Capturing Angels Page 12

  “What brought you to Southern California?”

  “I wanted to be sure I didn’t have to buy snow tires,” he said.

  I laughed, feeling more and more lightheaded. “So, really, why are you still a bachelor?” I asked.

  He studied his glass for a moment, twirling it by the stem, and then smiled. “I never married, but I did live with someone for nearly five years. She got tired of my schedule, our lifestyle, I guess, and found someone who fit her goals better. Talk about being a good detective, I had no idea she was seeing someone. One day, she was gone, and it all came crashing down.”

  “I would say a woman who was ignored to the extent you probably ignored her had some justification for, as the British say, ‘doing a runner.’”

  He laughed. Then he looked serious. “Maybe I just wasn’t as committed to her as I thought I was. We all fool ourselves as much as or even more than we fool others sometimes.”

  “Yes,” I said. We just looked at each other, neither knowing what else to say. “Another pregnant pause,” I said.

  He smiled. “I hope it doesn’t take nine months for either of us to say something.”

  I glanced at my watch.

  “It’s getting there. You all right to drive?” he asked me.

  I looked at what remained of my second Cosmopolitan. “The sad thing is, I enjoyed these, but I don’t feel a thing, no buzz, nothing. Sometimes you want to, or need to,” I said.

  He signaled the waitress. More people were coming in now, and many were couples.

  “Check, please, Toni,” he said.

  “You were right about this place filling up,” I said, looking around.

  “Yeah, I’d stay, but I feel like Italian tonight. I’ll call you,” he said when the waitress brought the check.

  I stood up. “Thank you,” I said.

  He looked up at me. “I hope someday I’ll have really earned that.”

  I started away. I headed to my car in the parking lot next door. When I reached the car, I saw that he was coming into the lot, too, walking quickly to catch up.

  “You sure you’re all right to drive? Those Cosmopolitans can sneak up on you.”

  “I’m fine.” I didn’t get into the car, and he didn’t move toward his.

  “You have to hurry home, I guess.”

  “Not tonight. My husband has a dinner meeting in Anaheim.”

  “Really?” He looked toward the street and then turned back to me. “I’d be happy to buy you dinner at my favorite little Italian restaurant, Favola, on Third Street in Santa Monica. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Wait,” he said before I could even think to respond. “That’s out of line. I’ll be accused of taking advantage of you. I know better. Sorry.”

  I smiled. “No one could ever take advantage of me as much as whoever abducted my daughter has. Everything else is insignificant.”

  “I understand. I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, and headed for his car.

  He didn’t look back. I got into my car and started for home.

  There hadn’t been that many times since Mary’s abduction when I had returned to an empty house. That is not to say that the house didn’t feel empty otherwise. As I was driving back, however, I envisioned the darkness, not just in the house but also what I felt had settled around it. Southern California had a justifiable reputation for sunny days. Months could easily go by without one day with a totally overcast sky, but no matter how much sunshine there was, I still felt as if I were now living within a brooding and bruised cloud that had snuggled around every corner and hovered over every window.

  It wasn’t just the darkness and the way the emptiness in my heart seemed to spread throughout my body, sometimes making me feel more like a ghost, that made my return to our house so undesirable. Although I would never go so far as to say that John had recuperated from our great loss, I would say he was coping very well. As far as I could tell, he didn’t see or hear the same demons. He was able to embrace his work and tie it around himself like some medieval suit of armor. I was sure he was giving his company far more these days simply because he hated leaving his work and heading home. I couldn’t blame him. In fact, most of the time, I envied him.

  But I had given up a professional work life for Mary, and now I didn’t have Mary. I didn’t want to go back to work. I was positive that I wouldn’t be able to give any employer my full attention or effort and that before long I would probably be let go anyway. To John’s credit, he never encouraged this. He did his best to get me out of the house for social occasions, but I had come to the point where I couldn’t put on the act and recite the lines required. The effort to make some sort of semblance of a normal life right now was too exhausting.

  On the other hand, as I drove toward home, I didn’t feel like curling up into a ball and locking myself away, either. There was still life in me, feminine life. Every time I thought about doing something that could be fun for me, I was overwhelmed with guilt. How could I laugh, smile, enjoy anything, while Mary was still in the hands of a kidnapper?

  The moments of pleasure I had just experienced with Sam Abraham were easy to tolerate and justify because, after all, I was meeting with the one man right now who might be able to do something about Mary’s abduction. At least he cared and wanted to try harder. How could it be sinful, selfish of me, to want to be with him?

  The rationale was enough.

  I pressed my foot on the brake pedal and pulled to the side of the road. For a long moment, I sat there arguing with myself, and then, almost motivated more by anger than anything else, I wrenched the steering wheel around and did a U-turn, angering some drivers. They let me know it, of course. Road rage was almost part of being a Californian, especially a citizen of Los Angeles. It was practically a driving requirement. I imagined it being part of the drivers’ road test: “Show me how you would let a bad driver know he was a bad driver: Give him the bird, scream, lay on your horn, or pass him and deliberately slow down?” There were dozens of ways to show your anger when you were in a car. You felt invulnerable surrounded by all that metal and having that engine power. Maybe that was why people didn’t mind the long commutes. They felt safe.

