Stolen Grace (29 page)

“I don’t go to school. Come on, Adela, let’s go and play baseball with the boys.”

They ran around a corner of burning trash. Behind it was a group of boys hitting a ball with naily sticks. The ball landed by Grace’s feet and she saw it was made of plastic bags with string wrapped around it tight, making it perfectly round. At home she had lots of real balls. Bouncy balls, tennis balls, beach balls. Even dogs had balls back home. And dogs had food and beds and toys. In America. But here, not only did the dogs have nothing, but the children had nothing.

Nothing at all.

Tommy

T
ommy walked out of the Internet café. Sylvia still hadn’t replied to his e-mails. And neither was she picking up the phone. Usually, she was always home first thing in the morning, and there was only a two-hour time difference between Saginaw and Rio. No point calling her cell as she hardly ever used it.

He just couldn’t understand when, exactly, his iPhone had been stolen. Before or after the dinner with Ana?

He turned around and walked back to the Internet café—he should call Sylvia’s cell after all, just in case. Like an idiot, he’d left his iPad in Saginaw. He thought he wouldn’t need it since he had his phone—wanted to travel light—one less thing to worry about getting stolen. Ironic that. Not having his iPhone now made him feel handicapped. Yet people used to manage without cell phones. Once upon a time.

The dinner. His mind rewound to sixteen hours earlier. He wished the whole fiasco had never happened. He never did get Ana’s help with translation. She was a real weirdo, that Ana. Never before had he had to literally manhandle a woman—to pry her off him. Like a leech. He knew how humiliated she must have felt; only someone so desperate would expose themselves that way. Yes, he got a hard-on. But who wouldn’t? An attractive woman fondling his private parts, talking dirty in his ear? He was only bloody human. He was a full-blooded male! Men’s dicks did their own thing—everybody knew that. It had happened to him before, once, with an innocent aromatherapy massage at the gym—it didn’t take much to get it all excited. The whole scene had been embarrassing and shameful, having to push Ana off him that way and say, “Steady on, I’m a married man.” He could feel the poor woman’s anger, her hurt when she replied, “I was only trying to be nice, just needed a little loving . . . sorree.” She picked up her handbag and walked out of the restaurant, and that was that. All that food still spread out on the table. What a strange scenario. What were the odds of someone else also having had a missing child the same age? Maybe that was why she was so needy and pushy.

He retraced his actions . . . Ana’s actions, the way she felt him up, smoothing her wandering hands all over his thighs, his ass . . . his . . . back bloody pockets of his jeans!

Jesus! He pounded the heel of his hand on his forehead. Duh!
That crazy bitch stole my fucking phone
!

Sylvia

T
he first thing Sylvia did at the Copacabana Palace was plug in her cell to recharge. Melinda went to scout the hotel, to see if she could locate the Brazilian police the FBI had been in contact with, assuming they’d be plain-clothed—she wasn’t sure how easy it would be to find them. Sylvia, hugging a corner near her recharging phone, was just about to ring Agent Russo, when a call came in. She didn’t recognize the long number.

“Thank God, I’ve finally reached you.” It was Tommy.

Because her phone was plugged in to a socket, Sylvia couldn’t retreat to a more private spot. “What do you mean, ‘finally’?” she hissed.

“Didn’t you get my e-mails?”

“You know I can’t check my e-mails from this old Nokia.”

“Yes, but your computer—”

“Why would I have brought my heavy computer with me when I’m trying to travel light?” she snapped.

“
What
? Where are you?”

“What do you mean, where am I. I
told
you, I texted you this morning from São Paulo. I’m in Rio. Anyway, you know what Tommy?” She looked about her and lowered her voice. “I don’t want anything to do with you right now. You make me want to
vomit
!”

“
What
?”

“So glad you enjoyed your little tête-à-tête with Psycho Woman last night. The second the FBI find you, they’ll arrest you on suspicion of . . . larceny . . . and aiding and abetting a criminal . . . conspiracy . . . on kidnapping charges and grand theft and . . . and you know what,
asshole,
don’t expect me to bail you out!”

