Daughters and Sons Page 3

  “Does she know who it is?” Gloria asked.

  “Says she doesn’t.” I stopped at a yellow signal. Traffic light synchronization grew much worse over my years of driving.

  “You don’t believe her.”

  “Not entirely,” I said. “I think she might harbor an idea who the stalker is but hasn’t recognized him yet. Kind of like a hunch she can’t confirm.”

  “Is Rollins going to stay around?”

  “In some capacity. I will, too, but even between us, we can’t be there all the time. We’re certainly not going with her while she earns her money.”

  “That’s a relief,” Gloria said with a grin.

  “Ruby’s something of a mystery,” I said. “She’s smart. She has manners. Why is she a prostitute?”

  “Do you think only dumb girls become hookers?”

  The light turned green. I made a left turn. “No, but I think the odds of ending up a hooker and intelligence are inversely proportional.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  “This girl is smart,” I said. “She’s educated. I heard her talk. She speaks colloquially, but I can also tell she learned to speak properly, maybe in a private school. Her table manners would make my mother proud.”

  “That’s strange.” I looked over at Gloria, who frowned. “Do you know if she’s from around here?”

  “No. I didn’t ask her, and I don’t think she would have told me. Think she’s an old classmate?”

  “No,” Gloria said. “What are you going to do if you’re around when her stalker shows up?”

  “Please,” I said, doing my best to sound offended. ”I like my odds against some asshole who follows hookers.”

  “Do you think it might be an obsessed . . . client?” Gloria said

  “They’re called johns,” I said, smiling at Gloria’s lack of street smarts. They probably didn’t delve deeply into prostitution at Brown.

  “Do you think it’s a john who became too attached?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “It seems like there’s a lot you don’t know.”

  “Welcome to my world,” I said.

  Gloria patted my knee. “It’s still early in the case.”

  We arrived at Martin’s West, and I pulled into the line for the valet. “Let’s not worry about detective work right now,” I said. “Go raise some money.”

  * * *

  I attended events at Martin’s sporadically over the years, but only once since I returned from Hong Kong. The venue looked like a gallery from the outside, with its front full of tall windows guarded by columns plucked from a coliseum. The ballroom featured a brown marble floor, neutral walls, a high ceiling with a chandelier designed to make Warren Buffett jealous, and round tables set with fancy napkins and utensils.

  Guests filed in. Gloria mingled and greeted while I worked on a glass of mediocre champagne and a small plate of tasty hors d’ouevres. She engaged in conversation easily, held people’s attention, and turned a sympathetic ear when the tenor of the conversation called for it. She knew how to work a room. The fact she wore a fantastic blue ball gown helped. It wasn’t as curve-hugging as some of her other gowns—she came here as a fundraiser, after all—but I still couldn’t wait to get her out of it later.

  The event itself started right on time. Gloria joined me at the table right before it began. I’d made small talk with the other three couples at the table, all of whom were into their middle years. The chairman of the foundation, Vincent Davenport, opened with the usual thank-yous to all involved (including Gloria) and shared some anecdotes from his own experience. He established the Nightlight Foundation when his daughter went missing. Since then, even though she remained missing, Davenport kept the foundation going, and it served as both a resource and support group for affected parents.

  Lunch came out after Davenport’s remarks. Whenever I go to a fundraiser or reception, I always choose a non-steak meal. I have nothing against steaks, but I realize the venue prepares hundreds in advance. This minimizes the chances of getting one hot and freshly-grilled. I’d rather roll the dice with something else and rely on the chance it’s fresher. The plate set before me held a generous salmon filet, a vegetable medley, and wild rice. Everyone ate and the sounds of intermingled conversation flooded the room.

  After lunch, more speakers took the podium. A local FBI agent talked about the hard and often unfortunate science of missing children and teens. Despite the long odds, he encouraged parents not to give up, saying hope and a resourceful child could improve the odds. I bought the resourceful child part but not the hope part. Wishing for something didn’t alter the probability of it happening. A few parents who had lost children followed Agent Hess to the podium. Each shared the stories of their missing children. Two shared happy endings. There were many tears and much applause.

  The Martin’s staff served coffee for dessert. While everyone accessorized their coffee, a presentation played, talking about the foundation, its work with parents and law enforcement, and stories of several children located, ostensibly with the organization’s help. After the presentation, Vincent Davenport got back up, thanked everyone for coming, offered a few pithy closing remarks, and bid all of us adieu.

  The crowd filed out. The staff cleared the tables. Gloria and I lingered. Vincent Davenport joined us. He looked to be in his early fifties. Most of his black hair retreated before the advance of silver. Round glasses covered eyes never holding the warmth of his smiles. He wore a suit I would have been proud to own and shoes I could see my reflection in. Gloria introduced us. “Mr. Davenport,” she said, “this is C.T., my boyfriend.”

  It marked the first time I’d been introduced as her boyfriend. As much as I cared for Gloria, and even loved her, it sounded strange. I hoped I hid it well as I shook Davenport’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Your ladyfriend is an excellent fundraiser.” Gloria blushed.

