Oh. I heard a couple of the high school girls talk about the prom. Coming up real soon,” she said.

“So?”

“I was wondering if Hedda was going.”

She sucked on the cigarette again. “Why didn't you just ask her?”

“I thought it might be safer just to ask you—in case that boyfriend of hers hasn't asked, or there's some other problem.”

“Problem? You mean like the fact that a kid like Hedda can't afford things like proms.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked at her watch. It was a couple of hours before she had to go to work, but with the way she looked right now, some major reconstruction would be necessary to make her look decent.

“Well, here's the deal. I know it seems unlikely, but I happen to have a dress. Very adorable. It was a bridesmaid's dress, but it doesn't look like one. The bride didn't make us get dresses uglier than toads and—”

“She won't take it,” she said, stamping out her cigarette.

“Sure she would, if she doesn't already have a dress. Did you get her one?” she asked, as if she couldn't see the raveling carpet, listing couch, disheveled house that baked in the sweltering heat of the un-air-conditioned room. This was where Hedda and Joey slept, in this room, and that was
not
a fold-out sofa bed. There were exactly three small rooms and a bath—living room, bedroom, kitchen. The kitchen was hardly bigger than a closet. It reminded her of the apartment on the
Honeymooners.

“I don't know if you've noticed, but coming up with a prom dress would be a little tough for someone like me.”

“Well, then, I guess it's lucky I have this dress. Here I am, thirty, and still thinking about the fact that I never went to a prom. Did you?”

The minute she asked the question, she regretted it. She knew the answer before Sylvia gave it. She lit another cigarette before saying, “I had Hedda when I was fifteen. No, I never went to the prom. Hedda's better off saving her money for something useful.”

“Are you angry with me?” Jennifer asked.

“I don't have time for this,” she said.

Jennifer leaned toward her. “What can I do to help, so that you have time to talk about Hedda?”

She sucked on the cigarette. “You can mind your own business.”

“Hmm,” Jennifer said, standing up. She put the chair back at the kitchen table, and as she did so, she noticed the empty Jim Beam bottle in the trash. Well, Sylvia was over twenty-one—she was entitled to a drink after a hard night. “Okay, then. I just thought—”

“You know, coming in here like this and making me feel like trash isn't going to help anything.”

“I didn't mean to—”

Sylvia stood up. “It isn't easy, you know. I do the best I can.”

“I'm sure you do. Really, I didn't—”

“You think this is what I had in mind for my life?” She took another angry drag from her cigarette, stubbed it out in the full ashtray and glared at Jennifer. “This is
not
what I planned on.”

She wondered if she should suggest that life had a strange way of giving you gifts you couldn't plan—like Hedda. Or maybe she could tell Sylvia that she hadn't had much more growing up and understood the frustration. But instead she just said, “I'm sorry, Sylvia.” And then turned to go.

It was very likely Hedda was right, Jennifer thought. Sylvia might indeed hate her and blame her for almost everything that was wrong with her life.

* * *

Alex was called to his sergeant's office, where he found Dobbs sitting in front of Sergeant Monroe's desk at an angle. It wasn't a big office and Dobbs was a big guy who seemed to fill the entire space on his own. He wasn't wearing the black trench coat, but he was apparently committed to the thin tie. When Alex entered, Monroe stood up. Not so Dobbs.

“How you doing?” Alex said politely, extending a hand.

“Not good,” Dobbs said, eschewing the handshake. “You screwed with me.”

“What are you talking about?” Alex asked.

“Okay, okay,” Monroe said. “Have a seat. Let's see where we are.”

“I think we know where we are,” Dobbs said. “I asked him to turn over this woman if he found her and he said he would. Now he's found her and he's hiding her.”

“For God's sake,” Alex said. “I don't think you have your facts quite right.”

Dobbs leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Do you or do you not know where Jennifer Chaise is?”

“I do. I don't know her as Jennifer Chaise, however. She hasn't told me her real name.”

“And didn't you promise to bring her to me if you found her?”

“I did not.”

Dobbs sat back in his chair, stunned. “All right, this is bullshit. I want this guy turned over to your Internal Affairs Bureau. He's a liar and a—”

“Boss, Aiken was there during this interview. She's right in the briefing room.”

“Call her.”

Alex used his Nextel radio to send a twittering noise to Paula. “Aiken? Come to the spanking room.” Monroe frowned and Alex grinned. The detectives all used cubicles and the sergeant was the only one with an office and a door that closed. If you were called to the office, chances were even you were going to be reprimanded for something—thus it was referred to as the spanking room. He hoped it appeared obvious to all present that he wasn't concerned about this issue. It was only a few moments until she opened the door.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Aiken, were you present during a discussion between Alex and Agent Dobbs?”

“Yes, sir. At the Starbucks on Charleston. I don't remember the exact day, but I could go look it—”

“We don't care about the day!” Dobbs snapped. “Did you hear this guy tell me that if he found Jennifer Chaise, he'd turn her over to me?”

“God, no,” she said with a laugh, as though Dobbs couldn't possibly be more absurd.

“Aw, Jesus Christ—these two have their story cooked!”

Alex looked up at Paula from his chair, made a face and shrugged in helplessness.

