The Sanctity of Sloth Page 15

  His thumb hovered above the call back button, but he set the phone down. He was tired, and he was irritated. But he told himself if she didn't answer, she had to have a good reason. She'd call when she could. Meanwhile, he had his own calls to return and paperwork to do.

  Three hours later, three hours of struggling to stay awake, he logged off his computer and rolled his head right and left. The bones in his neck popped like bubble wrap. It was good he didn't have to work on the job sites anymore. He wasn't old, only thirty, but the physical labor had taken a piece of him.

  He looked at his phone. He thought maybe he'd shut off the ringer by mistake. He hadn't. Which meant Abby still hadn't returned his call. Now he was worried.

  He tried her again. No answer. That was it. He was going to head over to Paul's and find out what was going on. Voices—Gab's and a deeper one—filtered through his office door while he rifled through the mess on his desk looking for his keys. Please, don't let it be a client. He wasn't in any shape to talk to anyone.

  His phone rang, but it wasn't Abby. "Carlos." Rosie's voice sounded strained.

  He stopped looking for his keys. "What's up?"

  "I have a strange request." She hesitated. "We had a blow up with Conner yesterday." She launched into the story.

  Carlos's mind wandered. Which son was Conner? Rosie and Eric, her husband, had two and a daughter. One of the boys and the girl were away at college. The youngest son was still in high school. That one must be Conner.

  "Eric thinks he needs to get a job," Rosie said. Carlos had missed the reason Eric thought that, but he didn't interrupt her. "Get him out of his bedroom, away from the computer." She paused. The empty air filled with Gab's laughter from the other room.

  "How can I help?" Carlos said, but he was pretty sure he knew where this was going.

  "We were wondering, I was wondering, if you'd consider taking Conner on. He could work after school, or just weekends, whatever is best for you." Carlos dropped his head in his hand. He was too tired to deal with this. If it were anyone else, he'd tell them he ran a professional business, not a daycare. But Rosie was Rosie. She brought him lots of clients, and she was a friend.

  "Minimum wage is fine. Or even less, under-the-table. We wouldn't expect any special treatment. In fact, we'd love it if you worked his butt off." She spoke fast, her tone pleading. "Eric and I both had jobs when we were his age, and they matured us. You worked for your dad when you were young, and look at you. You run your own business. It prepares you for life, you know?"

  A male laugh joined Gab's. He wished they'd shut up.

  "Anyway, you don't have to say yes or no now. I know you have a ton on your plate with your girlfriend's father recovering from that hit and run. Just think about it. Okay? No pressure."

  "Rosie," Carlos said, and she finally stopped talking. "I'd love to help you guys out; you know that. Let me take a look at things, talk to some of the guys. I'll get back to you. Soon."

  The noise that had been coming through the walls for the past ten minutes amped up again. Gab's voice was so loud he was having a hard time hearing Rosie. He was going to have to do something about her, Tia Marie or no Tia Marie.

  "Thank you again. I'll see you soon," Rosie said.

  He was about to hang up when something she'd said hit him. "Rosie."

  "Yeah."

  "How did you know Paul's accident was a hit and run?"

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line then, "Sorry, I couldn't remember where I'd heard it for a moment. It was my husband."

  "Not Mimi?"

  "No, not Mimi. Why?"

  "She thought it might have been a hit and run, but we told her she was mistaken. I just wanted to be sure rumors weren't spreading."

  "No. It definitely wasn't Mimi. It was Eric. I remember now."

  "Where did Eric hear it?"

  "At work I think. Why is it a secret?"

  "The police were keeping it quiet. Didn't want the guy who did it to know they were looking for him, I think."

  "Maybe someone in Eric’s company has a client on the police force. I don't know. But, don't worry. I won't repeat it."

  "Probably best."

  They hung up, and Carlos grabbed his keys. He hurried out of his office, but stopped when he hit the lobby. Armando, a fat grin plastered on his ugly face, sat on the edge of Gab's desk. He'd been the one laughing and talking with her that whole time. Carlos couldn't believe it, twice in two days. "Hey, guapo, what are you doing?"