  When would I ever really feel safe again?

  I didn’t think I would go all the way when I made the U-turn. I expected the more sensible and cautious part of me to fight its way back to the forefront and have me put on the brakes, but, determined to keep it down, I whipped around streets, accelerated on yellow lights to get through intersections, and pulled up to Favola’s valet parking.

  I was shocked that I had gotten there so fast. For a few long moments, I just sat in the car, confusing the parking attendant, but then I lunged out and took the ticket from him, practically taking his fingers along with it. He looked a little frightened. My quick smile didn’t relax him that much, either, but I wasn’t concerned with his feelings at the moment.

  I went to the restaurant’s entrance, took a deep breath, and stepped in.

  It took a few seconds for me to locate Sam and for him to realize that I was there.

  Maybe I was making a mistake, but the look on his face told me I wouldn’t be disappointed.

  9

  Inches Apart

  “I’m not in the mood to prepare my own dinner,” I said, standing before him at his table. “I hate cooking for only one person, even if it’s me. Maybe especially if it’s me.”

  He continued smiling, looking both surprised and amused. Then, as if he realized he wasn’t dreaming, he shot up and came around to pull out a chair for me.

  “Perfect. I haven’t ordered anything yet. You’re in for a treat, believe me,” he said when he sat again. “This is really like eating in someone’s home. They make their own pasta daily, and Mrs. Carnesi, the owner and chef, creates her own special marinara sauce from an old family recipe.”

  “Are you part owner of this place,
too?”

  He laughed. “With how much I eat here, I think so. If you like meatballs, theirs are very special, so light, or if you want a great angel-hair pasta with shrimp and—”

  “Why don’t you just order for me?” I said. “If you go through the menu like that, I’ll become ravenous and eat the table.”

  He laughed again. “Okay.” He signaled to a waitress. “You fine with a good Chianti Classico?”

  “Yes, I’d like that. Another one of John’s hobbies is wine. With him, it’s a science. He knows what the weather was like for the vineyard during the year that’s on the bottle and therefore how good the grape crop was.”

  Sam shrugged. “I don’t do any research. I just know what I like.”

  “That’s fine. I’ve come to the conclusion that depending on your instinct is better than depending on your intelligence, no matter what Darwin wrote,” I said.

  He gave the waitress our order and then talked about other wines he liked. When she brought the Chianti back and opened it, he asked her to pour it first into my glass so I could be the one to taste and test it.

  “Perfect,” I said. It was. She poured us each a glass.

  He passed me some garlic bread. “Homemade, too,” he said. “Go on. Try it,” he urged when I hesitated.

  “Hanging around with you, I’ll regain all the weight I lost very quickly. Even the vanity mirror in my bedroom has gone on strike.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “You’re fine the way you are,” he said. “Don’t gain or lose a pound.”

  I know I blushed. I hadn’t felt that soft surge of heat come up from my neck into my cheeks for so long that it seemed like the first time.

  “Thank you. It’s been quite a while since a man, including my own husband, has complimented me on my appearance. I had forgotten just how important that is for a woman. In my way of thinking, men can go months, even years, without any compliments about their looks, but take a woman for granted, and you risk being beheaded.”

  “It’s a miracle I haven’t been, I suppose. To be absolutely honest, I’m not that good at giving women compliments.”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself. You’re not too bad.”

  Now he blushed. “Maybe I’m just too . . .”

  “Afraid of committing yourself to an opinion? I used to be,” I added before he could admit to it.

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s exactly that, although I guess I’m always looking for some confirmation. I look for clues everywhere before I make a decision, even in the grocery store when I go shopping. You know, like when was this meat really put out, or why is this soup behind the other? I probably spend twice as much time in the supermarket as any other bachelor.”

  “How old are you, Sam?”

  “Thirty-three, a year older than you. Sorry, I read that file, remember?”

  “There are probably facts in it that I don’t even know about myself,” I said.

  “Probably. It’s FBI.”

  “Then you have an unfair advantage. What I know about you can fit on an index card.” I sipped the wine and tasted the bread with a little olive oil.

  “She gets that olive oil from a cousin in Tuscany,” he said.

  I nodded. “Very good. I wish I was a better cook. Margaret Sullivan is a very good cook and baker, too. She’s terrific with pies, makes her own crust, and I’ve yet to have a better Irish soda bread. My mother isn’t much of a cook, so I didn’t grow up learning little delicious things in the kitchen. You know the joke about women like me?”

  “What’s for dinner tonight, dear, reservations?”

  “That’s it. I mean, I’m not a terrible cook. John would rather eat at home, so I work hard on it, but lately . . . nothing I do around the house is any good.”

  “It will be,” he said with a confidence that brightened me.

  The waitress served us two caprese salads.

