Tears in the darkness, p.14
Tears in the Darkness, page 14
“Already planning on it.”
“And Martinez?” Hawkins’ pale eyes fixed on him. “Keep it quiet. Last thing we need is panic about baby-snatching rings or whatever conspiracy theory would spring from this. The county board starts getting calls, they’ll want answers we don’t have.”
“Understood.”
Martinez left the office and headed to his desk in the squad room. Wilson was typing a report two desks over, hunting and pecking at the keyboard with two fingers.
He pulled up Jenny’s home number on his phone and dialed. It rang three times before she answered.
“Wahlberg residence.” Her voice sounded tired but alert.
“Jenny, it’s Pedro. How’s our guest?”
“Sleeping finally. And without pharmaceutical help. She’s exhausted.”
“Good. Listen, I need a favor for tomorrow. Can you check county property records? Looking for any farms that changed hands in the past two, maybe three years.”
“You think she was being held locally?”
“Following up on all possibilities. Also check with that realtor in Harris—what’s her name, Debbie something?”
“Debbie Mondo.”
“Right. See if she knows of any vacant properties for sale. Places someone could use without being noticed.”
“I can do that.” He heard paper rustling. “First thing tomorrow morning. Her office opens at eight.”
“Perfect. And Jenny? Those notes you sent Elliot were helpful. Keep her talking when she wakes up.”
“I will. She’s scared, Pedro. Really believes someone has her baby.”
“Then we better make sure we’ve looked everywhere we can.”
After ending the call, Martinez pulled up a map of Mirage County on his computer. The screen glowed with topographical lines and property boundaries. He started dividing the territory into search grids, calculating drive times and distances.
North of Harris—six deputies could cover that in a standard shift. The ranches were bigger up there but fewer. South toward Darkness, the properties were smaller but more numerous. South of Darkness, toward the salt flats, there were few properties, but they were isolated. He’d need eight deputies minimum, maybe ten if he wanted thorough coverage.
He grabbed a legal pad and started sketching out assignments. Thomson and Rodriguez could take the eastern section along the old mine road. Kraft and Paulson could handle the area near the highway.
Wilson finished his report and wandered over. “Working late, Sarge?”
“Planning tomorrow’s patrol routes.” Martinez didn’t elaborate. Wilson was solid but liked to talk. The fewer people who knew details, the better.
“Heard the sheriff’s in LA.”
“Following up on that bus situation.”
Wilson nodded and headed for the coffee machine. Martinez returned to his grid, marking water sources and access roads. If someone was running an illegal operation, they’d need water, power, road access. That might have eliminated a lot of the old homesteads and abandoned mining camps, except that generators and water could be shipped in. But activity like that might be noticed.
By the time he finished, the evening shift was arriving. He folded the paper and tucked it into his desk drawer. Tomorrow morning he’d brief both offices, keeping it casual. Just an expanded patrol pattern, checking on folks during the heat.
He thought about Alyssa Painter, drugged and confused, convinced someone had stolen her child. Maybe she was delusional. The drugs and trauma could have scrambled her memories, turned a stillbirth or abandonment into a kidnapping.
But those specific details—the retreat, other pregnant women, someone with a Russian accent delivering babies—those didn’t sound like delusions. They sounded like memories fighting through pharmaceutical fog.
Martinez locked his desk drawer and grabbed his hat. The sun would set in three hours. By tomorrow afternoon, they’d have eyes on every viable property in the county. If there was something to find, they’d find it.
Or they’d confirm there was nothing there at all.
Chapter
Nineteen
The apartment door closed behind Finch at 6:15 PM. The walk from her Echo Park apartment to Dodger Stadium took twenty-three minutes at her standard pace—she’d mapped it dozens of times, accounting for elevation changes and pedestrian traffic patterns. Tonight’s variables included residual heat radiating from concrete and the pre-game crowd density on Sunset Boulevard.
She’d thrown on her blue capri pants and a Dodgers t-shirt, her standard game attire. She clutched her leather folio containing her scorebook, having left her messenger satchel at home. The stadium only permitted small clear bags, and as law enforcement, she could live with a rule that prevented any old nutcase from carrying a weapon into the ballpark. Her hair, released from its professional ponytail, fell loose around her shoulders before she pulled it back again.
The familiar route unfolded before her. Past the corner bodega where the owner’s tabby cat sprawled across newspapers. Through the intersection where food trucks gathered on weekends. Up the steady incline toward Vin Scully Avenue, where the neighborhood transformed from residential to commercial chaos.
Vendors hawked knockoff jerseys and foam fingers. The smell of grilled onions mixed with exhaust fumes and the particular scent of forty thousand people converging on a single location.
She spotted Rohan at 6:44 p.m., one minute early, standing exactly where she’d specified—Top Deck entrance, left field side. He wore dark khakis and a gray henley, with a light jacket folded over his arm. His horn-rimmed glasses caught the evening sun as he scanned the crowd. When he saw her, his face shifted into that easy smile she remembered from their task force work.
“Agent Finch.”
“We’re not at work.”
“Olivia, then?”
“Finch is fine.” She turned without waiting for a response. “This way.”
