Livia lone, p.12
Livia Lone, page 12
“What, are you new in town?”
“Yeah, up from San Francisco. Still getting my bearings.”
“Well, if you like coffee, Seattle’s the right place.”
“That’s what I hear. Though I’ll tell you, San Francisco’s pretty hard to beat in the coffee department. Got any recommendations?”
He laughed. “I tend to fuel up at a place called Black Rock. You’re not going to find as much here in Shoreline as in Seattle, or in San Francisco, I guess, but with Black Rock you won’t miss it, either.”
She gave him an appreciative nod. “Thanks. I’m Suzy, by the way.”
He gave her body another look, then extended a hand. “Good to meet you, Suzy. I’m Mike.”
She shook his hand, holding it just a tad longer than decorum alone would dictate. “Well, Mike, do you mind if I take advantage of short acquaintance to ask you another question about the neighborhood?”
He glanced at her shopping cart. She could see him doing the math based on her groceries—a woman living alone. A woman who might enjoy a glass of wine before eating her microwaved dinner, to take the edge off. And maybe another with dinner, to keep the edge off. And maybe another after dinner, to kill the edge entirely.
“Hey, happy to help.”
“So, I’ve got a Westie mix. Ginger’s her name. Where’s a good place to take her to let her off the leash?”
“Easy. Saltwater Park.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s at Richmond Beach. Right here in Shoreline.” He looked her up and down again. “And you look like you’re into staying fit, yeah?”
“You guessed it.”
“Well, you’d be amazed at the workout you can get going up and down the stairs there.” He smiled. “I go a lot around sunset. Probably be there tonight. You should come by. You could introduce me to Ginger.”
She smiled back. “I might just do that, Mike.”
24—THEN
Over the winter holidays, Livia heard the doorbell ring, and then voices in the foyer. The voices died down, and she thought whoever had come to the door had left. But a little while later, when she emerged from her room to get a snack, she found Mrs. Lone sitting at the kitchen table with a visitor. They were drinking coffee and laughing. Livia thought she had never seen Mrs. Lone so at ease and happy. But as soon as she saw Livia, her face closed up into its customary pinched look.
The visitor smiled when he saw Livia, then pushed back his chair and stood. He looked a little older than Mrs. Lone, with hair the color of sand mixed with ash. He wasn’t a big man, but there was something . . . solid about him. The way his feet were planted on the ground, the way his arms hung at his sides, maybe. It was as though he was relaxed, but also ready.
Mrs. Lone didn’t get up. Her voice cool, she said, “Livia, this is my brother. Officer Harris.”
The man glanced at Mrs. Lone and laughed uncomfortably. “Jeez, Dotty, you make it sound as though she’s committed a crime.”
Mrs. Lone made a noise that might have been meant as a laugh, but came out more as a grunt.
The man walked over to Livia and held out his hand. “If you want to be friends, you can’t call me Officer Harris. You have to call me Rick. Okay?”
Livia had learned a lot about how to shake hands since that first time with Tanya. Reminding herself to look in his eyes, she took Rick’s big hand in her smaller one and gave it an awkward squeeze. Rick squeezed back. It was only a slight squeeze, but she was aware of the strength behind it.
Rick smiled and released her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Livia.”
This was one of the first things Nanu had taught her, and there had been countless opportunities to practice it at the Lones’ parties. So it was easy to respond, “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you. Dotty told me you got straight A’s last semester.”
If Mrs. Lone had told him anything at all about her grades or anything else, Livia thought, it could only have been because he had insisted. She glanced over and saw Mrs. Lone watching them. As always, there was something suspicious in the woman’s expression. And this time, somehow, something envious, as well. Livia didn’t know why, but she could tell Mrs. Lone didn’t want Livia talking to her brother.
But she knew the mention of her grades was intended as a compliment. It would be rude to offer nothing in return. So she nodded and said, “Yes.”
“That’s amazing. I mean, six months ago, you barely spoke a word of English, is that right?”