  “Don’t say it,” I warned. “This mozzarella cheese is homemade.”

  “Close to it. This time, it’s a nephew on her husband’s side, who happens also to be a terrific cook.”

  “You know, now that I think of it, every Italian man I know, even John’s business associates, can cook and does so.”

  “Half the time in The Godfather and on The Sopranos, they’re eating or cooking,” Sam said. He poured me some more wine.

  I looked at the glass and stopped chewing as if my whole body had gone on pause. I had been at warp speed with glib talk to keep my nervousness as well hidden as possible. Suddenly, all the words came back up like some indigestible food and drink.

  Mary’s little face flashed before me.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “How can they be so good at this, Sam?” I asked, not looking at him. So that there would be no doubt that I wasn’t talking about our food and Italians, I added, “How can they just sweep her up and not leave a solid clue behind?” I swung my gaze on him like someone moving a flashlight.

  “I know what you mean. It’s what makes me believe now that this is not a single personal event,” he said. “Not in the sense we were thinking in the beginning. Whoever has done this is professional, or let’s say very experienced. I’m confident that Mary’s not their first. I just have to put together the how and why. I should have never left the case, even with the FBI on it,” he added. “I don’t usually get personally involved with the victims of crimes I’m investigating. I mean, I learn enough about them to help with the investigation of course, but . . .”

  “I understand,” I said. “We got to you.”

  “You got to me. I mean, I felt sorry for everyone in your family, of course, but a mother is special.”

  He kept his gaze on me a moment longer and then drank some of his own wine.

  We ate in silence for a while. I realized there was music on. It was just loud enough to float above the cacophony of other sounds behind us, the chatter and the laughter and dishes being served. A surge of guilt tried to take over, but I fought it back. If I didn’t get back into the world, I wouldn’t be of any assistance in solving Mary’s abduction, I told myself. Was that just rationalizing, or was I right?

  “Pavarotti?”

  “None other,” Sam replied. “I like that you can actually hear the music in this restaurant. In most places, it’s just a dull background.”

  “Italian and French food especially are better enjoyed with music. We have this friend, Asher Roberts, who admits to being a Francophile. He spends his entire summer in Beaulieu-sur-Mer on the Riviera and never misses an opportunity to tell us how poorly Americans dine, rushing their meals and not savoring the flavors, the wine, the moment.”

  “He’s not wrong. From what I can see, most people gobble everything in front of a television set. You could serve them mush, and they wouldn’t know it. I’m guilty of doing that often myself.”

  “Not John,” I said. “He won’t bring up the French to make his point. He isn’t crazy about traveling. Foreign places put him at a disadvantage because he doesn’t speak anything but English, but he likes to make dinner an event. As we eat, he catches me up on his business work. I don’t think I’m a good audience anymore.”

  “So, he’s stuck to the same routine despite . . .”

  “Yes. John believes that is how we’ll have the strength to go on.”

  “Maybe he’s right,” Sam said.

  The waitress brought our main dishes.

  “It smells wonderful,” I said, inhaling the garlic.

  We ate in silence for a few moments.

  “It is very good,” I told him. “You’re like what truck drivers are to the best roadside eateries, I imagine. My father always says to follow the truck driver wherever he turns off, and you’ll have good food on the road.”

  “Most cops and law-enforcement people aren’t as concerned about food as I am,” he said. “I
wouldn’t necessarily follow any of them off the road or to any place in the city.”

  I paused. Every time I started to feel good or enjoy something, the reason I was really there came rushing back.

  “Do you think they’re feeding her well, keeping her healthy?”

  “It would make no sense for them to take her and do otherwise, whatever their purpose.”

  “Their purpose,” I repeated. The food got stuck in my throat. I reached for the glass of water quickly and followed it up with some wine. “Are you thinking more about Mexico, Sam?”

  “We can’t rule it out, especially with our proximity to the border, but my instincts are telling me otherwise.”

  “Why? What are they telling you?”

  “I can’t give you an answer that would make any sense to you yet. It’s just a feeling, a feeling that comes with the territory, the experience.”

  “You think she might still be somewhere in this city?”

  “I don’t know, Grace. Let’s be careful about what we imagine. Let me see what else I can do first,” he said. It sounded more like a plea.

  I nodded, certain that whatever glow I had brought back into my face was quickly disappearing.

  “I hope I haven’t done the wrong thing by raising your hopes,” he said.

  “No, no. Trust me, I’ll never say or feel that.” I played with my food and then took another forkful. Coming here was a mistake, I told myself. I can’t do this. I can’t let myself enjoy a moment.

  As if he could hear my thoughts, he reached across the table and took my left hand into his. He held it and smiled. “You’ve got to find the strength, either by doing what your husband does or wants you to do or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “Some other way,” he said. I looked at his hand holding mine, and he let go.

  “I’ll never stop hating myself for what happened,” I said.

  “That’s so wrong. They’re predators. They pounce. You couldn’t carry her around all the time. People get distracted, not out of selfishness or something, at least not you,” he said.