Carol O’Connell - Find Me

“Ah,” said Riker, with great satisfaction. His eyes were fixed on the silver convertible. “The champ of neat freaks has arrived.”

Mallory slowly stepped out of the car, her attention already riveted on the FBI agent.

“And now,” said Riker, with the flair of a sports announcer, “she’s spotted the contender. It’s a match made in hell. She just noticed that his car’s cleaner than hers.”

Cadwaller straightened his perfectly straight tie and headed for the restaurant door, unaware that Mallory was right behind him, her eyes narrowed and fixed on the back of his neck.

Riker smiled at Charles. “She’s very competitive.”

The FBI man had spotted them and walked up to the table, saying, “I’m looking for Darwinia Sohlo.”

“You don’t need to talk to her,” said Mallory at his back.

The agent jumped and spun around. Riker grinned.

“I’ve got orders to interview this woman,” said Cadwaller.

“Because she’s traveling under an alias?” Mallory folded her arms. “She’s got nothing to do with this case. If you’d bothered with a background check you’d know that.”

Charles scanned the crowd of parents and found Darwinia Sohlo in her customary corner chair. Her eyes were a bit fearful, but she always looked that way. Two parents with trays sat down at her table, and the woman’s shoulders rounded as she tried to make herself smaller.

Cadwaller ignored Mallory and turned to Riker, saying, “I’m not planning to shoot Mrs. Sohlo. I just want to talk to her. My orders-”

“Orders from Dale?” Riker shook his head. “You’ve been had, pal. It’s busywork.”

In Charles’s estimation, this was no surprise to Cadwaller. The agent scanned the crowd and walked off in Dr. Magritte’s direction. After a few words were exchanged, the older man pointed him toward the corner table. Now Cadwaller squared off his shoulders and advanced on Darwinia Sohlo with slow, measured steps, clearly regarding her as a criminal.

Mallory turned to her partner. “He’s playing a role.”

Riker nodded. “Christ, you’d think Darwinia was packing a machine gun.”

Cadwaller’s words carried a tone of authority, not shouted, but strong. It was the voice of an enforcer. “Miriam Rainard? Come with me.” He gestured toward the door.

Charles turned to Riker, who answered his unspoken question. “That’s her right name, but I like the fake name better.”

The woman, known to all as Darwinia, slowly moved her head from side to side, a gesture of awe and certainly not one of defiance. The man never touched her. No need. Charles could virtually see the strings that had been attached to this woman’s psyche long ago. She must have been some other enforcer’s property for years and years. She was rising from the table, not even pausing to consider his order. It was an automatic response. Oh, but now the strings had gone slack. Her head moved in another slow side-to-side as she backed up to the wall, and this time she meant no; she was not going anywhere with him.

Charles turned to Mallory. “You know what’s going on, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Darwinia’s cut-rate plastic surgery-that’s a repair job.”

Of course. The history of a battered woman fitted so well with the camera shyness-a runaway woman hiding from an abusive spouse. “So, all this time,” said Charles, “she’s been living with the constant fear of discovery?”

“And now,” said Riker, “Darwinia can’t decide what she wants most- to stay alive or find her kid.”

“If she’s not a suspect, then maybe you two could persuade Cadwaller to leave her alone?”

Well, that was a waste of breath.

Mallory pulled out a chair at the table and sat down with Riker to watch the ongoing show. Charles turned in time to see Darwinia’s resolve fade and die. The woman was turning toward the door, walking in tandem with the FBI man. Oh, but now she saw Mallory, the boxer’s champion, and Darwinia’s e yes were begging. It was Riker who rose to the lady’s defense. He moved in front of the pair before they could reach the door. Apparently, this detective’s intervention was not in Cadwaller’s script for the day. The agent stopped short, all authority dissipating-so like an actor with no clue to his next line.

“Cadwaller, she can’t help you.” Riker waved him toward the window table. “But we can, me and my partner. Sit down, and we’ll fill you in.” Turning to Darwinia, he said, “Everything’s fine. Go finish your meal.”

The FBI man joined Charles and the detectives at their table. He sat down and opened a notebook, unaware that he was now the subject of an interrogation. Charles could see it coming as the two detectives smiled in unison and leaned toward the agent.

Lunchtime.

“I get the feeling,” said Riker, “that you don’t know your boss all that well. How long have you been posted with Dale’s field office?”

“Three months.”

Mallory leaned in. “But you don’t spend much time with him. He keeps you on the road a lot, doesn’t he? Away from the younger agents? They’re all out at the crime scenes, and here you are-running a fake errand.”

Understanding dawned on Cadwaller. His pale skin showed a slight flush of humiliation as he pulled out a pen and looked down at his blank notebook page. “So what’ve you got for me?”

“Twelve years ago, her kid disappeared,” said Riker. “The Wisconsin cops were looking at the father as the prime suspect, and they didn’t expect any help from the battered wife. There was a history of domestic disputes. Her jaw was broken twice, but the lady never pressed charges. Two years after her kid goes missing, Darwinia-Miriam, whatever-she disappears, too. And the cops knew they weren’t looking for a dead body-not that time. They just wished her luck. But Nahlman could’ve told you that. It was her catch, and she gave the whole story to Dale.” The detective leaned in closer, as if to impart a secret. “Now, we know you’re from the Freak Squad-”

“Behavioral Science Unit,” said Mallory, correcting her partner’s b ad manners and startling Charles. “This isn’t Cadwaller’s fault.” She turned to the agent, giving him her best rendition of sympathy. “The minute you saw that woman, you knew Dale was screwing up again, didn’t you? Wasting your time again.” And now she had saved a federal agent from looking like a fool.

Not her style.

The FBI man closed his notebook and slapped it on the table. Face saved, the agent raised his grateful eyes to Mallory’s. And now it was her turn to lean toward him into that close range of conspiracy, so confidential in her tone. “What if this isn’t a screw-up?”

“What?” Riker’s face was angry when he left his chair and took the one next to his partner. “You’re defending that idiot, Dale?”

Charles was confused by this new game of musical chairs and changing alliances.

Mallory’s e yes remained fixed on Cadwaller. “What if Dale’s playing you?”

The agent turned his face away from hers as he pocketed his notebook and pretended interest in invisible lint on his sleeve. “I guess we’re done, here.” Cadwaller rose from the table with no word of good-bye and left the restaurant.

Charles turned from one detective to the other. “What did I miss?”

“Not much.” Riker changed chairs again to sit before his tray of food. He pushed the laptop computer to Mallory’s side of the table, but she would not even look at it. He frowned, seeing this as an ongoing problem, like a failure to eat her vitamins. “I knew Cadwaller wasn’t D ale’s favorite agent. But if that guy’s got something on Dale, he’s not planning to share it.”

Charles edged closer to Mallory. “So you don’t think Agent Berman is just too incompetent to run a task force?”