Without Faith (16 page)

East Biddle Street was closed about a half a block down from the side street where Silver was hiding.

The smell of smoke permeated the air. Lights from huge red engines and smaller rescue trucks flashed in a dizzying array of red and yellow beams. I drove as close as I could up to the yellow tape that had been draped around what looked like the entire block and parked my car behind a police cruiser.

“What happened?” I walked up to a uniformed woman who was milling about the perimeter.

“Stand back,” she shouted as my stomach turned over in knots.

The equipment and emergency vehicles seemed to be concentrated on the narrow side street off of Biddle where I had been forced to drive down not even twenty-four hours earlier.

“I need to know what happened.” I tried to remove the panic in my voice as the officer ignored me. I noted small crowds of people standing around, shaking their heads, whispering among themselves. I went up to a group of three women: one older, two younger. A girl of about eight to ten years old twirled on her toes around them.

“What happened?” I asked quietly.

The eldest of the group narrowed her eyes and studied me before responding. “Fire 'round on Teamont Street.” The other two ladies looked nervously back and forth between the speaker and me.

“Do you know which house?” I asked, though I felt like I already knew the answer.

“The middle one, where Ms. Mona lived. Firebombed.” All three ladies tsked and shook their heads.

“Daggone shame. Ms. Mona ain't never done nothin' to nobody,” the youngest of the group snarled. The others looked at her with slight alarm before looking back at me.

“Are she and . . . and David okay?” I took a risk to verify that my suspicions were right. The immediate quiet from all three of them told me I had made a mistake. These ladies did not know who I was, didn't know why I was there. None of the people on the sidewalks around me were talking to any of the police officers or fire fighters around them. What made me think they would talk to me, a complete stranger in their neighborhood?

As if to confirm my line of thinking, the little girl who had been twirling around the women suddenly stopped and stared at me, her beads clanking together at the pause of her spinning.

“Lady, we ain't no snitches. We ain't getting our house firebombed too!”

“Hush, Neeka!” The middle woman grabbed her by the ear and all four of them skirted away. I felt like a spotlight had shined down on me as it seemed like nearly everyone standing around the street had their eyes on me.

Somebody had told on someone and the result was a firebomb.

Nobody else was going to be saying anything to anyone. There was no point in me even trying. As I walked back to my car, I tried one last time to get some info from the police officer who still stood at the perimeter.

“Excuse me, do you know if anyone was hurt, or . . . or killed in the fire?”

The officer, a short black woman with wide hips but an otherwise lean frame, glanced at me. For a second, I thought she would shoo me away again, but instead she answered me. “Nobody died. Only sent to the hospital for minor injuries from what I understand.”

“Oh, good.” I exhaled. “I'm so glad to hear all three of them got out okay.”

“Three?” The officer turned to face me. “Just two. There were two people who were rescued.”

“Okay, thank you.” I turned away sharply, wanting to get out of there before I had more people staring at me. I could feel the officer watching me the entire time I walked back to my car. As I drove away, she was still facing my direction.

I needed to find my son, still had a plan to do so, but right now, I needed to get to that detective. I did not have his card on me, but I remembered seeing written on it that his office was located on Baltimore Street. The only police station I knew on Baltimore Street was the main headquarters, right next to The Block. With what felt like an entire neighborhood watching my every move, I sped away to the police station that sat right next to Baltimore's infamous red-light district.

 

 

“There's no one here by that name,” a man in blue told me. I'd waved him down at the entrance of the headquarters, and after he consulted with another uniformed officer, he came back to me to break the news.

“Detective Sam Fields?” I asked again. “He's kind of short, has a lot of bumps on his face.”

“Sorry, ma'am, nobody I know of with that name works here, and believe me, I've been working here for over ten years. I know everyone in this building.” He gave me a smile.

“Okay, thank you.” I gave up, not sure what else to say to anyone. I wanted to speak directly to the detective so that I would not have to give any back story. I decided to wait until I got back home to pull the correct phone number off of the business card he'd given me. I obviously had the wrong address in mind.

