Shame ON You Page 8

I tried to imagine the whole scene going down with Ally. Then a thought came to mind. “Interesting how no one has brought up this angle: what if someone picked her up in a car right outside her dorm. That way, the likelihood of her being seen by others would be minimal.”

  She nodded. “But if someone forced her into their car, don’t you think that might have drawn attention?”

  I held up a finger. “So that leaves us with two ideas. Either there were multiple people, maybe two guys who could grab her real quickly, or…”

  I looked at her, purposely offering a dramatic pause.

  “Or what?”

  I knew she had little patience. “Or it was a planned rendezvous. I mean, you don’t sneak out of your dorm room to take a jog around campus.”

  “So, she knew this person…that’s what you’re saying, or at least theorizing.”

  “Nothing more than a theory—you’re right.”

  We inched our way through Austin afternoon traffic and picked up Mackenzie from school. Once we were at home, I called Brook and asked if the APD had picked up Cobb.

  “We’re striking out so far,” she said, obviously sticking with the baseball theme.

  I asked her to let us know when they found him.

  “If we find him. He might have crawled into a hole for a long time, especially if he’s heard we’re looking for him.”

  I told her I’d try to remain hopeful and stick with the “when.”

  After another hour of volleying potential theories around the two missing girls, Chantel and Ally, I took a break and fixed us homemade spaghetti. Well, it wasn’t exactly homemade. Spaghetti out of a box and tomato-and-basil sauce out of a jar. But I made it at home, which was technically better than takeout. We all had two helpings. The carbs were nice, but something was missing from my routine.

  A long swim. And not just one. I had to get back to something that made me feel like I was living, not just getting by. I knew my ailing hip would prevent me from jogging or any other similar physical activity.

  It didn’t stop you and Nicole from jumping in the sack a week ago, did it, Oz? In fact, you guys came through like a couple of pros.

  My internal sarcasm was a double-edged sword. I could laugh at myself, but it also exposed a hole in my heart. The part that Nicole owned.

  But she was likely off in Italy or someplace exotic, learning how to Flamenco dance or walk across hot coals. The type of experiences you share with your partner. The kind that you look back on and cherish.

  I had to let it go for now. I couldn’t control the timing of everything—which, by my account, seemed to always be off—but I could make the best of it. Swimming. My old go-to decompression method. Just had to find the time.

  As I cleaned up the dishes, my thoughts went back to Adam Gibson. I had an idea I wanted to bounce off Ivy. We sat on the couch and were about to get back into our discussion. She received a text at the same time Mackenzie came in and sat on my lap, putting her arm around my shoulder.

  “You know I’m old enough to spend the night at a friend’s house, right?

  I looked at Ivy, who pulled her eyes away from her phone long enough to offer me a suppressed smirk.

  “Okay…” I hadn’t even thought about it. As usual, I felt a step behind on the daddy-learning curve.

  “And just about all my friends at school spend the night at each other’s home.”

  She was setting up The Big Ask. “So, do you have a question you’d like to ask me?”

  She turned her head to look directly at me and smiled wide. She still had that missing front tooth, which just added another degree of cuteness. “Ariel is wondering if I could spend the night at her place tonight.” She spit out the words as fast an auctioneer.

  Making friends had been difficult for Mackenzie when she’d first started school in Austin a couple of months back. But once she and Ariel crossed paths, I knew she’d found her bestie. Ariel’s dad, Ervin, was a good guy. He’d lost his wife, Ariel’s mom, to cancer a few months back while living in Fort Worth. They were starting life anew in Austin. Good folks.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Wait…that’s it?” She stood up, her face beaming.

  “It’s Friday night. That’s why. And you’ve got to go to bed before eleven.”

  She bit into her lower lip. “How about one a.m.?”

  “Midnight.”

  She hugged my neck so hard I thought she might crush my Adam’s apple. “Thank you, Dad.” She ran off to pull her things together.

  I turned to Ivy. “I guess we have all the time we need tonight to dig into this case.”

  “I think I need a break,” she said blankly.

