Without Faith Page 10

“Yes, can . . . can you tell me who contacted you?”

  “Oh, I don’t remember. I just forwarded the information that came from the hotel. This was about five, six months ago, I think. I don’t usually give out such information, but I felt bad that the man had not been claimed or identified by anyone else. I thought whatever I could do would help. Did you know this man?”

  “Um, possibly. Yes.”

  “Tell you what, give me your e-mail address, and I’ll forward you what I sent out before. It was a public news story, so I guess there is no harm done.”

  I rattled off my e-mail and before I could make sense of the conversation, it was over.

  I was still sitting in Roman’s desk chair when my phone chimed. I’d finally upgraded and gotten a true smartphone, but honestly, with all the beeps, buzzes, and chimes that now provided a soundtrack to my day, I wasn’t sure if I was getting a Facebook friend request, a text message, an e-mail, or a severe weather alert.

  It was an e-mail.

  I held my breath as I opened the short e-mail from an Alberto Fernandes, a reporter for a small, daily press in Almada, Portugal. It was a forwarded e-mail with no text, only an attachment. I opened the attachment to discover what looked like a scanned photo of a driver’s license with most of the information blacked out.

  But what wasn’t blacked out jumped out at me. The picture clearly was that of Kisu. The name underneath clearly said RiChard St. James. The street name was blacked out, but the city and town were left intact. Perugia, Italy.

  RiChard had been the only child of a chef from the Caribbean island of St. Martin and a college professor from Italy. They’d met in Paris and raised RiChard there before divorcing and seemingly leaving RiChard as alone as they had left each other. Had RiChard moved back to the town of his mother? But wait a minute; that was Kisu’s picture on the ID card.

  Why would Kisu be traveling the world with my long-lost husband’s name? I wondered if Kisu had ever been back to his native KwaZulu-Natal.

  I pondered all these things, straining to make sense of it when something else caught my attention. I’d already seen that the e-mail was forwarded. What I had not noticed until that moment was the name of the original recipient of the e-mailed photo.

  RomanNumeralOne.

  Of course.

  My son, Roman.

  Chapter 18

  Years ago, I volunteered to design the flyer for our church’s Family & Friends Picnic at Gunpowder State Park. I tried to capture the essence of the event—picnic tables and grills, the playground and beach—as well as the notion of friends and family.

  That’s where things had gotten sticky.

  In my original draft, I’d found a photo of a man, a woman, two kids, a grandmother, and a woman who could have been an aunt or a good friend. A woman named Tina Watson, who served on the budget committee of the picnic, more or less laid me out for having “the nerve” to include such a “traditional” picture of family when many of the families at our church were made up of single mothers and absent fathers, including my own—which I’d pointed out to her. Though she was the only one who’d made a big funk about it, I gave into her demands and revised the flyer with a picture of a mom embracing two kids, a grandfather smiling at their side, and a man and woman in the distance, standing over a grill.

  The Sunday that the flyer was distributed in the church bulletin, nobody seemed to notice or care about the picture I had settled on. Even Tina, who was busy with her receipt book at the main doors collecting payment for the event, said nothing about my revisions. I thought nothing else of it myself until after service ended and Roman and I were driving home.

  He was about five or six at the time, I remember, and the flyer lay in a crumpled wad at his feet where he sat in the back seat.

  “What’s wrong, Roman?” I smiled at him through the rearview mirror, always tickled at how his fat cheeks back then looked even fatter when he pouted, like a chipmunk who’d stumbled on a bag of sour gumdrops.

  “You changed the picture,” he sulked.

  “Picture? What are you talking about?”

  He picked up the crumpled paper, smoothed it out, and pointed to the smiling mother and her two kids. “Daddy’s supposed to be right there and you took him out.”

  If an arrow had pierced right through my heart, I don’t think it would have felt any more painful than the merciless sting that pierced through me at his words.