She led him past the main entrance, through the rivers of people flowing toward turnstiles. Around the corner, down a concrete path most fans never noticed. The security gate stood unmarked except for a small Authorized Personnel Only sign.
Abe sat on his stool, Dodgers cap pushed back on his head. His face crinkled into recognition as she approached.
“Hey there, Finch. Good to see you.”
“Hello, Abe.”
He waved them through without asking for tickets or ID. Rohan followed, and she felt his curiosity.
“You know security?” His tone held interest but not interrogation.
“I helped the head of security with something.” She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t press. Another point in his favor.
They climbed concrete stairs worn smooth by fifty years of feet. The Top Deck opened before them, that perfect vantage point high above home plate where the entire field spread out like a diagram. The crowd up here ran thinner, more locals than tourists. People who came for baseball, not Instagram photos.
She led him to her usual seats—row W, seats 5 and 6. The vendor traffic was lighter here, the beer lines shorter. Everything exactly as she preferred it.
“I always get a Dodger Dog and a beer,” she announced, pulling out her scorebook.
Rohan stood immediately. “I’ll get them.”
He didn’t ask what kind of beer, didn’t question whether she wanted mustard or ketchup. He simply left. When he returned ten minutes later, he carried two Dodger Dogs—mustard only—and two draft beers in plastic cups.
“Thank you.” She accepted hers and set the beer between her feet. “Your information about Darren Thorpe was accurate and useful.”
“Good.”
“The lead went cold. His listed address was outdated by two months. We plan to check the employer location tomorrow.”
“If you need anything else, just ask.”
Business concluded. Obligation addressed. She pulled out her scorebook as the national anthem played. The leather cover had worn soft from years of handling. Inside, pages of meticulously recorded games stretched back three seasons. She found tonight’s page—already prepped with the lineup from the Dodgers’ website.
The first pitch—a fastball, high and outside for ball one. She marked it in her book. A single dot in the appropriate box.
“You keep score by hand?” Rohan asked.
She tensed slightly, waiting for the inevitable comment about apps or statistics websites, or a crack about nerdy behavior. Instead, he leaned closer, studying her notation.
“My dad does the same thing.” He adjusted his glasses. “Different sport though. Cricket.”
“Cricket?” She looked up from her book. “In Los Angeles?”
“There’s a whole league. My dad’s the official scorer for his club. Says you can’t trust the digital stuff.” He pointed to her notation. “Is that the standard system or your own modification?”
“Modified standard. Some people prefer to put a B for ball, but I was taught to use a dot. It’s more efficient.”
“Makes sense. Same in cricket. A delivery with no score is marked with a dot.”
She studied him for a moment. He wasn’t trying to impress her with knowledge he didn’t have or dismissing her method as archaic. He was simply interested.
“Is that right? Perhaps a result of the sports’ similar origins.” She took a sip of her beer. “Where do they play cricket in LA?”
“Woodley Park, mostly. Out in the Sepulveda Basin. There’s like three or four cricket grounds out there.” He smiled. “I know. No one expects cricket in Los Angeles. But there’s a huge South Asian community here, plus expats from Australia, England, the Caribbean.”
She nodded at this new information about the city as the second pitch was called a strike. She wrote a / symbol for the called strike.
They settled into the rhythm of the game. She marked each pitch, each play, building the story of the contest in symbols and abbreviations. Rohan watched—the game, but also her. She could feel his observation but it wasn’t invasive, more like ambient awareness.
He asked occasional questions. Not the annoying kind—why are you writing that?—but legitimate strategic queries. Why did they shift the infield there? What’s the advantage of the hit-and-run with two strikes? Questions that showed he understood the game’s basic mechanics but wanted to grasp its deeper patterns.
Between the second and third innings, he stood. “Another round?”
“Sprite, please.” He picked up her empty beer cup and slipped it inside his, then deposited them into the trash as he walked away.
He returned with her Sprite and another beer for himself.
The Dodgers took a three-run lead in the fourth. She recorded each run with satisfaction, the home team’s success validating her presence in a way she was never quite able to comprehend. She was not part of the team and affected the outcome of the game not one little bit, yet their success brought joy. Around them, the crowd ebbed and flowed with the game’s momentum. Beach balls appeared and were confiscated. The wave started and died in the outfield sections.
In the sixth inning, he offered again. This time she requested lemonade. He came back with her drink, a Coke for himself, and a bag of peanuts.
“Want some?” He held out the bag.
“Thank you.”
He cracked a shell between his fingers, extracted the nuts, then tossed the shell on the concrete. The small action sent an unexpected spike of irritation through her. The randomness of it, the mess accumulating around his feet. Chaos where there should be order. It was a baseball tradition so she let it pass, but she cracked her own nut and pocketed the shells in a small plastic bag she brought for the purpose.
She forced herself to refocus on the scorebook. Bottom of the seventh, runners on first and third, one out. The Dodgers’ manager called for a pitching change. She noted the substitution, updated her pitcher statistics.
“Is this guy any good?” Rohan asked, watching the relief pitcher warm up.
She glanced at her historical notes. “Four point seven two ERA against lefties in night games.”
