25

I slept until almost noon, which made me feel guilty because I missed Kristy’s practice session. Usually I’m up early. Usually I don’t cram my days as full. I scrunched under the covers and let faces roll through my memory like images on a loop of grainy film. Jamieson, Mooney, Hunneman, Lilia, Marta, the woman at the Herald. The Herald woman … I opened my eyes and checked the bedside clock. Plenty of time. I closed my eyes again. The faces that lingered were Paolina’s and Clinton’s.

And the woman who’d told me her name was Manuela Estefan.

I padded barefoot to the dresser and couldn’t find the phone book. It’s supposed to be near the phone, but it rarely is. Maybe Roz was painting its portrait somewhere. I dialed information and got the number of Paolina’s school. I asked the woman who answered for the attendance officer, not really knowing if there was any such thing. But she connected me to another voice, and I asked if she could check on Paolina.

She could and did, and Paolina had not come to school. She wanted to ask me a few questions, but I hung up.

Showered and dressed, I went downstairs to scare up something to eat, checking for Clinton’s card on the hall table along the way. It was gone. Good old Roz. I stood a long time in front of the refrigerator door before settling for cold cereal that was no more appetizing than it looked. I used the last of the milk, so I went to the fridge to add it to the shopping list.

I scrawled my addition and surveyed our message center on the refrigerator door. It was full of expired food coupons, take-out menus, and aged postcards. I decided I’d mention clearing the door to Roz. Then I saw it.

Hung on the tip of one of the magnets was a gold wire fish, Paolina’s fish. I racked my memory for the last time she’d been at the house. When was the last time I’d really looked at the door? I couldn’t remember, but I damned well would have spotted that fish.

Paolina had a key to the house. Paolina could have walked here from Marta’s, a long walk. She could have taken the subway. I shook my head in rueful admiration. The kid was okay. She knew where to go to stay safe. It was like she’d said on the phone.

Relief turned to anger in seconds. I left the breakfast dishes on the table and ran up the stairs.

“Paolina!” I shouted. “I know you’re here. Come on out.”

I heard a noise in one of the bedrooms I used to rent to Harvard students, a place I now call my study, although I don’t use it much. I called Paolina’s name again, pushed the door ajar.

T. C., the cat, strolled out, head and tail held high and snooty. The room showed no other signs of habitation.

I remembered the scuffling cat noise I’d heard last night while getting that drink for Clinton. T. C. or Paolina?

I quickly searched the rest of the second floor, came to the conclusion that she must have stayed with Roz, and got angry all over again. A ten-year-old girl, out all night, and Roz keeps it a secret. Fuming at her irresponsibility, I trudged heavily up the steps.

I rapped sharply at the bedroom door, walked on in.

It looked like the house had been abandoned to me, the cat, and the bird. Nobody else around. An extra blanket lay on one of the tumbling mats. I touched the rough yellow wool and wished Paolina were still sheltered by its warmth. Not the strange, hostile child of the past few months but the little girl hiding somewhere in the tough new shell.

I hoped Roz had fed the girl breakfast. More likely Paolina had reminded Roz to eat.

I did a quick search of the room and found none of Paolina’s clothes or books. I looked for strands of her hair and found two caught in Roz’s hairbrush. They stood out against the garish blond ones, evidence enough for me.

I remembered Marta’s harsh words on the phone last night, clattered downstairs to the nearest phone, and dialed her number.

A flood of Spanish and English gushed forth as soon as Marta realized who I was. I had trouble following it, but the gist seemed to be that Paolina had not come home, had not gone to school, and now she must call the police no matter what they did to her, and if they charged her with being an unfit mother, although why they should, she didn’t know, where would her boys go and—

I broke in on the torrent, explained what I knew.

“You think I should call the police?” she asked.

“She’ll probably come back here tonight. She doesn’t know I know.”

“Then we’ll wait,” Marta said grimly.

“Did you call Lilia?”

“Why?”

“Tell her to call in sick, okay?”

“You did it, didn’t you? You went to the police.”

“It’s not me. It’s something I heard. I think it would be better if Lilia stayed away for a while.”

“I try to get hold of her.”

“Thanks, Marta.”

“You call me as soon as Paolina comes. I have things to say to her. Privately.”

“I’ll call.”

I hung up and glanced at my watch. Time was getting short. I checked my clothes and changed out of my jeans. I put on khaki slacks, a jungle-print shirt, an olive-green sweater vest, and tucked my hair up under a slouch cap. We Boston cabbies have our dress code.