  Armando’s grin disappeared, and he blinked three times fast.

  "I thought I told you to stay away from her?" Carlos stepped closer.

  Armando's mouth dropped open; he looked like an idiot. But before he could make up some stupid lie, Gab said, "It's okay, Carlos. I have it under control."

  "Gab, I don't know what the hell is going on here, and I don't have time to figure it out right now. But when I get back, you better have an explanation."

  She looked at her pink fingernails instead of at him. "Girls change their minds."

  Carlos was too mad to hang around. He was afraid of what he'd do. He pushed past the desk so close his shoulder whacked into Armando's.

  Armando's eyes got big. "Hey, man."

  "Sorry," Carlos said, but he wasn't. He slammed out of the office and into his truck. He turned the key in the ignition, and as the engine roared to life, his phone rang. This time it was Abby.

  ***

  As Carlos crossed the parking lot, he could see Detective Sylla through the windows of the police station. She leaned on the front desk, talking to the uniformed cop who sat behind it. She laughed, and for a minute she almost looked pretty.

  That changed as soon as Carlos opened the door. The neon lights inside, white and cold, made everything look hard, even her face. Sylla nodded at him, picked up a file and disappeared behind a heavy door.

  Abby was huddled in a chair in one corner of the room. Her face was pale and her eyes filled with tears when she saw him. He hurried over to her. She grabbed his arm. "I was going to call you earlier, but I didn't want to leave until they were done interviewing Dad."

  "What's going on?"

  "I don't know. They came to the house hours ago and said Dad had to come in and make a statement."

  "I need to tell you something." Carlos lowered his voice. "Come outside with me."

  "What if Dad needs me?"

  "We'll be right there." He pointed to the parking lot. "They can see us through the window."

  She hesitated for a minute, but let him lead her outside. "I went to the Mission last night," he said, when the door shut. "There was nothing there."

  "What do you mean, nothing there?"

  "The toilet, the bedroll, they were gone."

  Abby hugged herself. "Are you sure? Did you go inside? Because it's hard to see the whole space from—"

  "I went in."

  "How could that be?"

  "They must have found the room. That's gotta be why that detective was asking so many questions about the receipts for the building supplies."

  Panic filled Abby's eyes. "I've got to talk to them, tell them it was me in there. Tell them about the book."

  "I think you do," Carlos said. "Your fingerprints have to be all over everything. Better you tell them before they figure it out for themselves."

  "I wiped everything down."

  He was confused. "You cleaned up your fingerprints? Why would you do that?"

  "I know, I know. It sounds paranoid." Her voice had an angry edge. "But I was afraid this would happen. The police were nosing around where the girl was found. I was worried they'd find the anchorhold. If they did, I didn't want them to know who'd been in there."

  "But now you do."

  "I don't want them to think it was Dad." She turned away.

  "Abby, wait."

  She threw open the door of the station and marched to the front desk like a martyr headed to her execution. Carlos caught the door before it closed and followed her inside
, but he couldn't stop her. He sank into a chair and watched.

  "I need to talk to Detective Sylla," Abby said to the policeman.

  "She's busy," he said.

  "It's important. I have important information regarding the Mission case."

  The officer smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. Carlos wanted to wipe it off his stupid face. "The Mission case? Is that, like, an official case name?"

  Abby's cheeks got red. "I mean about the girl who was found dead at the Mission."

  "Gotcha." His expression softened. "She'll be out soon. She's talking to your father now. I'm sure she'll want to talk to you after. Why don't you have a cup of coffee or something?"

  Abby came near and slumped into the chair next to Carlos. "It's better that you wait," he said.

  "Why?"

  "You need to cool down, think. You're too emotional right now."

  There was anger in her eyes. "What's there to think about? I got my father into this; I need to get him out of it."

  Carlos looked around to be sure no one was listening. "You don't know what they're asking him. You don't know what he's telling them. If you go in there with your story, and it's not the same as his story, that could be bad, Abby."