“Sylvia,
what is going on
? I
told
you about the dinner in an e-mail! And yes, Ana was pretty weird, and no, she didn’t help in the end with translation. I had no idea you were coming. When did−”

“‘Heads locked together,’ Agent Russo said. Was she
good,
Tommy? Was it worth it?”

“
What
?”

Sylvia’s heart jumped. “Wait a minute, who did you say? What was her name?”

“The woman I had dinner with? Ana.”

“Stop fucking with me Tommy! Tell me the goddam truth, for once.”

“Calm down Sylvia, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I
am
telling the truth. Let’s take one thing at a time—let’s just start from the beginning, shall—”

“Which beginning? When you snuck around for two years, sending love messages to a girl almost young enough to be my daughter, or when you and Ruth first met? Are you trying to send me to an asylum? Drive me insane with your deceit and lies? Steal Grace away from me? Hatching some sick plot?”

“
What?
Jesus, this is crazy! Darling, what’s got into you? Met Ruth? I’ve
never
met the woman in my life, for God’s sake! You know that.”

“So canoodling with her over dinner doesn’t count? You were
seen
, Tommy so don’t you
dare,
” she spat between gritted teeth, “lie to me.”

“I had dinner with that woman I told you about in the e-mail. Ana. And she stole my iPhone, by the way. She was meant to help me with translation, go with me to the police station—she said she also has a missing child—and yes, she tried to seduce me last night but I shook her off—”

“Did you like her pretty nose, courtesy of
my
money? Was she as gorgeous as the Bel Ange? Because guess what, Tommy, you were slobbering all over Ruth
herself,
and her nice new nose job. But I guess you already know that. Maybe you and she have a little thing going on.
Who knows, you’re
such a good liar, how would I know what the hell is happening here
? I can’t even speak to you right now because just thinking about what you did makes me want to
throw up
! Explain your liaison with Ruth Steel, aka Ruth Vargas, aka Rocío Guirnalda, aka Psycho Woman to the FBI and the Brazilian police, because you and I are
done
! Find yourself a divorce lawyer, and a criminal lawyer while you’re at it, because it’s
over.
” She pressed “end” on her phone and exhaled with fury. She wanted so badly to believe everything he said.

But somehow, she just couldn’t.

Her face raw, the Mars-red rage bubbling—unleashing itself on her husband—made her feel powerful for just a beat, but a gaping hole, an emptiness, filled her insides just a second later, and searing tears flooded her tired eyes. She was alone, without Grace, without a husband. She looked up, the thin wire of her phone holding her close to the wall. People were staring. She’d tried to keep her voice low but her hissing and growling had drawn even more attention. Her phone rang again. The same number. She ignored it and called Agent Russo instead.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” the detective said.

“I was on the line with my husband. He says the woman he had dinner with told him she was called Ana, and he had no idea it was Ruth.”

“And you believe him?”

“I don’t know what I believe any more.”

“Sylvia, the police were let into Ruth’s room at the Copacabana.”

“I’m here myself. I didn’t get a chance to tell you. I’m in Rio, Agent Russo. Here at the Copacabana. But I didn’t know whom to look for. My cousin is trying to find them right now. Are they plain-clothed?”

Agent Russo let out a heavy sigh. “If I’d known you were going there I would have told you not to. You could have put our plan at risk. Not to mention yourself. Anyway, as it is . . .” She paused, took a breath and said, “I’m sorry, I have bad news. Ruth has left. Her room was completely cleaned out. When she stepped out a few hours ago, Reception said she left with just her purse, no luggage. She even chatted with one of them saying she was off for a bite to eat. We all expected her to return, because she never checked out, never paid her bill. We think she may have flung her stuff from her window and collected it later. Whatever, however she did it—empty, gone, not a trace. Maybe she got wind that we’d tracked her down. Who knows?”

Sylvia felt a tornado of suspicion spiral through her veins. That text to Tommy she sent, telling him that she’d arrived in São Paulo . . . could he have passed that information on to Ruth? Yet . . . that’s right . . . he said she’d stolen his phone. So Ruth would have read all his messages!

