J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

Leaning over, he opens the glove compartment and shakes the ibuprofen bottle in my face. “Are you off your meds, is that it? I thought the leg was doing better.”

“Just keep your eyes on the road,” I say, shifting in the seat. “It’s not my leg, anyway. It’s something in my back. The pain is just a symptom. I must have pinched a nerve.”

“All right.” He tosses the bottle into my lap. “I just wish you’d get your head in the game. I can’t be carrying you on this.”

I flip on the radio, scanning the dial for some music.

“Hey, man. I’m just kidding. I’ll carry you as far as I can.”

He smiles and I smile back just to make him stop.

– -

The woman comes to the door barefoot, wearing cuffed shorts and a white T-shirt. She says her name is Miranda Ford and she has a driver’s license to back it up. She ushers us into a cramped apartment, a real step down from the house we’ve just seen. In the living room, a dark-haired toddler I recognize from the box of pictures scribbles on construction paper while a younger kid in a playpen watches him. She walks us past them to a kitchen table that’s been set up as a home office. Underneath the table, there’s a box like the ones stored in the garage, this one labeled CRAFTING, its flaps gaping. The table itself has been converted into work space. At one end there’s a big flat-screen computer, and at the other a sewing machine lit up by an adjustable work lamp clamped to the table’s edge. Lorenz asks and she explains that she makes purses and other bags and sells them online.

“That way I can stay home with the boys.”

“And that’s your only income?” I ask.

“I get money from my ex,” she says, “and I work part-time for a friend of mine who opened her own shop.”

I keep stealing looks at her, half expecting a wink of the eye or some other acknowledgment that this is all a sham. But if it is, they’ve gone through a lot of trouble. You don’t stick a woman in an apartment with a fake ID and two prop kids on the off chance someone will go digging into a cover story.

She offers us something to drink-the options include water, Diet Coke, and apple juice-then clears some chairs for us to sit. I glance back at the children, not wanting to make a scene in front of them. For her part, Miranda Ford gives no sign of anxiety. As if the police are always dropping by and she’s only mildly curious about our reasons.

“I wonder if we could talk somewhere private?” I ask.

“Of course.” She looks around, then frowns. “Only there’s not really any place besides the bedroom or the boys’ room.”

“Why don’t we go out on the steps?”

She follows us reluctantly, telling the toddler she’ll be just outside. He goes on ignoring our presence, scribbling hard with his crayon. On her way out, she turns up the volume on the cartoons.

The apartment’s on the second floor. Lorenz and I descend the stairs a little ways, letting her sit on the top step. I show her the photo I took from the house.

“Can you identify this man?” I ask, tapping Ford’s face.

“It’s Brandon,” she says. “My ex.”

“And when was the last time you talked to him?”

She stops to think. “Maybe a week ago? I’m not sure. I can find out, though.” She digs a phone out of her pocket and thumbs through the menu. “No, it was more like two weeks ago. He was doing a show and called from the road.”

“A gun show?”

She nods. “Down in Corpus Christi. He wanted me to go pick up the house keys from his mother, in case the Realtor did any showings. We’ve been trying to sell our house. When there’s a showing I go over and bake some cookies so the house smells good.”

“Was he planning to be out of town long, then?”

“He travels a lot.”

“And you haven’t heard from him since that call?”

“If you’re trying to find him,” she says, “I’m not really the person to ask. You should check with his mother-that’s her in the picture.” She takes the photo and holds it toward me, her finger on the older woman with the red eyes. “Hilda. That’s where I drop the kids when he’s supposed to take them. The two of us don’t really keep tabs on each other. We have our own lives. It’s better that way.”

Lorenz crouches down and takes his sunglasses off. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we have some bad news.”

As he goes on to break the news, Miranda’s lip starts to tremble. A thick tear slides down her cheek and she wipes it away. I watch her, convinced the reaction is genuine. He explains when the body was found and where, but doesn’t go into detail about the mutilation or torture. He doesn’t need to. The shock of her ex-husband’s death is enough.

Lorenz glances my way, gives me a questioning shrug. I nod for him to continue with his questions. Like a trouper, she endures them, answering in as much detail as she can. After a while, I tune them both out. I’m back in Bea Kuykendahl’s office, reviewing everything the FBI agent said and left unsaid. None of it really makes sense. There’s no way Brandon Ford isn’t real, no way this shaken, bereaved girl isn’t really his ex-wife.

I need to get out of here. I need to think. I need another talk with Agent Kuykendahl, too, and I want real answers this time around.

Miranda clears her throat, wipes her eyes one last time. “Am I-? I mean, is it me that’s responsible for the arrangements? I don’t know how it’s supposed to work, but if we’re not married anymore. .”

“You mentioned his mother?” Lorenz says. “Hilda. . was that her name?”

She nods and gives him an address and phone number, looking very relieved. But then her face clouds again. “What am I going to do? I rely on him to make ends meet.”

“How long were you married?” I ask.

She stops to think. “He proposed after Tate was born. It lasted three years almost. We weren’t happy, though. Brandon saw other women.”

As we start to go, she watches us from the top step, her entwined hands pressing down against her stomach. She’s looking at us, but I don’t think she sees us. Her eyes are focused on the past. She seems to have forgotten us entirely, so I’m surprised when she calls down.

“Other women,” she says, like she’s finishing her thought from before. “There was somebody with him the last time. Somebody new. She waited in the car while he dropped off the kids. This was at Hilda’s, and I’d been waiting inside for almost an hour. When he showed up, he didn’t say anything about her , but I knew she’d been with my kids.”

I climb the steps again, pausing beside her.

“This was a new girlfriend?” I ask.

She shrugs. “While we were talking inside, I looked through the window and saw her. She got out of the car and was standing on the curb, talking on her phone.” Her eyes moisten. “That’s who you should track down. She’d know better than me where Brandon’s been.”

I ask her to describe the woman.

“She wasn’t pretty,” she says quickly. “Kind of small and bony. Androgynous. She had choppy blond hair, and kind of dressed like a man. .”

“Did you ask your boy-Tate? Did he know her name?”

Her face hardens. “She told them to call her Trixie.”

“Like in Speed Racer ?” I ask, showing my age.

She just shrugs. I thank her for the information and promise to get back in touch if we learn anything more.

On the way to the car, Lorenz scribbles down the name. “It’s not much to go on.”

“No, it’s not,” I say.

But it is. Given the fact that I met the woman she was describing just a few hours earlier, and that Trixie must be a preferable nickname for a woman whose parents saddled her with a name like Beatrix.