  Roman went on to have a great time at the Family & Friends picnic. We stuffed ourselves with hot dogs and hamburgers, potato salad and sweet baked beans, played softball and dodge ball, and stayed in the shallow, rocky sand waters of the Gunpowder Falls swimming beach until the sun gave up on us. However, the entire time, I could not forget the devastation on his face at the idea that I had taken Daddy out of the picture.

  And it hadn’t even been my idea.

  It was hard to believe that police had been in my house only two hours earlier, looking for a kidnapped dancer named Silver. Sometimes I felt like my life was a reality show, and the cameras were constantly rolling.

  At the moment, all I cared about was that my son had run away and was somewhere in Vegas with the false idea that his father looked like Kisu and had an address in Italy.

  I was standing in my living room, for some reason studying the picture of the purple, orange, and black-spotted butterfly I had painted years ago, like it held the answers to all my questions. I remember painting it from a picture, thinking that I would never be able to replicate the intricate pattern and brilliant colors. Some say “pictures are worth a thousand words,” but is the message only meaningful if the picture is correct?

  Roman had never seen a picture of RiChard, me having shredded every photo and written memento from him before Roman was barely out of Pull-Ups. I’d described him in detail to Roman before, talking of his café au lait skin, curly hair, peridot-colored eyes; a far cry from Kisu’s dark-as-midnight complexion and piercing dark brown gaze. Kisu hailed from the KwaZulu-Natal region of South Africa, a direct descendant of proud and strong Zulu warriors. RiChard was the salt to Kisu’s pepper, but Roman had only the picture ID e-mailed to him from a reporter in Portugal to give him an (inaccurate) visual.

  Perhaps Roman thought I lied about how RiChard looked, and thereby had lied to him about everything he knew about the man who fathered him.

  Perhaps that’s why he’d run away.

  He did not trust me anymore. He did not trust me enough to talk about his father, to believe I would ever find out what happened to him.

  The e-mail had been sent to Roman last September, a full six months ago, three months before the trip to the Native American reservation in Arizona had even been mentioned. Roman had been eager to go on the trip, I remembered. Overly eager, hindsight told me. How long had Roman wanted to get away? How long had he planned his exit, his escape? What was his ultimate destination?

  My heart told me it was not Las Vegas. Vegas—that was Skee-Gee, that was Tridell. For Roman, Vegas was a means to an end, the first starting point on his carefully planned trip.

  I remembered then that he’d gotten his first job at the end of September. I had assumed it was his attempt to have money to buy the high-priced tennis shoes and jeans I refused to buy him.

  But, I realized, he never did get those things.

  He’d been saving his money.

  He’d packed heavily for the trip, I recalled, reflecting on Leon’s jokes about the multitude of Roman’s baggage. He never planned to return with the rest of them, I realized.

  Is Roman on a mission to find RiChard?

  The thought winded me as I collapsed into my love seat, the bay window next to it offering a clear view of the unmarked police car guarding, really, watching, my residence.

  He’d been doing his own research—probably way beyond the little bit I’d stumbled into—made careful plans, and had probably dismissed whatever information I’d given to him over the years. Did he see me as a liar? Or a hider, as he had obvious
ly found the letter I’d kept secret in my nightstand drawer? What else had he come across? What other information had he dug up? I thought again of the e-mailed picture ID he’d had since September. I just saw it today, but Roman had had a six-month head start into the journey he was now on.

  I needed to do my own research to find my son.

  I needed to find RiChard.

  Where did I begin again?

  Roman had at least a six-month head start. The thought repeated itself and frightened me.

  I went to the kitchen to fix a cup of chamomile tea to help calm my nerves. The opposite happened. As I reached for my teapot, a business card that had been left on the breakfast bar caught my eye.

  LAZARUS TYSON.

  He’d dropped it there before he rolled out at my command early this morning, and miraculously, the card had survived the invasion of Detective Fields and his team.

