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I contemplate the wisdom of forking over the money now, before I’ve gotten my ID cards, but I’m not exactly in a position of power here. I slap the three hundred and seventy-five dollars I already peeled off my stash into his hand. Jorge counts it, then counts it again.
“What’s your number?” he says, pulling out his phone.
I open my mouth, then stop myself just in time. The only number I know by heart is my real number, for the phone sitting at the bottom of a trash can back in Arkansas. My new number, the one for the prepay phone in my back pocket, is a blank. I haven’t memorized it yet.
“I...I don’t remember.”
Jorge heaves a sigh that reeks of cheese and jalapeño, and the look he gives me says “amateur.” He rattles off a string of numbers that I realize too late is for his cell phone.
“Hang on, hang on.” I fumble for my phone, and he repeats the numbers, this time slower while I type them in. I hit Send, and his cell phone lights up in his hand.
He flips it so I can see. “Your number. I call you when ready.”
“How long?”
He lifts a meaty shoulder. “Thirty minute. Maybe more. Wait at Sonic up the road.”
It is seventy-three eternal minutes before a shiny black SUV rolls into the Sonic parking lot. I watch from my table by the window as a man who is definitely not Jorge—too dark, much too skinny—slides out. He looks up and down the parking lot like a villain on an episode ofCops, then tucks a manila envelope under the Buick’s windshield wiper and hustles back into his car. By the time I make it outside, the man is long gone.
I pluck the envelope from the windshield and drop into my car, my fingers shaking as I slide my nail under the flap. I jiggle the envelope upside down, and two small squares drop onto my lap. One is paper, a social security card with a bright yellowsign heresticker. The other is plastic, a driver’s license that looks as real as any I’ve ever seen. I examine it, turning it back and forth in a shaft of sunlight, and the hologram Georgia seal brightens and fades. The signature is not mine, but it’s generic enough that with a little practice, I can duplicate it. Other than that, it’s perfect. Beth Louise Murphy is legit.
My cell phone rings with a number I recognize as Jorge’s cell. I pick up to the sound of chewing.
“You get ID?”
“I did get ID, thank you.” I toss the cards on the passenger’s seat and start the car. “They look great. Totally real.”
He grunts, a sound I take to meanyou’re welcome. “Listen, you have friends who need ID, you send them to Jorge. Fifty dollar every friend.”
And there it is, I think as I ease the Buick into traffic. What Martina wanted from me.
MARCUS
The Pine Bluff Police Department is housed in a squat, one-story complex on East Eighth Avenue, blinding white stucco against a sprawling green lawn. The place is a dump, dingy walls and scuffed linoleum floors, but on a bright note, we’re understaffed enough that the detectives get their own private rooms. They’re cramped and stuffy, but they’re a million times better than a desk in the bull pen they surround.
Jeffrey and Ingrid arrive a full twelve minutes late, and just like yesterday, the two are practically vibrating with animosity. He opens the door for her but only because I’m watching, prompting athanksshe doesn’t want to give. These two people detest each other, and I want to know why.
I gesture for them to follow. “This way.”
I usher them through the rowdy bull pen to the open door of my office. “Have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the twin chairs across from my desk, but only Ingrid sinks into one. Jeffrey is frozen just outside the door. He pokes his head into the room, and his relief when he sees it’s an office is palpable. The sucker thought this was going to be an interrogation room. I raise a brow, and reluctantly, he steps inside, sinks into a chair.
I round my desk and drop into mine. “We found Sabine’s car.”
“What?” the two say in unison, their voices high and wild.
“Omigod, where?” Ingrid says. “When? And that’s good news, right? It means you have some idea which way she went.”
I don’t shake my head, but I don’t nod, either. A car is not necessarily good news, especially one like Sabine’s—undamaged and untouched. So far, the only DNA we’ve found on it is hers.
“The car was parked at the far end of the Super1 lot on East Harding. According to the security footage, she walked through the door yesterday at 1:49 p.m. Ten minutes later, she purchased a loaf of bread, some sliced turkey and cheese, and a lemonade. She paid with her ATM card and was out the door by 2:03 p.m. The cameras don’t cover the entire parking lot, unfortunately, so we lost her soon after.”
Ingrid scoots to the front edge of her seat. “I don’t understand. You’re saying she never made it back to her car?”
“It sure looks that way. We searched the lot and trash cans for the groceries, without any luck. Somebody could have picked them up, or maybe she took them with her.”
“With her where?” Ingrid shakes her head. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“You both mentioned you talked to Sabine—” I flip through my notes, pausing to find the right page. “Ingrid at 10:45 a.m. and Jeffrey...” I look up, meeting his gaze. “You didn’t actually tell me a time.”