As I walked back outside, I looked to the right of me, where The Block began. It was now late Saturday morning. I didn't know the “prime time” hours of strip clubs and adult toy stores, and wasn't sure that I wanted to find out; but I wanted to get more info about Silver. I walked to the edge of the street, stopping on the corner, trying to decide what to do, where to go.

“Looking for a job, doll?” A skinny, middle-aged white man with stringy blond hair and coarse stubble on his face was leaning against the brick exterior of the club closest to me, puffing on a cigarette and looking at everything but my face. He smelled at a minimum of alcohol and marijuana and his eyes were glazed red.

I thought about where I'd just come from, where I'd scared an entire neighborhood into silence by simply asking the wrong questions. I could not afford to lose an audience here.

“You know where I can find one?” I wanted to laugh. The man had to know I wasn't serious. I was certain nothing about my black slacks and Mary Jane shoes screamed exotic dancer, but maybe he was too stoned to notice.

“Heard they need a couple new girls down there.” He pointed to one of the places.

I kept thinking on my feet, kept playing along. “Yeah, I guess they do, after what happened to that young girl . . . What was her name? Silver or something.”

“That's right, both of them. Silver and Gold.” He shook his head and took another drag of his cigarette.

“Yeah, Silver and Gold.” I shook my head, my heart beating faster.
Silver and Gold?

“Tragic what happened to Gold, but now Silver? Too many animals out here.” The man shook his head along with me.

“Yeah, tragic,” I replied, though I had absolutely no idea what we were talking about. I was beginning to feel more uncomfortable. “Oh my, look at the time. I'm gonna have to come back later.” It was such a weak getaway line, but the only one I could think of. The man did not seem to notice my pathetic ploy to leave.

“All right, doll, be careful out there.” He threw his cigarette on the ground, crushed it with the tip of his boot, and turned toward an open, darkened doorway.

I hightailed it out of there, wanting no more than to get home, follow up on my plans to find Roman, and jump in the shower.

I wanted to get the slime and sleaze I felt off of me.

It was a little past noon when I finally walked into my front door. I did not bother to take off my coat, or drop my keys or purse down into a chair. Instead, I marched straight to my room, straight to my nightstand drawer.

I had already rummaged through it when I'd searched for the letter from Portugal, which I later found under Roman's blanket.

Now I was looking for something else.

The plane ticket.

I'd never told Roman about the cross-country trip we made to California when he was a newborn nestled in my lap. I had discovered some activity back then on a joint account I shared with RiChard and tracked him down at a commune near San Diego. Although he had not called or written following the birth of our child, I guess a part of me naively believed that if he simply saw Roman, saw both of us in person, he would see how much beauty we held, how much help we needed, and that he would decide to come home with us.

It took me fourteen years to realize that was what I had been hoping would result from our trip.

RiChard didn't even hold Roman, a fact I never told my son.

I'd held on to the plane ticket as a testament to our fruitless journey and wrapped it up in a copy of the account statement that had triggered the whole search. I'd buried both in my nightstand drawer years ago. For the second time that week, I dumped the entire contents of the drawer onto my bed. I flipped through papers, dug through boxes, checked and double-checked odds and ends.

There was no sign of either the ticket or the account statement.

“Roman, what are you doing?” I went to his room and plopped down on the side of his bed, accepting that my son had gone on a wild goose chase based on incorrect and incomplete information. He had a fake ID with his father's name, his paternal grandmother's home city, and Kisu's picture on it. He had an old plane ticket and a bank account number that were both over sixteen years old. Who knew what else he had?

The thought scared me.

My son, my sixteen-year-old son, was somewhere across the country seeking answers without me. I didn't know what scared me more: what he was doing to find him, or what he
would
do once, or even if, he found the answers he sought.

My continual check-ins with the Las Vegas police department assured me that the authorities were doing what they could to help locate him. I considered flying out there myself, but my heart told me that Nevada wasn't his planned destination. Vegas had been a means to an end, I was certain.

