Requiem, page 2
“Oh, no, well,” Wanda’s cheeks reddened. “Well, no, I—you have a very interesting job, that’s for sure.”
“It can be,” he said. “It can also be extremely challenging.”
A gap emerged in the line. Wanda gave the man a little wave before moving farther ahead, bringing their conversation to an end.
***
Twenty minutes later, Wanda cleared Customs.
She continued through the terminal toward the baggage claim area. Her unease about the man and what she’d seen on his laptop had dissipated.
Writing a screenplay. Researching a thriller movie. It all made sense.
She was glad she had never reported him, or made a scene.
He seems like a nice guy, and I would’ve looked like a fool.
She shook her head.
She had other things to deal with, like her medical situation. While walking, she reached into her bag for her phone and texted her friend, Colleen.
“Hey Coll. Just landed. Coffee tomorrow at our spot? 1? OK?”
Wanda would tell Colleen what the doctors in Mexico had said. Wanda felt that she needed to see another doctor in L.A. Colleen was her best friend, a sympathetic listener who understood everything she was going through ever since she’d lost Ed. She always gave her good advice.
Even though I don’t always take it.
Waiting for Colleen’s response, Wanda glanced around and saw the screenwriter again. He was near, but across the floor and a little behind her as they continued walking. He was on his phone. Wanda heard only bits of his conversation. He was talking in Spanish; she didn’t understand what he was saying. He shot her a glance before turning away.
Working for Meryl Streep and Brad Pitt has to be stressful, she thought.
They arrived in the baggage claim area, and Wanda found the carousel for their flight. The conveyor system was humming; a few bags had emerged. While waiting with other passengers, Wanda’s phone chimed with a notification.
Colleen had responded.
“YES to coffee tomorrow! Meet you there at 1! How did it go in Mexico?”
A parade of bags started on the carousel. Wanda glanced at it, watching for hers as she typed a response.
“Not so good. Tell you about it tomorrow.”
“OK. Good flight?”
Wanda watched for her bag, and then went back to her phone.
“A weird thing happened on the plane. Tell you tomorrow.”
“Arrgh! Don’t leave me hanging!”
People had started collecting their bags when Wanda’s large bag with the colorful flowered pattern appeared.
“Gotta go, sorry!!!”
“You’re so mean! See you tomorrow!”
Wanda put her phone away and reached for her big bag, struggling to heft it from the conveyor, when the screenwriter materialized, and grasped it.
“I’ve got this for you,” he grunted.
“Oh, thank you!”
“No problem.” Setting it down, he took up her ID tag, and studied her address. “Wanda.” He smiled. “I see you live in Downey.”
“Yes.”
“You won’t believe it, but I live in Pico Rivera. Nearby.”
“Really?”
“Really. What are the odds?”
“It’s a small world, for sure.” She smiled, and took up her bag. “Thanks again. Good luck with your script.” She turned to start for the exit.
“Wanda, wait,” he said. “The studio has sent a car for me. I can give you a lift home—no charge. It’s on the way.”
Wanda swallowed. Caught off guard by his generosity, she had to think fast.
“Thank you very much, but I don’t want you to go to the trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. It’s right on my way.”
“No, really, thank you. It’s very kind of you, but I’ve got a friend waiting,” she lied. “Thank you.”
Wanda started for the exit when she heard his phone ring. Walking away, she heard him drop his voice and start a conversation in Spanish, possibly hearing the word flores, which she knew meant flowers.
Outside, when Wanda made her way to the taxi pickup area, she sighed at yet another long line. Waiting her turn to be assigned a cab, she felt a bit ashamed.
Was I rude, too quick to refuse the screenwriter’s kind offer?
It could’ve been fun to ride in a studio car. Maybe pick up some Hollywood gossip on what the stars are really like. Besides, if she had this new cancer, despite what the doctors told her, shouldn’t she live life to the fullest?
“Wanda?”