  "What do I do then?" She buried her face in her hands. "God, I don't know what to do."

  "Let them ask the questions. Don't make them wonder about things they're not already wondering about."

  "But they must think Dad has done something wrong, or they wouldn't have had him come down here when he's recovering from surgery."

  "Maybe, but you don't know what that is. Don't give them any ammunition, Abby."

  "I'm going to lose my mind if I don't do something."

  "The wrong thing is worse than nothing."

  "Doing nothing is what got us here. If I'd revealed myself to the police when they got there that morning, we wouldn't be sitting out here. My father wouldn't be sitting in there."

  If you hadn't had the crazy idea to lock yourself into an eight by five cell, we wouldn't be sitting here, Carlos wanted to say. But he didn't. He would respect her decisions, her book, even if it killed him. "I get it. But there's a middle ground."

  Detective Sylla reappeared in the doorway. "Abby Travers?"

  "Yes." Abby jumped out of her chair.

  "Would you follow me, please?"

  Carlos grabbed her hand before she bolted away. "Don't tell them you were the one who saw the men." He whispered the words. She glared at him. "It could make things worse for your father." She gave him a quick nod, but he wasn't sure he'd convinced her. "Do you want me to wait?" He spoke in a louder voice.

  "No. I'll talk to you tomorrow," she said, and the door shut behind her.

  Carlos sat for a moment longer staring at his hands. There was dirt under his fingernails and ground into the lines in his skin. His hands hauled and dug and planted. They were strong, like his dad's had been. But now, they felt useless.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THURSDAY, MARCH 22, 2:45 PM

  ABBY HURRIED AFTER Sylla to a small interview room with hospital green walls that smelled of burned coffee and sweat. In its center was a Formica topped table surrounded by chairs, but the chairs were empty.

  Anxiety fell like a rock in her stomach. "Where's my father?"

  "He's in another room. He's fine. Just chatting it up with one of the other detectives." Sylla gestured to a chair on the far side of the table and sat across from it.

  "Are you charging him with something? If you're not charging him, you need to let him go. He needs to go home. He needs his antibiotics."

  "All we're doing is asking questions." An unpleasant smile appeared on her face.

  Abby dropped into a chair and leaned forward. The desire to tell Sylla everything, come clean, was strong. But Carlos's words rang through her mind, Let them ask the questions. Don't get them wondering about things they're not wondering about.

  Sylla wasn't a priest. She wasn't a confessor. She was a cop trying to solve a crime. "What do you want to know?" Abby said.

  "Your father built the room around the Swallows Nest exhibit, yeah?" She didn't pause for Abby to answer. "Why do you think he did that? I mean, it seems like a big expense. Why take that on?"

  "He did it for me."

  "For you?"

  "Yes. I'm writing a book." Abby rested against her chair back, forced her shoulders to relax and began her confession. Sylla asked. She would answer. That's all she'd promised Carlos.

  She told Sylla about the anchorites of the Middle Ages, and her desire to practice the reclusive life. How she believed it was the answer to many modern social pressures. It was an experiment, one she hoped would not only give her perspective for her writing but also help her find a publisher. Sylla's face remained impassive, but several times her left nostril twitched as if she smelled something bad.

  When Abby finished, Sylla leaned forward on her elbows. "That's certainly an unusual story. I wonder why you didn't come forward sooner?"

  Abby looked at her hands where they clutched her thighs. The nail beds were white. She released her grip. "Because I didn't want people to know. Not until I finished the book. Not until I had a publisher."

  "Why is that?"

  "I didn't want people to think I was crazy, why do you think?"

  "It does sound a bit. . . Strange."

  Abby's head shot up. "Exactly. It's not the kind of thing people do every day."

  "I'll give you that." Sylla pushed her chair onto two legs. "Coffee?"

  Abby ignored the question. "Listen, the point is, my father didn't do anything illegal. He got the Diocese's and the foundation's permission to build the structure. I'm the one who moved in."