“You track all that?”
“Patterns matter.”
He cracked another peanut. The shell fragments scattered across the concrete like shrapnel. She gripped her pencil tighter.
The game moved through eight innings, then nine. The Dodgers held their lead, securing the win. Around them, people began filing toward exits before the final out, trying to beat traffic. She never understood that impulse—leaving before completion, accepting an incomplete data set, or at least paying a King’s ransom for only part of the show.
They remained seated until she’d finished recording the final statistics. Game time: 2:47. Attendance: 42,364. The satisfying completion of another entry.
The stadium emptied in waves. They joined the flow, moving with the crowd. At the security gate, Abe had already left for the night. The exodus continued down the hill toward Sunset.
“I can give you a ride home,” Rohan offered as they reached the vast parking lot.
“I live nearby. I prefer to walk.”
“Okay, then. Well, I enjoyed it. Maybe we could do this again sometime.”
“Perhaps.”
She offered a smile and nod, then turned and joined the pedestrian stream flowing past the gridlock of cars attempting to leave. The walk home would take twenty-nine minutes with the crowd, longer than without but still faster than sitting in traffic.
As she walked, she processed the evening’s data. Social interaction duration: 2 hours, 56 minutes. Uncomfortable moments: the peanut shells, primarily. Conversation requiring emotional labor: minimal. Information exchanged: valuable on both sides.
The cricket detail interested her. A structured sport with complex statistics. His questions showed genuine curiosity without condescension. His respect for boundaries—immediate acceptance of her preferences without negotiation.
She’d anticipated the evening as a necessary transaction, payment for services rendered. Instead, she’d found something unexpectedly tolerable. Even—though she hesitated to form the thought—pleasant.
Her apartment building came into view. As she climbed the stairs, her phone vibrated with a text.
Thanks again for tonight. The Dodgers have three home games next week if you want company for any of them.
She stood at her door, key in hand, considering. Three games were too many. The idea of repeated social interaction in rapid succession made her shoulders tighten. But one game, properly spaced, with clear parameters?
She typed back: Thursday. Same time and place.
His response came immediately: Perfect.
Despite herself, she felt her mouth curve slightly.
She entered her apartment, returned her scorebook to its designated shelf, and began her nighttime routine. Shower, eight minutes. Teeth, two minutes. Review tomorrow’s schedule on her app.
As she lay in bed, her mind cataloged the evening’s variables one final time. The social interaction had been successful. Not overwhelming. Actually enjoyable, even.
She could do it again. Just not every time.
The motel room smelled like industrial bleach trying to mask something worse. Izzy dropped her bag on the polyester bedspread—a pattern designed to hide stains rather than please the eye—and immediately wanted to leave. Outside the window, Monterey Park’s commercial strip throbbed with evening traffic. Brake lights created a river of red, punctuated by the occasional siren cutting through the ambient roar.
She pulled out her phone before she’d even kicked off her shoes. The need for connection overrode everything else—the exhaustion in her bones, the frustration of chasing ghosts through Los Angeles, the growing certainty that she might be wasting her time, that what she would find at this point was likely to haunt her.
Cole answered on the second ring. “Hey.”
His voice alone loosened something inside. In the background, she heard Nanook’s distinctive whine—the one he made when Cole was on the phone instead of paying attention to him.
“Tell that spoiled dog I’ll make it up to him when I get back,” she said, sinking onto the bed’s edge. The mattress gave too much, cheap springs protesting.
“He’s already angling for extra treats. How’s LA?”
“Hot. Crowded. Exactly what you expect.” She rubbed her temple where a headache was forming. “How’s Alyssa?”
“Settling in at the Wahlbergs’. Jenny’s got her eating actual meals, which is more than we managed. That woman could probably convince anyone to do anything with enough kindness and banana bread.”
Izzy smiled despite herself. Jenny Wahlberg possessed that rare ability to make people feel safe without trying. It was exactly what Alyssa needed—not interrogation, not medical procedures, just human warmth.
“Good.” She stood, unable to sit still on the questionable bedspread any longer. The room felt smaller with each passing second. “Any changes with Alyssa’s memory?”
“Jenny says she’s remembering fragments. Details that suggest a farm, but nothing concrete. Martinez has deputies checking the back roads,” Cole continued. “I’m planning on doing a flyover with Elliot in the morning.”
Through the window, she watched a man argue with a parking meter, gesticulating wildly at the machine as if it might respond to reason. The city never stopped, never slowed, just ground forward, unyielding.
“When are you coming home?”
The question landed in the pit of her stomach. Home. He’d said it so naturally, as if it was obvious, as if Darkness had always been her destination rather than her reluctant retreat.
She pressed her palm against the warm window glass. “Soon as I can. Might have to leave the LA angle to Finch, but—”
“But you won’t.”
“No. Probably not.” She could hear his smile through the phone, that particular mix of exasperation and affection he’d perfected. “How was the FBI building?”
“Anti-climactic. They treated me like any other visiting LEO. Professional courtesy, nothing more.” She thought about the security checkpoint, the familiar lobby that felt foreign now. “Finch is … different. But solid, I think. She sees things others miss.”