Pulled from her thoughts, she looked just across the traffic lanes to a shiny, dark blue sedan that had stopped and was parked in a tow-away zone. The screenwriter had gotten out of the back seat and was approaching her.
“What happened? Did your friend stand you up?”
Her face reddened again as he stood near her.
“Yes, I’m afraid she had to cancel. Car trouble.”
“My offer’s still good. Come with me.”
Wanda saw the car’s trunk pop open, and the driver get out.
“I don’t want to trouble you.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“You’re sure it’s no trouble?”
“None at all. We’re going your way.”
“All right, then. Thank you.”
“You know,” he said, taking her bag and leading her to the car, “this is the same car Streep used, and she left her sunglasses.”
“Really?”
“Want a souvenir?”
The driver nodded to Wanda, placed her bag in the trunk, and closed the lid. She got in the back beside the screenwriter, and buckled her belt.
“Thank you again,” she said. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
“I know,” he said, checking his phone. “But I wanted to.”
As they pulled away and navigated from LAX toward the freeway, Wanda shivered with anticipation.
This will be fun. I’m glad I did this.
At that moment, as the car gathered speed, all of the door locks snapped.
CHAPTER 4
Downey, California
The next afternoon, Colleen Eden arrived at the coffee shop 10 minutes early and got a table by the window.
She held off ordering, preferring to wait until Wanda arrived.
Colleen wanted to hear about the trip to Mexico. Wanda was persevering, she thought, but Ed’s death had changed her. It was as if she were a broken china cup that had been reassembled. The fracture lines were there—behind her smile, behind her eyes—prompting her to do impulsive things, like travel to Mexico.
Apart from grieving the death of her husband, Wanda had begun obsessing about her health, often imagining she had a range of serious medical conditions. Colleen had, long ago, gently suggested Wanda see a therapist about her unfounded health fears, but nothing came of it.
The best Colleen could do was be her friend.
“Hi. Can I get you something?” a man—in his 20s, with a beard, ponytail, apron, and rolled-up sleeves—asked.
“Thanks, but I’ll wait ’til my friend gets here.”
“Sure thing.”
Colleen looked out the window, searching the sidewalk. Then she checked the time on her phone: 1:19.
Wanda’s late. That’s not like her. She’s punctual and conscientious. No messages, nothing. Biting her lip, Colleen sent her a text.
“I’m here at our favorite table. What’s up?”
Waiting for a response, Colleen thought back to when they met years ago at a CLA conference. At the time, Colleen was a librarian in Whittier and Wanda a librarian here in Downey, after working a short time in the records department for the Downey police. Colleen and Wanda had been pals a long time, and had been through a lot together. Wanda had helped her survive her divorce. But Colleen refused to dwell on the wound left by her adulterous ex.
She glanced at her phone.
My goodness.
It was now 1:35, and not a word from Wanda.
This isn’t like her.
Colleen called her, but it went to Wanda’s voice mail. She left a message.
Then Colleen looked up and down the street, thinking there had to be a simple explanation for why Wanda hadn’t shown up yet. Colleen waited. And waited. But after nearly an hour, she’d become antsy.
What’s keeping her?
Wanda’s house wasn’t far. She texted her again, this time to say she was coming over.
To be safe, before leaving, she called her again. Again, it went to voice mail. Colleen sent a new message, saying she was on her way. She left the coffee shop, got into her car, and drove.
***
Stopped at a red light, Colleen looked at her phone in her open bag on the passenger seat. Not a word from Wanda. Colleen couldn’t remember a time when she’d been this late, or missed one of their dates.
What could be keeping her?
It didn’t take long before she turned onto De Palma. After a few blocks, she stopped in front of Wanda’s neat-as-a-pin yellow stucco bungalow, with the palms in the front yard. Wanda’s Ford Fusion was in the carport.
Colleen rang the bell and listened.
Expecting to hear movement, Colleen heard nothing.