It was hard to find someone who did not want to be found. The fact that Roman had not called me said that loud and clear. Like father, like son; the thought stung. I was not worried that something would happen to him. I just wanted him home. I wanted him to
want
to be home.

Now.

I looked around his room. All the trophies, the tidied and folded piles of clothes, the “number ones” all over the place.

I recalled that the e-mail from the Portuguese journalist had also been e-mailed to a user with the name “RomanNumeralOne.”

It was a stretch, a long shot, I knew, but I went ahead and entered the words into a search engine box. My son was out there and I could not control his whereabouts; but if he had some kind of presence in cyberspace, maybe I could find it and somehow pin him down.

“Please, Jesus,” I pleaded, and then pressed search.

Pages—hundreds, thousands, over a million Web site results—came back.

“No.” I collapsed my head into my hands, rubbed my temples, and started scrolling through the list of sites. I clicked on some that looked promising, and avoided others that looked like they were waiting to spring out a computer virus on an unsuspecting user. I kept clicking on results, hoping, praying that something, anything about my son would surface from those search words,
Roman Numeral One
.

An hour and a half later I'd made it through the sixty-third page of results with no luck. My anxiety level was beyond a ten, and I knew that I needed to find another way to search for him.

I did not feel like I was moving anywhere sitting in front of a computer screen. I shut it down and called Laz. He answered on the first ring, but not with a hello.

“Hey, babe, I haven't forgotten you, but I'm covering a firebombing in the city. I'll call you back when I can.”

And that was it.

I stared at the phone in my hands, trying to figure out why I had not been given the decency of a hello or good-bye or even a chance to say a word. And what was up with the “babe”? I was about to get myself worked up over the entire non-conversation, but the word “firebombing” jumped out at me.

I'd meant to find that detective's card to call him and fill him in about my encounter with Silver and her mother, Jenellis Walker.

If I could not save my son at the moment, maybe I could save someone else.

The card was where I remembered it to be, on the granite countertop that made up my kitchen island/ breakfast bar.

“See, I knew I wasn't crazy.” I shook my head, studying the address. It was the same one I'd gone to, the address for the police headquarters on Baltimore Street. “I guess you don't know everyone,” I murmured out loud as if the officer who'd directed me away from there could hear me.

As I dialed the number, I thought about what I wanted to say to Detective Sam Fields, where to begin, how to explain why I had not called him earlier. Someone's life was possibly in danger, and even I knew I had been dragging my feet.

My reasons for not making this call sooner were simple. My son had run away. I was confused by Jenellis. And Silver had begged me not to.

In the chaos that had become my life, the only thing that felt clear to me was trusting Silver. Something about her vulnerability made me want to believe her.

And she had begged me not to talk to the police.

I planned to do so anyway, but wanted more information first. Now, with the firebombing happening at the very house where I had talked to her, I knew I could not delay reaching out to the detective. I felt like an irresponsible citizen, an uncaring person.

I did care.

I'd just had a lot going on.

As the phone began ringing, it occurred to me that I had not followed up on a lot concerning this Silver business. I had a vague recollection of Leon saying that the detective and his crew had turned their attention off of me to chase another lead. What was it? And the number 1502? Both Jenellis and Silver looked terrified when I brought it up. What was its significance?

And Silver and Gold?

Maybe the biggest reason I had been avoiding the situation was because I did not like the helplessness I felt trying to understand details that made no sense.

The phone was still ringing. Maybe the detective didn't have voice mail, I considered, as I was about to hang up. My finger inched toward the “end call” button when someone finally picked up.

“Vito's Pizza. Delivery or pick-up?”

“Huh?”

“Vito's Pizza. Delivery or pick-up?” the pleasant-sounding young male voice asked again.

“I'm sorry, I dialed the wrong number.” I hung up, checked the number and dialed again, and the same person answered again.

“Vito's Pizza. Delivery or pick-up?”

“Okay, I was trying to reach someone but this clearly isn't the right number. I'm sorry. Thank you.” I hung up again.