  I picked up the card, fingered it, felt my anxiety rise even as I knew that I had to use it. Laz was an investigative reporter. He knew how to dig deep, had sources probably all over the country, maybe even the world. He’d said he knew that I had been through something; perhaps that meant he knew about my dealings with RiChard somehow.

  He was an answer. A risky answer—he thought I had the hots for him—but an answer nonetheless. I wasn’t sure if Leon saw the hug Laz had given me that morning, but I was sure that Laz could help me.

  I picked up the phone and dialed, holding my breath as his line began ringing.

  He picked up on the eighth ring. “Sienna St. James. I knew you would be calling.”

  I could hear the smile in his voice and was immediately irritated, but what choice did I have?

  “You knew it was me?” I shut my eyes as I asked him the obvious.

  “Caller ID.” His voice was all bass, his tone was all flirt. I ignored it.

  “Laz, I need your help.”

  “Oh, so we’re back to first names now. The last time we spoke I was Mr. Tyson.”

  I opened my eyes just so that I could roll them. “Listen, don’t mistake my call for something it is not. I need help investigating something, and I think you can help.”

  His silence told me his interest was piqued. I knew a man like Lazarus thrived on a word like “investigating.” I thought quickly of how else to reel him in without sounding like I had ulterior motives.

  “For reasons I can’t get into at the moment, there are police watching my house and I’m expecting more to return at any moment. However, I have another issue going on that affects my son, and I think you may be able to point me in the right direction to find the information I need, but I don’t think I can get out of here unnoticed, and I don’t need a recognized newsman knocking on my front door.”

  “You say the police are outside your house?” He spoke evenly without missing a beat or being thrown off at the idea of a police stakeout. The investigative reporter was in full swing.

  “Yes.” I exhaled, waiting.

  “Do you have a back door?”

  “I have a walkout basement.”

  “Okay,” Laz continued. “Your development backs to trees and on the other side of the trees is Rossville Boulevard. I can pick you up from there in about ten minutes.”

  “You’re that close?”

  “I’m at the Panera Bread off of Route 40, near Sam’s Club.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know you hung out in these parts. Do you live near here?”

  “Heavens, no. I don’t do the east side.” Laz immediately caught his insult. “I mean, I live in Howard County. Ellicott City to be exact.”

  “So what are you doing all the way out here?”

  Laz chuckled. “I was following the breaking news story about a certain someone who was allegedly holding hostage a kidnapping victim.”

  “Why didn’t you say that at first?” I gasped. “Am I all over the news?” I barely breathed, realizing that I had not turned on my television all day, and had not done my news Web site checks in hours.

  “No, Sienna. Calm down. The police have asked the media to avoid any reports due to undisclosed sensitive information about the case that could affect the safety and well-being of one of Baltimore City’s finest strippers.”

  I rolled my eyes for the second time, trying to keep my disdain for his condescending tone from stopping me from seeking the help I believed he could offer. “Okay, ten minutes. And you better be there.”

  I hung up before he could get another word in, grabbed my purse with the lion’s head ring tucked inside, the letter from Portugal, and a heart full of ache and a head full of memories, and headed out of my basement door.

  Within moments I was pushing through tree branches, fighting through tall weeds, nearing the sound of traffic zooming up and down Rossville Boulevard.

  The escape had been easy. Too easy. I wondered what troubles were coming next. I wasn’t sure but the first sign of it was driving a silver BMW and heading straight toward where I stood on the side of the road.

  “You made it.” He grinned through the open window. “Get in.”

  Chapter 19

  He took me to a dimly lit establishment that sat off of a winding back road in Cedonia, a neighborhood in northeast Baltimore that sat on the city/county line. It was one of those dining places that suffered from a confused identity. Through one entrance off of its gravel lot was a restaurant that had an extensive menu with plenty of house specials, private party rooms, and old-school chandeliers. The other entrance led to a grungy-looking packaged goods and liquor store.