  My arm dropped to the table. “Did I just hear you correctly?”

  She held up her phone. “Cristina’s in town. And she’s performing a solo act at a small bar down on 6th Street. I feel like I need to be there to support her. Want to join me?”

  “Cool. We’ll take a break together. I’ll buy the first round.”

  “And I’ll drink it.”

  17

  The place was packed. Austin packed. Which meant there were, in many instances, two people sharing chairs or barstools, and the space in between all the chairs was full of onlookers who were okay with just standing. Well, standing when they weren’t rocking back and forth to the beat of the music, some holding bottled beers or mixed drinks in their hands. A few brave souls even held up lighters.

  I was certain the place was breaking all sorts of fire-code violations.

  Tonight, anything was possible at The Pier.

  “Why do they call it that?” Ivy asked as we found the last two seats next to a brick wall.

  I explained how the owner used to own a bar named The Pier at the southern tip of Texas, on South Padre Island. Hurricane Dolly blew through and destroyed just about everything he owned, his home and his bar. So, he picked up as many pieces of what was left and brought them to Austin. After trying his hand as a computer programmer—a job he loathed—his wife convinced him to follow his passion and open a bar in the heart of Austin’s eclectic nightlife area. He naturally called it “The Pier.”

  She gazed at the relics built into the design. Oars were placed as an X above the bar. The bar counter itself used pieces of a pier that had been destroyed. There were a number of lifesavers, fishing hats, fishing rods attached to the walls, as well as a huge placard that had “SS Minnow” written on it. There was also a display of over a hundred different shot glasses with SPI phrases etched on the side. Somehow, the new version of The Pier even had a salty smell in the air. Then again, that could be from all the margaritas being served.

  In between acts—tonight was solo night—I fought through the crowds and brought two drinks back to our table.

  “A martini for the lady,” I said, trying not to spill it. I sat down and sipped from my glass of Knob Creek.

  Ivy said something, but I wasn’t looking at her lips. Even between acts, the place was hopping.

  “Say again?”

  She leaned in closer, and I watched her lips as she repeated her comment. “I said, ‘Straight up…that’s how you drink your whiskey?’”

  I exercised my jaw. “Still hurts to crunch on ice,” I said, referencing the kick to the jaw I’d received a week ago from the steel boot of a man named Snake. The fact he was no longer breathing helped me deal with the discomfort.

  The MC took the mic, and a spotlight came on. He stood on a stage that was no more than six inches off the floor and introduced Cristina Tafoya.

  A half second later, Ivy put two fingers in her mouth and blew out a whistle that could have woken the dead. She whooped and hollered, a smile covering her face. It was pretty cool to see her relaxed—and also to see how much she cared about Cristina.

  Cristina looked a little older than what I recalled, or at least not quite as disheveled. Her jet-black hair had a healthy shine to it, her face was clearer, and she moved with confidence. I’d seen her perform that night at the Belmont
. She had been amazing, but the bombing had overshadowed everything.

  She performed two songs while strumming her acoustic guitar. The first was a mash-up of songs from Queen. It was different. Slower. More about the lyrics and less screaming. It was incredible. Lots of whistles and applause when she finished. She smiled briefly and then started picking at her guitar strings. She said she’d written this next song herself, which she called, “Momma, Where Are You?”

  As soon as she said the title, I turned to Ivy. Her eyes instantly became glassy. By the time Cristina hit the last chord, Ivy had tears streaming down her cheeks. The crowd loved Cristina. She raised a humble hand and bowed, then walked over and hugged Ivy. She gave me a brief hug as well. I got up and let her take my seat. A second later, a woman pushed me out of the way.

  I was just about to get snappy until I saw the red dreadlocks. “Poppy? Hey, what’s going on?”

  She threw up a peace sign, then leaned in and gave Cristina a peck on…the lips.

  What the…? Ivy and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  I flashed back to a couple of weeks earlier, when Poppy had shown me her latest tattoo on the top of her hand: the letters CT. She said something about the new girl in her life.

  But Cristina?