She pressed the doorbell a second time.
The house was silent.
She knocked, hard.
Nothing.
Concern pinging at her, she walked around the house to the rear, and knocked on the patio doors.
No response.
Shielding her eyes, Colleen drew her face to the glass.
“Wanda! Wanda, it’s Colleen!”
Silence.
“She’s not home.”
Catching her breath, Colleen turned to see a man watching from the fence dividing the yards. Then she sighed. It was Wanda’s neighbor, Len Peterson, the retired accountant and Navy veteran, in his backyard, tending to his thriving lemon trees.
“Hi, Len.”
“Hi, Colleen. Yeah, Wanda’s not home.”
“Not home? But she got into LAX yesterday. She was texting me. We had a date for coffee over an hour ago, and she didn’t show up. That’s why I’m here.”
“Odd.” Peterson scratched his head. “I have her mail on my kitchen counter. She would’ve collected it by now. No lights came on last night. There’s no sign of her.”
Worry coiled up Colleen’s spine.
“I don’t like this. Len, I know where she hides her spare key. I’ll get it, but will you come inside with me to check on her?”
“You want to go inside?”
“Yes, she could’ve been jet-lagged, fallen asleep, fell in the tub, or took too much medication. Who knows.”
“Sure. I’ll be right there.”
Colleen got the key from under the egg-shaped rock in the flower bed near the window of the garden shed. Wanda knew where Colleen kept her key, too. They had made a promise to look out for each other.
Len showed up with a Louisville Slugger in his hand.
Colleen looked at the bat, then at Len.
“In case there’s trouble,” he said, shrugging. “You never know.”
They entered from the side door. The air was a bit stale, with a fragrant hint of cleaner, as they entered the kitchen. With its white cabinets and ivory backsplash, it was spotless, immaculate.
Colleen called to her friend.
“Wanda? It’s Colleen and Len. Are you all right, honey?”
They heard nothing.
Len opened the fridge; it was bare, save for condiments, and jars of olives and pickles. Colleen looked in the trash; it was empty.
“Wanda?”
The small dining room, with its oak table and chairs, was empty. The living room was empty. The bed was made in Wanda’s bedroom. It was empty. Her other bedrooms were empty. So were the bathrooms. No signs of luggage, unpacking, or laundry.
The house held an eerie stillness.
“I’ve got a very bad feeling,” Colleen said.
CHAPTER 5
Manhattan, New York City
“This could cost me my job,” FBI Special Agent Jill McDade said.
Ray Wyatt nodded.
From their table in Bryant Park, McDade and Wyatt, a reporter for True Signal News, watched the children laughing on the carousel and the jugglers nearby.
With its promenades bordering the lush green lawn, the fountain, the gardens, the vendors, and café-like tables under the shade trees, the park was an oasis in the Midtown canyon of towering glass and steel between 41st and 42nd streets.
McDade liked the calm and peace of Bryant Park, and thought it best to meet there.
Her hands rested on her tablet.
“We’ve been through a lot together, Ray.”
“We have.”
“And I trust you.”
Wyatt nodded.
“I’m going to show this to you because of what’s at stake for you, and because I need you to see it, to help the investigation.”
“Understood.”
She tapped on her tablet, turned it to Wyatt, presenting him with a head-and-shoulder color photo of a boy.
As Wyatt stared at the image, the carousel music, the laughter, and traffic sounds faded. The boy looked lean, bordering on gaunt, offering a slight, nervous smile that pierced Wyatt, then ripped him open. Riveted to the image of the boy in the photo, a tsunami of emotions, memories, love, and agony overcame Wyatt, flooding him with hope.
Tears came to his eyes.
At the same time, he was terrified.
“I think—I think—this is Danny,” Wyatt said.
“I think so, too. I needed your help identifying this boy.”
“He’s alive? Where? How did you get this?”
“Give me your word this stays confidential.”
“Jill, this is—this could be my son!”