  "How'd you eat? Where'd you get water? We found a toilet. Seems like that thing would fill up pretty quickly."

  Abby paused. She didn't want to tell the truth now. She didn't want to say that her father had taken care of her needs. It made him sound like an accomplice. Which, strictly speaking, he was. When she spoke again, the words came in a rush. "My dad helped me. He didn't want to. He tried to talk me out of it before I went in, but I was strong-headed, I wouldn't listen."

  "Did anyone else know you were there?"

  "Not until the day I left."

  "Could you leave whenever you wanted?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, could you come and go as you pleased?"

  "No. We left one stone loose so Dad could give me food and things, but the opening was too small for me."

  "So, you were, essentially, a prisoner."

  "No," Abby's voice rose. "My father would get me out if I asked. He wanted me to leave."

  "Was he the one who got you out when you did leave?"

  Where was she going with this? Abby had expected questions about the night the girl was left at the Mission, but Sylla hadn't said anything about that. "No." Abby dragged out the word.

  "Who then?"

  "Carlos Rojo."

  "The man who was sitting with you in the lobby?"

  Abby nodded.

  "So, let me get this straight, your father imprisoned you in this room. You couldn't get out on your own—"

  "That was all part of it." Abby thought she knew where Sylla was headed now. She had to make her understand. "The anchorites couldn't leave their holds either. If I could come and go whenever I wanted, it wouldn't have the same effect. I had to know how it felt to be. . . To be. . ."

  "Imprisoned?" Sylla's tone was helpful.

  Abby threw her hands up in frustration. "It wasn't like that."

  "What was it like?" Abby didn't answer.

  "When Rojo found out where you were, he got you out that same day?"

  "I only left because my father was in the hospital. I was worried about him."

  "Not because he was out of the way? Not because he wasn't a threat anymore?"

  What was she saying? Did Sylla believe her father was a monster who'd locked her up and kept her against her will? "No. No. My father is the
most kind, supportive man in the world. I pressured him into building the room, cementing the stones in place, not telling anyone I was there. He didn't think it was a good idea. I talked him into it."

  Sylla shrugged, a graceful gesture. "Interesting."

  "I'm telling you the truth."

  "Are you? Or, was the cell built for someone else?"

  "What do you mean? Like who?"

  "The girl we found looked as if she'd been held prisoner."

  "That's crazy." The words erupted from Abby. "What would stop her from calling out for help? I was free to speak. The cell is in a public place, for God's sake. People are walking by all day long."

  "Have you ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome?"

  Stockholm Syndrome. Could that explain the version of events Sylla believed? Abby had read about prisoners who grew dependent on or developed affection for their captors. But to stay hidden when help was so close. She didn't buy it, but Sylla did, and that's what mattered.

  Abby opened her mouth to argue, but Sylla interrupted her. "We didn't find any fingerprints. Strange that someone would wipe down everything that could hold a print. It almost seems like they were trying to hide the inhabitant's identity." The investigator rose in one smooth movement.

  Abby followed her to the door in a daze. "I was the one in the cell. Tomorrow I'll bring you what I've written," she said when she found her voice. The two women stared at each other for several moments before Abby broke the silence. "Why would I make up such a crazy story? Make myself look like a lunatic?"

  "To save your father."

  Abby's thoughts raced as she helped her father to the car. She would fix this. It was her fault her father was under suspicion, that Sylla thought he was a maniac. Sylla would see. She'd understand when she read Abby's manuscript.

  She and her father hardly exchanged a word on the drive home. He leaned his head on the neck rest and closed his eyes. He looked drained and exhausted. She'd talk to him about it tomorrow.

  She parked along the side of the house so he wouldn't have as far to walk and entered through the back door. She flipped on the kitchen light. The warm glow, the smells of home, like a hug, drew her in. She offered her father a sandwich or a cup of tea, but he didn't want anything. He went straight to his room. When she checked on him a half hour later, his light was out.