“Mr. Lone—and Mrs. Lone—they got me tutors.”
“Well, that was good of them. But even so, that’s quite an achievement. I think you must be very smart.”
“I . . . study a lot.”
He laughed. “I studied a lot, too. And I grew up speaking English. But I never got straight A’s.”
Mrs. Lone had called him “Officer.” Livia knew the woman wouldn’t like it, but she couldn’t resist asking. “Are you . . . a policeman?”
Rick nodded. “Twenty-five years on the job in Portland.”
Portland, she thought. Nason.
“What kind of policeman?”
Mrs. Lone stood. “Livia, my brother had a long drive from Portland, and he’s probably tired. So . . .”
Rick gave his sister a strange glance—half amusement, half annoyance—then looked at Livia again. “You know how you can tell you’re getting older? When your little sister starts treating you like an invalid. I’m a homicide detective, Livia. That means—”
“Murder,” Livia said.
Rick laughed. “Sorry. I should have known you’d know the word. Anyway, yes, just a humble Portland cop, taking a few days to visit his sister and her family.”
Knowing again that Mrs. Lone wouldn’t like it, Livia said, “What about you? Your family?”
Rick shrugged. “Being a cop can make it hard to have kids and all that. So no, Dotty and my four nephews are my family.” He smiled. “And now you.”
She didn’t know why, but that shrug was the first thing Rick had done that didn’t strike Livia as genuine. And while his answer about not having a family of his own had been smoothly delivered, Livia wondered why he felt he needed to explain. At least when he said she was his family now, it didn’t bother her—unlike with Mr. Lone, coming from Rick it didn’t sound like a threat or a trap. And he’d left out Mr. Lone when describing who was his family—what did that mean?
She didn’t know what to make of it all, and wanted to think about it later. So for the moment, she just said, “Okay.”
“I’m going to be here for a few days. If you ever feel like a break from studying, I’d love to hear about how things are going—school, life, whatever.”
The whole time they’d been talking, she’d been expecting him to say something about her “ordeal” or her “bravery.” She was intrigued, and glad, that he hadn’t.
Mrs. Lone’s pinched look became even more cramped. Not wanting to upset her or to offend Rick, Livia only nodded.
Rick reached for her hand and shook it again. “All right, then. It’s really nice to meet you, Livia. I hope we’ll get a chance to chat some more.”
25—THEN
During the same holiday Rick was there, the Lones’ four sons visited. Mr. Lone briefly introduced them to Livia, and they all reacted to her with varying degrees of curiosity, discomfort, and pity. Ordinarily, Livia preferred to eat alone in her room, using homework as an excuse, but while the sons and Rick were in the house, Mr. Lone insisted on taking everyone out to restaurants. These dinners were painful affairs, during which Livia could feel acutely that everyone wished she wasn’t there—everyone but Mr. Lone, who seemed to enjoy showing her off in public, and Rick, who was the only one who talked to her, even though her responses were awkward and uncertain.
One morning, Mrs. Lone came to Livia’s room and told her Mr. Lone was taking everyone to brunch. Livia understood this wasn’t an invitation, and that Mr. Lone was insisting. But she thought she couldn’t stand another meal with these people. So she said, “My stomach hurts. I think I’m going to stay in bed.”
Actually, her stomach did hurt. A few months earlier, she had started to bleed, and it was happening now. She knew what the bleeding was—it had to do with making babies, and in the village, the women used rags during the days when it happened. Here, they didn’t use rags; there were special pads that absorbed better. Mr. Lone had told her to ask for anything she needed, but she didn’t want him to know about the bleeding. Her body was beginning to change, with hair between her legs and bumps on her chest where before there had been only skin and muscle, and his bathroom visits had become more frequent, his staring while he touched himself more intense. So she used some of the spending money he gave her to buy the pads in a store, hiding them under her bed when she didn’t need them, and putting the ones she’d used at the bottom of the kitchen garbage when no one was around.