“Agent Russo?” Sylvia said. “Tommy told me the woman last night stole his iPhone. And as we know, that woman was Ruth. So she would have known I was on my way to Rio, and coming to find her and Grace at the Copacabana. I think I might have mentioned you, too, in my text—in my messages to Tommy—I can’t remember. I can check.”

“She stole the phone during their dinner?”

“So he says. He swears he’s innocent, that he pushed her away, and that she tried to seduce him.”

“Where is he now?”

“I didn’t ask. I guess in a hotel or an Internet café somewhere. He made a Skype call, I think, because it was one of those long numbers. I slammed the phone down on him, figuratively speaking—it’s hard to slam down a cell phone.” She tried to smile at her limp joke but her mouth twisted and pursed into despair.

“We need him for questioning,” the agent urged.

“Maybe he’ll call back.”

“Sylvia. I’m sorry we didn’t catch her in time. I feel terrible. But don’t lose heart. We have her photo now from the plastic surgeon, the “after” shot—it’s on every database all over the world. She can’t exactly go and have another nose job—we’ll nail her sooner or later and when we do, she can lead us to Grace.”

Tommy

S
ylvia had been rambling on about divorce—this time Tommy knew she meant it. She never swore, she’d never insulted him that way. Ever. He could feel that he was like poison to her—she was repulsed. He could understand why. He’d been soiled by Ruth, but he’d let it happen—just for a second, but still. Ruth got to touch him, feel his body, bite his ear. She was able to speak that filth and he listened—it even turned him on. Turned his dick on, anyway. Only for ten or twenty seconds, but in that time she’d violated him. He felt disgustedly ashamed of himself. He’d even smelt her perfume.

She’d stolen their daughter.

She’d desecrated their life.

Filched, spoiled, destroyed—everything he loved.

They taught him in the Territorial Army how to kill. From a distance. Impersonally. Coldly. With no mercy. He’d done some training to be a sniper. He’d been a pretty good marksman in his day.

It was about time, he decided, to use his skills.

To hunt that bitch down, once and for all.

Force her to reveal Grace’s whereabouts.

And then fucking well give her what she deserved.

Sylvia

T
he concierge had been gawping at her pointedly, whispering to his colleagues. Sylvia glowered back.
Yes,
her glare told him,
I know how embarrassing it is for your pristine, shiny palace to be spoilt by a screeching vagrant visitor, but what would you do, Mr. Manager, if your husband was hanging out—nay, probably having sex with—the woman who kidnapped your child?

Sylvia smiled sarcastically at him, plucked her phone from its socket, and marched defiantly toward the Ladies’ Room. She’d freshen up and get out of here as soon as she found Melinda. Agent Russo had texted her the number of the FBI contact in Rio and they’d go over and see him. They’d work out a plan. As for Tommy, he could fix his own problems—if he got slung in a Brazilian jail for conspiracy—too damn bad.

The dark-suited manager, in a fast clip, made his way toward her.

“Alright, alright, I’m leaving,” she muttered, gathering her purse, standing tall and turning her back on him. “Don’t worry, I’m outta here.”

“Miss? Madam?” he called after her. “Please. Wait!”

Sylvia picked up her backpack and looked over his head to see if she could spot Melinda amidst the sea of potted palm trees, the tromp l’Oeil, and the glossy, cream-colored walls.

“Mrs. Garland? Sylvia Garland?” the manager insisted.

Sylvia turned around, her astonished face pale. “Yes, I’m Sylvia Garland,” she said, embarrassed.

“Ah, good. I’m glad I’ve caught you. I have a package for you. Please come with me.”

“Are you sure? I’m not even a guest here.”

“Somebody who stayed here left it for you. I would like to say she was a ‘client’ but unfortunately she disappeared without paying her rather large bill. Her credit card was phony. I believe she is wanted by the police.”

Hairs bristled on Sylvia’s bare arms and goose bumps as small as needle pricks sent a shiver through her body. What was in that package? Anthrax? Dog feces? A bomb?

“Please come with me,” the man beckoned with an air of professional smoothness. He led her to the front desk and pulled out a manila envelope with her name scrawled across in big letters.

Sylvia hesitated as the man handed her the envelope. “Please,” she said, “would you mind opening it for me?”

“It would be my pleasure.”