“I need your word, Ray.”
“You said you trust me.”
“Yes.”
“Then trust me to do the right thing.”
“Ray, this must stay with us. We’ve only just started the investigation.”
It had been a few months since the Hydra case exploded in Vermont. The story had long disappeared from the headlines. Last night, McDade had come out to Queens to see Wyatt, telling him that maybe he was right to believe his son Danny was alive after all this time. But she was unable to say more. Wyatt had demanded to know if she was keeping information from him, until finally McDade asked him to meet her the next day in Bryant Park.
Now, here they were. After showing him the photo, McDade started elaborating, pulling him back through the years and the pain.
Danny was three when he was killed in a hotel fire in Banff, Alberta, Canada, while Wyatt and his wife, Lisa, were there on vacation. Canadian authorities told them how Danny had died with others in the blaze, and that they’d been unable to find Danny’s remains—nothing, not even DNA—because Danny had been incinerated due to the intensity of the inferno.
Ray and Lisa never forgave themselves. Grappling with their guilt and grief, they’d refused to accept that Danny was dead. Ray had consulted experts who believed Danny’s teeth should have survived, thereby enabling DNA testing and proof.
Without proof that Danny was dead, Wyatt and Lisa never gave up believing he was alive.
As time passed, Wyatt did all he could to search for a resolution. He pushed sources and reached out to people who were in Banff at the time of the fire.
Lisa went into therapy. Her psychologist had urged her to take up an activity to help her cope. Lisa found a pottery class at Queens College. A year after the fire, while driving home on the Long Island Expressway, a woman who was texting while driving crashed into Lisa.
Wyatt got to Lisa’s hospital bed in time to hold her hand. He told her that he loved her before she said her last words to him: “Find Danny, Ray. Bring him home.”
After Lisa’s death, Wyatt never stopped looking for Danny. He continued appealing to other tourists who were in Banff at the time of the fire—sending messages around the world, begging for photos, videos, any recollection of the time that might help. People responded; they were kind. But Wyatt’s efforts led nowhere until he received a video. It had been recorded after the fire by Italian tourists who’d captured a fleeting, heartbreaking glimpse of a boy in the townsite who looked like Danny.
Maybe it was Danny. Maybe it wasn’t. But it gave Wyatt reason to believe that he could be alive somewhere in the world.
Now, he couldn’t pull away from the photo of the boy on McDade’s tablet.
“As you know,” McDade said, “he’d be six now.”
Blinking back tears, Wyatt’s mind processed the stunning wonder of it.
“Why do you think this is Danny?” he asked.
“We worked with our forensic artists and age-progression experts. They told us that as we age, all human faces follow the same general pattern. Children in the same age group will often look the same,” she said. “Going from age three up to six and seven, there is a loss of baby fat, the jaw gets a little fuller, the face broadens, and hereditary details sharpen.”
Wyatt nodded without looking away from the picture.
“Our experts then analyzed all the photos you posted online of Danny, and the photos you’ve shared with me of Lisa and yourself. After applying cutting-edge computer software programs, they concluded with ninety percent certainty that this boy is Danny.”
“Where is he now? Why don’t you go get him?”
“I don’t have all the answers. What I’ll share with you is in the strictest confidence, and may be hard to hear.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t reveal much because it’s part of an ongoing investigation that has only just been launched.”
“I get that, Jill, but I deserve to know.”
McDade glanced around at the park and skyscrapers, taking a moment for a deep breath.
“It arose out of Hydra, the man using the alias Lasius Byyle. The other man tied to the case was Devlin Foxe, the realtor. He had an online association with Byyle, and rented the property to him.”
Wyatt nodded. “I know.” He’d written about the case.
“Through his attorney, Foxe has been cooperating, telling us how he came to meet Byyle on the dark web. It gets complicated, very complicated, and it took us a lot of time to investigate. But members of some of their groups led us to tentacles of other groups, then others, and so on.”