  I grabbed Ivy’s hand and pulled her closer as Cristina and Poppy talked. “How old is Cristina?”

  “She’s eighteen, already graduated high school. I know, I’m kind of shocked too.” Our eyes went back to Cristina and Poppy. Then back to each other. We were acting like two parents freaking out over their daughter coming out of the closet.

  Ivy put her hand on mine. “She said something a few months back, when she and her Hollywood hunk boyfriend broke up. Something about how she might like girls. I blew it off. Kids experiment in all sorts of ways. And frankly, I don’t really care one way or the other. That kiss just kind of came out of nowhere. And those red dreads don’t exactly give me a warm-and-fuzzy.”

  “I know her.”

  “Huh?”

  I explained my history with Poppy.

  A slow nod from Ivy.

  “You don’t feel any better, do you?”

  “I’m trying, Ozzie. It’s just that Cristina’s mom was really messed up and into drugs. Hell, she even introduced Cristina to drugs. Last thing I want is for Cristina to get mixed up with someone with addiction issues. Not healthy.”

  “I get it. But I really think Poppy’s beyond that. I’ve actually never seen her happier.”

  Ivy had her eyes on the two of them as she said, “I kind of wondered why Cristina started putting more effort into how she looked, how she presented herself.”

  “I wish I could say the same about Poppy. She’s…”

  “Unique,” Ivy said, finally peeling her eyes away from the lovebirds.

  “Good word.” I took a healthy slug of my whiskey. “You know, if we make a big stink over this, it won’t be well received.”

  Ivy nodded, downed the last of her martini, and smacked her lips. She said, “Just let me know if you see anything bad going on, will ya?”

  I held up my pinky, and we locked fingers. A new act had been announced. Cristina and Poppy both clapped. Still a little distracted, Ivy and I followed suit with about half as much enthusiasm. I leaned against the brick wall and was just about to allow my thoughts to drift away, maybe to the missing sisters, or, if I could down my drink fast enough, possibly even a quick mental dalliance with Nicole.

  But the voice made me freeze. I knew that voice. I set my drink on the table and moved from behind Poppy’s mound of red dreadlocks to see if the face on the stage matched the voice from my head.

  It was Kate Fletcher, Brandon’s cousin. She looked a little nervous, but her voice was syrupy smooth. She was singing Norah Jones again, a tune called “Turn Me On.” Her voice wasn’t powerful, but the lyrics definitely were. She looked and sounded so vulnerable, as if she were teetering on the edge of becoming emotional but still holding it together to keep the pitch perfect. At least it was to me. I was amazed at creative talents like her and Cristina. Their form of artistry was so raw, so out there. Their courage was something to behold. At that moment, I wished Mackenzie was with me, so she could witness the guts it took to put everything on the line.

  Toward the end of the song, Kate looked my way and lifted her chin. I wasn’t certain she was looking directly at me, but I thought so. When she finished, the crowd went nuts. A sustained nuts. She seemed a bit embarrassed by the adulation.

  A few more acts followed, and then Solo Night was over. The bar owner turned on recorded music, and the place began to clear a bit. Kate was walking across the bar with her guitar hitched behind her like a large backpack. She saw me and walked over. Before she said much to me, she and Cristina talked for a few minutes. I couldn’t hear what they were saying—and of course, it was none of my business—but I got the sense that they admired each other’s performance, though they were as different as could be.

  Kate was softer, had on a plaid skirt that stopped mid-thigh, and boots of some kind. Her straw-colored hair had a gentle wave to it. A girl-next-door kind of look. A college student too—I guessed she was a junior, maybe a senior. But she actually looked younger than that.

  Cristina was none of those things. I knew about her troubled childhood, that she’d even lived on the streets for a good year after surviving rape by her mom’s boyfriend.

  Music, or just the nerve to share their creative talents, had bonded two girls from two very different backgrounds.