  “She’s great at whatever she puts her mind to,” I said. The color remained in Gloria’s cheeks.

  “What do you do?” Davenport said, hitting me with the polite prick-waving question every man asks another shortly after meeting him.

  Before I could answer, Gloria piped up. “C.T. is a private investigator,” she said.

  “Very interesting,” said Davenport. I couldn’t get a read on his tone, but it sounded sincere enough.

  “It usually is,” I said.

  “Ever shoot anyone?” Davenport said with a sly smile.

  “Yes.”

  My response made his smile run and hide. “Oh. Well, I’m sure it’s a professional hazard.”

  “C.T. is working a case now,” Gloria chimed in, “but when he’s finished, maybe he could help with some of the foundation’s cases.”

  I thought it was a dreadful idea but didn’t say it and hoped my face didn’t betray my thoughts. Neither Gloria nor Davenport reacted, so I must have hid it well. “It sounds promising,” Davenport said. “Always good to have another professional pair of eyes look over things. It sometimes takes one break to solve a case and bring a child home.”

  Or find the child’s body, I thought. Instead of throwing a wet blanket onto the conversation, I said, “It’s true.”

  Gloria and Davenport chatted for another moment before he excused himself to go to his office. I shook his hand again, then Gloria and I left. When we got into the car, I said, “What the hell?”

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “Volunteering me to look into the foundation’s cases.”

  “You don’t think you could make a difference?”

  “Sure. Odds are I make the parents more miserable. Not the kind of difference I want to make.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You heard Agent Hess. Missing persons cases rarely end well. I’d hate for someone to get their hopes up because I’m looking at their child’s file.”

  “I think it could be worth it.”

  “Either way, I’d appreciate a heads-up if yo
u’re going to volunteer my time.”

  Gloria looked at me and nodded. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  She put her hand on my knee and slid it up my thigh. “Get us home quick, and I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  I put my foot to the floor. The Audi’s engine complied.

  Chapter 3

  After Gloria amply made up for volunteering my services, I pondered how to attack the case. Ruby might not be out and about in mid-afternoon—she probably did most of her work at night. I didn’t know where she lived or how to get hold of her. I had an idea who her pimp was, and I suspected talking to him wouldn’t help me or her. The less he knew right now, the better for all involved. I called Detective Paul King to see if he knew anything.

  “What favor do you need now?” said King.

  “I don’t always call when I need a favor,” I protested.

  “The hell you don’t. What’s up?”

  “You used to work in vice, right?” King worked the drug detail now. I envied him less than the average member of the BPD.

  “For a few years, yeah. Still know some guys there. What do you need?”

  “I’m looking into a hooker who goes by Ruby. You know her?”

  “Nope. Hookers are a dime a dozen, though. What’s so special about this one?”

  “She’s being stalked.”

  “Maybe she should stop being a hooker,” King said in a tone suggesting his obvious suggestion was the one true solution.

  “I’ll be sure to refer her to a career counselor when the case is over,” I said.

  “You want me to ask around in vice?”

  “If you could.”

  “Your wish is my command,” King said and hung up.

  Ruby worked the Route 40 corridor. If she wandered a couple miles up the road, or veered off down North Point Boulevard, she would end up in Baltimore County. There were a lot of places along North Point Boulevard for a working girl to ply her trade. On the occasions I’ve worked cases in Baltimore County, I worked with Sergeant Gonzalez. I called him to see if he could tell me anything.

  “You find another body in my jurisdiction?” he said.

  “I haven’t looked yet,” I said, “but if you give me some time, I’m sure I could uncover one.”

  “Jesus Christ, I’ve got enough work. What do you need?”

  “I’m looking into a hooker who goes by Ruby. Know anything about her?”

  “No. What’s her problem?”

  “She says she’s being stalked.”

  “She’s a hooker. Being stalked is part of her job description.”

  “I think she might see it differently,” I said. “This goes beyond the usual leering she has to deal with.”

  “If she’s being stalked. You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I only talked to her last night.”

  “Hookers think they get stalked a lot. Sometimes, a john gets pissed she didn’t do something right. Maybe it’s a pimp trying to move in on her. Who knows? It’s probably nothing.”

  “Just the same, can you ask around and see if anyone knows her?”

  Gonzalez snorted. “It’s a waste of time, but it’s your time. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

  “Thanks,” I said. He grunted and hung up.

  I wasn’t optimistic.

  * * *

  Lacking any better options for now, I took a drive through the city and looked for Ruby. I didn’t see her. This time, I went up and down Route 40, onto cross streets she might have strolled down, and even waited in the lot of the Deluxe Plaza Motel again. A couple other hookers went in and out, johns in tow, while I waited in the Caprice. One of them plied her trade in the same room Ruby used the night before. I didn’t want to think about the motel’s sheet-washing policy, if it had one. No hooker tried to solicit me, which I attributed to the Caprice—it looked like a cop’s car.

  When I drove back, King called. “Tell me something good,” I said.