I was still holding the phone in my hand when it rang. The number I'd just dialed was on my screen. Confused, I wrinkled up my face, but I answered.

“Hello?” I asked into the receiver and then held my breath.

“Ma'am, your pizza is ready for pick-up,” the same voice informed me.

“Excuse me?”

“Your pizza is ready for immediate pick-up. You can come get it at 600 Elrush Way, suite 29.” The phone went dead and I was left dumbfounded.

“Pizza? Elrush Way? What?” I dialed the number again, ready to demand an explanation for the bizarre call, but this time there was no answer.

“Elrush Way?” I repeated. Aside from not knowing what that phone call was about, I had no idea where Elrush Way was.

Who was this Detective Sam Fields? I looked down at his card again. He wasn't known at his stated address and his phone number led to a pizza shop? No, that's not right. My gut told me that as crazy as it seemed, these were the correct ways to get in touch with him. What kind of detective was he? I started to call Leon to see if he knew anything about him, but then thought better of it.

It wasn't right for me to think I could keep coming at Leon with a million and one questions without being able to answer any of his. He'd made it pretty clear and I could not pretend that our conversation yesterday did not happen.

I put my coat back on. I didn't know where Elrush Way was; didn't know what kind of “pizza” I was about to pick up; didn't even know if any of this was safe; but what else was there for me to do at the moment? If I did not like what I saw when I got there or found that the detective was not really who he said he was, I could always dial ‘911.'

I'd somehow survived the week so far. No reason to believe I could not get out of today intact.

I noted that my phone was on its last bar of power. I did not want to be in a tense situation without the ability to call for help—or miss a call from or about Roman! I fished through a small basket I kept near my coat closet for a new car charger I'd recently bought since my old one had stopped working. I dropped the charger in my purse and headed outside, my confidence growing that I was taking the right steps to ensure everyone's safety.

The temperature had dropped. I guess the forecasters had been wrong after all. Though the first hints of spring were in the air, March wanted to remind us that it was still a winter month. I wrapped my coat tighter around me and went back into my foyer. Dropping my purse on the floor, I searched for and then found my gloves. As I stood in my doorway adjusting my coat and gloves, I noticed that despite the falling temps, a couple of my neighbors were engaged in Saturday afternoon chores they'd probably been waiting all winter to get to—washing cars, trimming lawns, and the like. And all of them, all of my neighbors who were outside, were staring at me like I had four heads.

“Hi, Kenny.” I waved at the man who lived two doors down as he finished adding another coat of wax to his Range Rover.

“Hey, Sienna.” He nodded. “That was a pretty Beemer you were driving yesterday. Where'd it go?”

The question caught me off-guard. “Oh, that? It was a friend's. I'm still driving my Chevy.” I jingled my keys and shut the front door behind me. I scurried to my car, wanting to avoid any more conversation.

“You must have some generous friends to let you step into their rides like that.”

“Yeah, I guess so. All right, I'll see you later.” I had to get out of there before more questions I did not want to answer came. I guess my neighbors noticed more about my life than I realized. Didn't know if that comforted or concerned me. I was certain they'd seen all the activity at my house over the past few days. Who knew what they were thinking.

I waited until I pulled out of my development to set my GPS.

“600 Elrush Way.” I entered the address. After a few moments of calculations, I saw that I was heading to Glen Burnie, an area in Anne Arundel County, south of Baltimore. It would take about half an hour to get there from where I was.

“I should have enough to make it.” I eyed my gas tank, which had been running low ever since my ride around town with David yesterday. “Let's get this show on the road.” I turned on some music and headed south toward 895.

My mind was blank as I followed the turn-by-turn directions that took me through the Harbor Tunnel and on to I-97. Airplanes arriving and departing from the nearby BWI Thurgood Marshall Airport glided right over the highway as I neared the exit the GPS was directing me to. Seeing the planes made me only think of Roman. I'd misled him. No, I point-blank lied, telling everyone that his trip to the reservation was the first time he'd flown. I thought about the old plane ticket to San Diego I knew he had, and wondered if he'd figured out that he went on that pointless trip with me as an infant.