Mrs. Lone stood in the doorway, her pinched face looking like someone was squeezing it from both sides. “Your stomach? Nothing contagious, I hope?”
Livia wondered why the woman was asking—she’d never given any indication before that she was concerned about Livia’s health, or anything else about her. Was she really afraid someone might catch something from Livia? Or did she suspect Livia was bleeding, with the question a way to try to confirm?
Not knowing what was the right course, Livia decided on ambiguity. “I’m not sure.”
“All right. I’ll tell Mr. Lone.” She closed the door, her footfalls fading as she walked down the hallway.
Livia understood the “I’ll tell Mr. Lone” was Mrs. Lone’s way of indicating that if it were up to her, Livia wouldn’t even be allowed in the house, let alone receive invitations to brunch. But she was used to Mrs. Lone’s little indications, and they bothered her less now than they had at first. The main thing was, she didn’t have to suffer through another meal with all of them.
She went back to her books. The echoes of conversation downstairs became more animated, then were cut off by the slam of the front door. She heard car doors opening and closing, engines starting, tires on gravel . . . and then, finally, the house was mercifully quiet.
Five minutes later, she heard one of the guest room doors open. She frowned—someone must have stayed behind. She heard a cough, and thought it sounded like Rick. She heard his footsteps moving down the corridor, then the buzz of coffee being ground in the kitchen.
The whole time Rick was staying with the Lones, Livia had been thinking about Portland and Nason. And trying to weigh the risks of asking for his help. It felt dangerous, and she knew Mr. Lone would be furious if he found out. But in the end, she decided she had to try.
She went to the kitchen. Rick was sitting at the table, sipping coffee from a mug stamped “Llewellyn Lions”—the name of the high school football team—and reading the newspaper. He smiled when he saw her and put down the paper.
“Livia—I thought you went with them to brunch. Sleeping late?”
“Studying.”
“You’re a hard worker.”
She nodded.
“But don’t you ever . . .”
She waited for him to go on, but it seemed he had thought better of it. He poured some coffee from a carafe into the mug. “You want some?”
She was surprised. “Coffee? I never had it. Have never had it.”
“How old are you?”
She was going to say thirteen, but then changed her mind. “Almost fourteen.”
“Well, I’d say that’s old enough for just a taste. Though you might not want to mention it to my sister.” He smiled. “Unless you want to get me in trouble.”
Livia couldn’t help smiling back. “No, I won’t tell her.”
“Okay, then.” He walked over to the refrigerator and took out a carton of milk, then pulled a box from a cabinet. “Turbinado sugar. That’s good. A little molasses tastes great in coffee. I generally drink mine black, but for your first time, milk and sugar’s a good idea.”
He took another mug from a cabinet, poured some coffee in along with a big serving of milk, added two spoonfuls of sugar, stirred it all together, and gave the mug to Livia. She smelled it suspiciously, then took a little sip—and then a bigger one. It was delicious. She’d never tasted anything like it.
He must have seen her expression, because he smiled and said, “Not bad, huh?”
She nodded, happy to have discovered something so tasty, and liking that it was a secret from Mrs. Lone. “It’s really good.”
“Well, you can’t drink too much of it. You’re not grown yet, and caffeine can make you jittery. But a little won’t hurt you. Just remember, you didn’t get it from me.”
“Okay.” She took another sip, then said, “What were you going to ask before?”
“When?”
“You said, ‘But don’t you ever . . . ’”
“Oh, that. I don’t know. Something about school, I guess. But you know what? I don’t even remember much about school. I actually hated it.”
She cocked her head, suddenly intrigued at what felt like a confidence. “Why?”
“Ah, it’s a long story. I just never felt like I fit in. I was glad when it was over. I’m better at being a cop than I was at being a student.”
Livia glanced around. “You . . . didn’t want to go to breakfast?”
He took a sip of his coffee. “I begged off. It’s great to see everyone, but sometimes I need a little space. You know?”