Sergeant Monroe folded his hands on his desktop. “Maybe if you'd let me ask the questions, we can find out what's going on. Aiken, tell me what went on between these two at that meeting.”

“Sure,” she said, leaning a hand on the back of Alex's chair. “Agent Dobbs told us, on the downlow I presume, that they'd been watching a guy by the name of Noble. A Nick Noble.” To Dobbs's nod, she went on. “They suspect him of multiple federal crimes and therefore would like to talk to his ex-girlfriend, who has been missing. Alex asked him if he needed help finding her and he said no. In fact, he yelled no. Dobbs asked if we knew where she was and I can't remember Alex's exact words, but I think it was something like, ‘Why didn't you just ask me this on the phone?'”

“Why didn't you just tell Agent Dobbs where the girl was?” Monroe asked Alex.

“Couple of reasons. One, she isn't wanted. There's no warrant for her arrest. Two, she's been keeping a low profile because she has this idea her ex-boyfriend could be dangerous. Could want to hurt her. From what she told me about him, that seems a pretty safe bet. Three, she says she knows absolutely nothing about any of Noble's businesses. And four—I've been dating her.”

“You're
involved
with her?” Dobbs shouted.

“Yes. By the way, I gave her your number and she plans to call you, to see what it is you want. But she's house-sitting for my eighty-year-old neighbor, taking care of her dog while she's away, and the dog had emergency surgery. Plus, like I said, she can't think of a single thing—”

“I'm serious, I want these two turned over to IAB!” Dobbs said.

“Take it easy, Agent Dobbs,” Paula said. “You know the law—she doesn't even have to talk to you if she doesn't want to. Alex could have told you exactly where to find her and she could have slammed the door in your face. Now, if you'd have had a warrant...”

“See what I'm talking about?” Dobbs asked Monroe. He looked back at Alex. “You want a warrant? I can have a warrant in five minutes.”

Alex leaned forward, pulled a slip of paper off the sergeant's scratch pad and wrote on it. “Don't bother,” he said. “Here's the address and phone number. Go talk to her. I'm sure she'll do her best to help you. She's a very nice person—try not to scare her.”

He didn't take the slip of paper. “We already know where she is. Someone's picking her up now.”

“Then what's this about?” Alex asked.

“This is about knowing which asses to kiss, Nichols.” Dobbs stood. “You're getting yourself mixed up with some wrong people. This chick? She's a whore.”

Alex flinched and looked as if he might spring to his feet, but Paula put her hand on his shoulder. While she couldn't possibly hold him down with one small hand, it served as a reminder to keep his cool.

“This Noble is not her first, but he might be the youngest. It's how she makes her living, boinking old rich guys and collecting the fees. She's not who you think she is. She lives in a condo on the beach, drives a Jag and has a big-ass bank account.”

“She lives next door to me, which is how I met her. And she has no arrest record.”

“Of course not. Because she's canny. She doesn't charge. She accepts donations. That's still a whore in my book.”

He opened the door to leave and said to Monroe, “Thanks for nothing.” He did not close the door softly.

“What a fucker,” Monroe said. “Jeez.” He looked at Alex, Paula, then back to Alex. “You two. That was stupid.”

“Not totally stupid, boss,” Paula said. “We didn't exactly have a plan—but missing isn't against the law. She's an adult. She hasn't done anything wrong. Both Alex and I had doubts about Dobbs's character. It wasn't just Alex—I didn't want to turn her over to Dobbs, either. We both had the idea Dobbs might want to use her for bait to reel this Noble guy in—and if he's dangerous, that's not such a great thing.”

“I did tell her, you know. I told her the FBI wanted to talk to her and she's nervous about it, but she's not uncooperative. And that other stuff Dobbs said about her. That's probably bullshit. He's a real asshole.”

* * *

Jennifer was just getting ready for the lunch crowd when the yellow Monte Carlo pulled up to the front of the diner. Two men got out, came inside, flashed their credentials and said, “Jennifer Chaise? FBI. Will you please come with us for a conversation.”

She looked over her shoulder to a gape-mouthed Buzz and began to remove her apron. “Buzz, please ask Rose or Hedda or anyone to check on Alice and make sure she has water and gets let out.”

“What did they call you? What?”

“I'll explain later, Buzz. Please?” She pulled her house key from her pocket. “Rose has a key, but if she's not around today and you have to see about Alice...”

“You want me to get you a lawyer or anything?”

“No,” she said. “I haven't done anything wrong. Apparently I know some people who have.”

Then she went with the men to their office in Las Vegas, where she sat for seven long hours. Some big bulldog named Dobbs yelled and hollered and threatened, but he was quickly replaced by a civil young man named Jeff, to whom she bared her soul. She told him everything he wanted to know, but she didn't see how any of her information would in any way incriminate Nick.

“Is Barbara really alive?”

“Oh, yes. Very much. Spending his money like mad.”

“Well, good. I guess. Listen, I'm very tired,” she finally said. “I have a sick old dog at home.”

“That would be Alice?”

She looked surprised. “You don't have the place bugged, do you?”

“No. We would have to think you guilty of some crime, get a judge to sign a warrant, et cetera. And frankly, we don't know what it would get us.”

“It won't get you Nick Noble. I hope never to see him again.” She sighed. “Really, are you just about done?”