Did my son view me as a perpetual liar? Had he given up on getting any truth about his father from me?

The questions burned as much as the potential answers to them did.

Good thing I have this GPS working for me, 'cause I have no idea where I am.
I interrupted my own thoughts with this realization.

“Turn right and arrive at destination,” the unit said.

“Ain't nothing back here,” I answered, frowning. “Oh, I see it.” I spoke to the GPS like it was a real person directing me from the passenger seat.

I was on Crain Highway, a long, busy thoroughfare that was dotted by office parks, fast-food restaurants, strip malls, and big-box stores. 600 Elrush Way was an office building that sat way back from the street at the end of a long, curvy parking lot, nearly out of view from the main street. It was an impressive four-story square building covered with opaque glass windows—the kind of glass that looked like mirrors from the outside, but offered perfect views of the outside to those who were within its domain.

I was certain that someone was watching me pull up and park.

The office building was probably busy during the week as I noted a couple of signs for doctors, dentists, and counseling centers. However, at the moment, I did not see another car or person on the lot or nearby. I could hear the roar of traffic on Crain Highway, but not see any passing cars where I was. Even the airplanes that zoomed overhead were out of sight due to the heavy greenery that surrounded the building.

The entire area was desolate.

While I knew I wasn't on my way to a pizza parlor, I wasn't expecting to come to such an isolated area. I sat in my car for a few moments, debating whether I should start my engine back up, turn around, and head back home.

But I'd come this far.

No fear. Only power, love, and a sound mind.
The elements of faith.
But will going in this building looking for suite 29 be an act of faith or foolishness?
A sound mind was not a foolish one.
God, I wish I had a sign . . . .
But having a sign wouldn't be faith, right?

I sat there confused, contemplating what to do, not feeling comfortable with any of my options.
What if this Detective Sam Fields is a total fraud?
I considered. No, he would not have had so many cops at his command searching through my house and threatening to come back with another search warrant.

But he never came back.
And now that I thought about it, I never saw the first warrant.

However, Leon didn't seem to have any alarm at who they were or what they were doing. His frustration seemed limited to me not telling him what was going on, the parts I did know anyway.

These were the questions and issues that battled within me as I sat there, cutting the motor on and off, on and off, until it was just . . . off.

“I'm out of gas.” I kicked myself. I'd pushed my car too far, just like I'd successfully pushed everything and everyone else in my life. Now I was out of gas and . . . and I did not have my purse with my cash or credit cards. The realization hit me like a bag of bricks dipped in concrete. I remembered dropping my purse onto the floor of my foyer when I'd gone back in my house to get a pair of gloves. I'd never picked it back up as I rushed away from my neighbor's questions.

All I had was my cell phone.

With its one bar of power.

I needed someone's help, but who was I to call? Laz was busy with his breaking news story, and there was no way I was contacting my mom or sister or dad right now.

Too much going on in me to add family drama.

I felt like he was the only person who would willingly come to help me, no questions asked.

Not wanting to hear the hurt and pain that I was sure would be in his voice, I sent him a text message.

I looked at the words and the smiley face I typed on the screen, feeling cheap and cheesy, but not sure what else to do. I pressed send. His reply was instant.

I exhaled, finding comfort once again in the one constant of my life. Well, near constant. I knew that the meaning and terms of our relationship, or whatever it was we had, had changed. Permanently.

I had forty minutes to kill. The office building still loomed before me. Knowing that Leon was on his way gave me courage. Without a clear thought or plan, I exited my car and headed for the front door of the building. I pulled the handle. It was locked.

“Oh, well, I tried.” I turned away, feeling a sense of relief that I had worried over nothing. Even as I turned, though, I heard it: a low buzz, a slight click.

I turned back around to see that the door's lock had given way.

Someone, somewhere in the building, was letting me in.

“Here we go.” I grabbed the handle again and stepped into the dimly lit lobby.