“Yes.”
“And tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, so it’s going to be the big church thing. Does Fred make you go to church?”
“Yes.” She didn’t like talking about Mr. Lone.
“Yeah, I figured. Well, I’m not really the churchgoing type. To each his own, I guess.”
She looked at him, desperate to ask, but also afraid. She sensed she was crossing lines she couldn’t clearly see.
A strange expression settled into his face—compassion, but also something . . . concerned.
“How’s everything going, Livia?”
Somehow, she could tell he didn’t mean it in the usual polite, surface way. That he was really asking. Really wanted to know. Maybe even really . . . cared?
She bit her lip. She so wanted to ask him.
“What is it?” he said. “Honey, if something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
No, she thought. I can’t tell anyone. Ever.
But she could ask him. She had to.
“My sister,” she said. “Nason.” From no more than saying Nason’s name, the tears welled up. She wiped them violently away, furious at herself for crying.
“I heard about your sister, hon,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
She nodded. “No one knows where she is. What happened to her. Even if—”
She couldn’t finish the sentence. But she didn’t need to. He nodded, waiting for her to go on. She could tell that Mr. Lone had told him nothing. But did that mean Mr. Lone knew nothing?
She cleared her throat. “All anyone knows, I think, is Portland is where we were separated. Portland is where she disappeared.”
He nodded. “PPB knows about it. And I talked to all my contacts so they would understand it’s personal, too. You know, my beat is homicide, but there are cops who specialize in child matters, that kind of thing. I made sure they’re all looking for your sister.”
She was stunned. “You . . . you did that?”
“Jesus, of course I did, Livia.”
She started crying again. She couldn’t help it. She’d gotten so good at hardening herself against cruelty, she hadn’t been prepared for his kindness.
He tore a paper towel from the dispenser and handed it to her. While she wiped her face and sniffled, he reached for her shoulder. She jerked back.
Instantly he raised his hands, palms up. “I’m sorry, honey.”
She shook her head. She hadn’t sensed he was going to touch her in a bad way. But . . . she didn’t like being touched anymore. By men, especially.
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, because what he had done for Nason was so nice, so good. But there was no way to explain. She shook her head and said, “No, no, I’m sorry.”
The way he was looking at her . . . she had the strangest sense that maybe he knew. Or knew enough. Even without her telling.
“It’s okay,” he said. “And you don’t have one thing to be sorry for, do you understand? Not one.”
She nodded and wiped her eyes. “Did the special police you know . . . did anyone . . .”
He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, there’s not a lot to go on, and no one has been able to find anything. But I’m not going to give up. And I won’t let anyone else, either.”
“What about the men who took us? The Thai men? I described them all to the people from the Immigration and Naturalization Service.” She pronounced the unfamiliar words carefully.
“As I understand it, that’s a dead end. No one knows who the men are or how to find them. I know the police have your description, and if they catch anyone who looks like that, they’ll be questioned very closely.”
“Will you tell me if that happens?”
“Of course.”
She pursed her lips, frustrated. To be right here, able to ask a Portland police officer, and still not find anything useful . . . it was maddening.
“What about the men on the boat? The boat from Portland. How did the police even know there were smuggled people on it?”
“That’s funny, I had the same question. I asked around. Word is, it was an anonymous call to Chief Emmanuel of Llewellyn PD. Seems like a rival gang dropped a dime.”
“Dropped a dime?”
“An expression. It refers to the days when public phones only cost a dime. Someone wanting to turn someone in would use a public phone so the call couldn’t be traced. So ‘drop a dime’ came to mean an anonymous tip to the police.”
“Why would someone do that?”
“Could be a lot of reasons. A business rival, disrupting someone else’s shipment. Payback for something. Maybe something else personal. Hard to say. The caller had specific information about the barge and the timing. Llewellyn PD doesn’t have much experience with people smuggling, so they called INS. There must have been a lot of cops and agents on the dock the day they rescued you.”