  He’d taken me to the restaurant side and without even a wait, we’d been escorted to an overly cushy booth with solid, tall walls. Most of the light that reflected off the real silver and china on the table came from a flickering candle between us and a low-wattage yellow light bulb that barely shone through the frosted sconce on the wall.

  I had been in a place similar to this one just the other night with Leon.

  The date that didn’t happen.

  The comparison made me uncomfortable.

  “Thanks again for getting me, Laz.” I stared at him as he flipped through the menu. “But again, let me be clear. I’m only meeting you here to get your help and direction.”

  Laz looked up from his laminated menu. “Don’t worry, Sienna. I am not trying to wine and dine you. Forgive me for thinking that a dark restaurant off the beaten path was the perfect place for a woman being watched by the law to spill her secrets.”

  I glared at him, wanting to say something back, but knew that he knew there was nothing for me to say.

  He was right.

  “Afternoon, folks. You here for one of our lunch specials?” A curly redhead with a name tag that read MELINDA stood by our table, a notepad in hand. Even from my seated position, I could tell she was at least a head shorter than me, but her smile seemed bigger than life itself.

  “What are your specials, dear?” Laz asked as if we really had come there for a casual lunch date and not an urgent investigative session. In all fairness, I realized, Laz had no idea why I had called him, though a part of me believed that with all the research he’d supposedly done on me and my son—and Skee-Gee and Tridell—he probably had an inkling.

  As the waitress rattled off about the crab and shrimp omelet and hot roast beef sandwich specials, I pondered what I would say to Laz, how I would begin, where I could begin. By the time she’d taken our orders and filled our glasses with ice water, I was no clearer on what to say, so I went with what was in my mind.

  “So, what was the dirt you found on my nephew?” It was random, but Laz didn’t seem bothered.

  “If you don’t already know about all your nephew’s side hustles, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

  “I guess you have a point.” I shook my head with a slight smile. Laz had ordered a thick chocolate malt as an appetizer and the way he was sipping off the side of it reminded me of a six-year-old Roman. I’d ordered some mozzarella sticks that sat untouched. “What’s the deal with Tridel
l Jenkins?”

  “Now that one should interest you.” Laz set his glass down. “I won’t get into the details, but let’s just say that he has found a way to fuse modeling, street drugs, and online gaming into a creative venture. If you are really curious, I’ll give you the link to his Web site; but I should warn you, if you click on it, you might be added to a group being monitored by the FBI.”

  “Okay. I don’t think I even want to know more about it. Sounds like I could get in trouble for simply knowing it exists.” We both chuckled and Laz picked up his chocolate malt again.

  “How do you do your research?” I began again. “Where do you get your information from?”

  “Well, you know a good journalist never reveals his sources.”

  Forget the small talk. My son was out there. I needed information. Now. “What do you know about my past, Lazarus?”

  “Thank you, Sienna. Finally.” Laz put his glass back down and waved away Melinda, who had come to take the order for our entrees. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to stop your tap-dancing routine and be the strong, passionate, and direct woman I have studied you to be.”

  “You have studied me.” I repeated his words, feeling my eyelids blinking at rapid speed.

  “Look, a woman who would risk all to chase a self-proclaimed revolutionary around the world is no pansy. I don’t know what happened to you to take such a back seat to your own life, but I’m glad to see the real you finally start standing up, digging deep, not even letting me go unexcused in my own mission for answers.”

  I shifted in my seat, aware of the sweat pooling on the backs of my knees. Nobody had ever talked to me that way before.

  “You know about RiChard.” Again, a statement, not a question, as I stared him down.

  “It wasn’t hard. A quick look at your records—education, marriage, passport, don’t ask how I got that—I saw the brief history you had with him.”

  Brief. I knew then that he didn’t know everything. Nothing about RiChard’s mark on my life felt brief. I tried not to let my disappointment show.