  “I asked around in Vice,” he said. “Ruby’s been brought in a couple times but never actually busted and processed. One cop used her as a CI once.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Rudy Giardello. He’s a good guy.”

  “OK. I’ll reach out to him if I need to.”

  “Let me know if you do,” King said. “He’s . . . not always easy to find.”

  I interpreted this to mean he spent a significant portion of his time undercover. King probably didn’t want an amateur like me ruining things. I tried not to be offended and said, “All right.”

  Gonzalez did not call while I drove home. At least I went one-for-two.

  * * *

  Gloria and I changed back into our good clothes. I wore the gray suit again; I thought Gloria would have a seizure when I suggested the gown she wore earlier would be OK after only being worn a couple hours. Maybe women’s clothes were different. Instead, she selected a charcoal dress with short sleeves and a hem showing only a hint of knees. I showered and put on clean shorts and a T-shirt under my suit. Gloria and I got into the Audi and drove to my parents’ house.

  I wished we went for an occasion as happy—or at least as non-sad—as the luncheon.

  We drove up my parents’ interminable driveway, and I parked the Audi in front of their garage. Gloria held my hand as I knocked on the door. My father answered. He sported a black suit with a pressed white shirt and a black and gray striped tie. My mother popped out from the kitchen long enough to see us and disappear again. She wore a black dress covering her from shoulder to ankle.

  They were both dressed for a funeral.

  Gloria and I walked inside. We went down the hall and to the right into the kitchen. As I suspected, my mother had done very little slaving over a hot stove. Instead, she hired Esmerelda, a cook and caterer she often used for soirees at the house. Most holidays and at random times throughout the year, Esmerelda turned my parents’ kitchen into one which would shame many restaurants.

  I poured Gloria some wine and fixed myself a rum and soda. As we sipped our drinks, my father finally broke the silence. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I was talking to Gloria.”

  “Oh,” Gloria said, putting her wine glass down and smiling, “of course, sir. I couldn’t say no when C.T. invited me.”

  “It means a lot to us knowing he wanted you to be here. Did he tell you why we’re having this dinner?”

  “I don’t know that he told me everything.”

  My father flashed a small smile. “He probably didn’t. Thirteen years ago today, we lost our daughter Samantha, C.T.’s older sister.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Every year, we get together for dinner. It just . . . seems right.” My father paused as if something troubled him, then continued. “We didn’t do it when C.T. was overseas, of course, but—”

  “I Skyped in every year,” I said in my own defense.

  “It still would have been nicer to have you here, son.”

  “We’re here now,” I pointed out.

  My father looked pensive. He started to open his mouth, frowned about something, then walked into the kitchen. “Odd,” I said to Gloria.

  “It looked like he wanted to tell you something,” she said.

  “I can’t imagine what.”

  My mother came out, smiled at us, then she and Gloria hugged. “Thank you for coming, Gloria, dear,” she said.

  “Of course,” said Gloria.

  My mother and I embraced. I noticed she squeezed Gloria harder. “Coningsby, it’s always nice to see you.”

  “You, too, Mom.”

  “I can’t believe it’s been thirteen years.”

  “Me, either.”

  “Why don’t you two sit at the table? Coningsby, you check to make sure everything is set out properly. This is supposed to be a nice dinner.”

  “I’m sure Esmerelda did a
good job.” I knew my parents hadn’t set the table, not when they had someone in the house they could pay to do it.

  “Check anyway, please, dear. I want everything to look right.”

  “I will,” I said as I rolled my eyes. We walked into the dining room. The table looked like the White House staff set it. Each space sported a fancy napkin, two forks, a spoon, and two knives, all set out as Miss Manners would recommend. A dozen guests with plenty of elbow room could fit at the table. We would use but a third of it. Esmerelda would pop in and out, eventually joining us when the night was mostly over. It went the same way every year. Esmerelda, for her part, didn’t mind.

  My parents took their seats across from us a minute later. Esmerelda dropped off a large bowl of salad, then left and returned with a plate of steaming mushrooms stuffed with crab imperial. She put some salad onto each of our small plates. Gloria used some of the dressing—it smelled like a peppercorn ranch—and passed it around. I looked at the wall behind my parents. Samantha’s high school graduation picture hung there, right next to a shot of the four of us as she entered Penn for her freshman year. It was the last photo we took together. My parents only displayed it around the holidays and when we gathered for this dinner.

  After we ate our salads and started on the crab mushrooms, my mother began her usual speech. “Samantha left us far too soon,” she said. “She was a bright girl who wanted to help people and the world. I wish she had gotten the chance to use her gifts and show everyone what she could do. She would be making a difference somewhere today. I know she would.”

  My father and I nodded. Gloria squeezed my knee under the table. I told her this may not be an easy evening for me. Just when I thought I was over Samantha’s death, something ripped the Band-Aid from the wound. I’ve come to the conclusion you never really get over something like losing your big sister when you’re sixteen. All you can do is hope the intervening years make it a little easier to bear.