  The girl-talk went on for a while. I pulled up another chair for Kate, and she joined us in the next round of drinks. This time, we all went with a non-alcohol beverage, since Cristina was underage. I could see Ivy’s eyes on Cristina and Poppy like a mother hen. Poppy was twenty-two, so it was only a four-year difference, but she did manage a bar. I wasn’t sure how it could work. But I knew they didn’t want to hear my opinion.

  “So, I’m kind of intrigued by your PI business. Do you have real clients who hire you?” Kate asked as the other girls talked.

  I nodded, sipped my Diet Coke. “They pay me too. Usually.”

  She giggled. She seemed to get my sarcasm, unlike Ivy. “What’s your biggest investigation right now?”

  I shrugged.

  “Seriously, I read a lot of crime novels. I get into it. I need something to take my mind off my music occasionally. Otherwise, it just consumes me.”

  Made sense. An outlet from the creative outlet. Or something like that.

  “I’m working with Ivy.” I held out a hand across the table. Ivy had been talking to Cristina and Poppy, but she glanced in our direction.

  Kate’s eyes shifted between Ivy and me. “Is she your cousin or something?”

  “Oh, no. Just a friend.” Odd question. “She does something similar in San Antonio. She used to work for Child Protective Services but quit to start her own PI business.”

  “Oh.” A painful look washed over Kate’s face. “I’ve read stories.”

  “We all have. She’s one of the few people who wants to make a difference for kids. A lot of people talk about it, but she takes action. She’s quite a lady.”

  Kate nudged my side. “A little love interest, possibly?”

  I held up my ring finger.

  “You’re married. Oh, I get it now.”

  Wasn’t really sure what that meant. “So, are you a music major?”

  She laughed out loud.

  “You sound like a freshman boy who has nothing else better to say, so he asks, ‘What’s your major?’ Kind of lame. You were joking, right?”

  She really says some strange things. I felt like I was missing something but decided to just roll with the punches. “That’s me. The king of jokes. Usually directed at myself, by the way. Although Poppy and I have gone a couple of rounds.”

  “You talking trash again, Oz?” Poppy flipped around, whipping her dreads against Cristina’s face. Cristina didn’t seem to mind.

 
I held up my hands like she had a gun on me. “I surrender.”

  “Oh, you’re no fun. I was ready to start teasing you about that weird Harry Potter cut on your forehead.”

  I couldn’t help myself—my hand went to the gash.

  “A mere paper cut.” I clapped my hands, ready for the night to end. We all slowly walked to the door. We were stopped by Poppy running into a friend, making an introduction to Cristina. The rest of us were, apparently, not there. I didn’t care, but I saw Ivy hovering. Hello, helicopter parent. And Cristina wasn’t even her daughter.

  Slow down, Oz. That might be you some day with Mackenzie.

  I scoffed at the idea that I could become that person.

  As we stood near the door, Kate asked again about any big investigations I was working. Without mentioning names, I gave her a twenty-second summary of our hunt for a girl with addiction issues.

  “That’s horrible. So sad.” She glanced down, then turned and gazed across the bar. I couldn’t tell if that had triggered a memory or if she was just ready to get out of the bar, like I was.

  I watched Kate for a moment and thought about her being in college. And that made me think about Ally. “Hey,” I said, touching Kate’s arm. I kept my voice down. “When you were a freshman, did you know many girls who snuck out of their dorm rooms to meet up with a guy?”

  “I lived in Jester.”

  The biggest dorm on the UT campus. Had its own zip code.

  “Different floors had different vibes,” she said. “Some were party floors, some floors had more engineering types, things like that. But there’s always a few rebels in every group. And I guess some girls had guys they were kind of…I don’t know, ashamed of? You know, like, they were really into him, but they knew their friends would so say, ‘No way, you’re better than him.’”

  I nodded, not commenting, just letting her tell her tale. “The craziest thing that happened during my freshman year were panty raids.”

  I’d forgotten about those.

  “And then a lot of girls would run to another dorm; we called them ‘jock raids.’ But usually guys just threw their phone numbers down on pieces of paper. It seemed like fun initially, but girls could be brutal when going after a phone number. Not my scene.”