Shred of Evidence

The unknown fate of the little girl missing since ‘93 tore at your heart. How did it happen? I sighed to recount her strange, sad story. She and two pals had played hiding-go-seek one mid-July evening in her parent’s front yard. While one six-year-old, eyes shut, counted to twenty, her two giddy playmates fanned out to disappear. Trouble was the little girl, Nancy Henshaw, hid too well—she’d yet to been found. So, on the search went for Nancy from Quarry, Indiana.

I was only the latest in a string trying to pick up her cold trail.

The whining Qantas 767 now lurched me inside the shoulder restraint, its wheels grinding over tarmac bumps. A blistering blur out the sunny porthole was my first glimpse of Auckland International Airport. At the all-clear sign, I unfolded myself and schlepped off the 767, the last passenger in first class accommodations compliments of my employer. I left on my aisle seat a paperback dog-eared on page 3, a damn crime novel about The Mob (what else?).

Though clad a red tank top tucked into chinos and shod in blue Nikes, the guise of a typical Yankee tourist, I hadn’t come to groove on Maori culture or swim with exotic dolphins. I carried a new camera phone but hadn’t the slightest idea what to photograph or call. Jostled by the throng bulling its way to the luggage carousel, I snagged my lone bag, a red tweedy suitcase. After my passport was stamped, I scooted out, squinting.

An obliging Kiwi curbed his VW cab and I rolled inside. When I barked “Metropolis” for my destination, his muddy eyes sized up his fare in the rearview. I smiled. Granted, I lacked the flash and polish to afford the posh hotel, but I didn’t bother to clarify that my expense account was almost boundless. Travel on Robert Gatlin’s dime was always in luxury, a cost he passed on to the client.

Except more times than not, Gatlin didn’t charge his clients. A self-made multi-billionaire lawyer, he only took on the most futile cases pro bono, such as the present one. It was lofty, the Metropolis at 48 High Street, a dizzying forty stories. I tipped the cabbie eight percent, three over what Frommer’s recommended which earned me a capricious scowl. I shrugged my way out and ventured, red tweedy suitcase bumping against my leg, through the revolving door into the lobby run amok in chrome and crystal.

At the palm-wood front desk, I found Gatlin’s secretary had reserved me a harborview room on Floor 40. I changed that to Floor 1 for quick exit in the event of volcano, tidal wave, or terrorist—I’d experience dealing with each. This deluxe suite included wet bar and kitchen though I didn’t plan to stock up on booze or do any cooking. Using Gatlin’s international calling card, I dialed the U.S and reached his private residence number. His cotton-mouthed greeting told me it was the wee hours back home.

“Well, I’m here,” I said. “What now?”

“Frank Johnson? Go away, lemme sleep,” said Gatlin, then more alert in his usual striking cadence, “Whew, I’m with you now. What’s up?”

“Has that lady telephoned again?”

“No-no, nothing like that,” Gatlin replied. “But I’m afraid there’s been a different wrinkle.”

“Great. What?”

“Understandably, our client Mrs. Henshaw has been a basket case. Against the advice of her counsel, she slipped out of Dulles Airport last night on an international flight.”

My ears pricked. “Bound for Auckland, New Zealand, I bet.”

“Yes, that’s the situation. You now have two problems.”

“Does that double my fee?”

“Hardly,” said Gatlin. “You know what to do.”

“Right. Pinpoint the mystery lady claiming to be the Henshaw’s daughter with the extra bonus to find, then keep Mrs. Henshaw on a short leash.”

“You’ve an adroit mind,” said Gatlin. “Mrs. Henshaw is either convinced the mystery lady is her real daughter or she’s pissed about the abominable trick played on her.”

“It’s pretty nasty to phone up a mother after thirteen years and purport to be her lost daughter,” I said, “only then to discover it was a hoax.”

“It’s a can of worms.”

I paused for sarcastic effect. “Why else would you offer your services?”

“Frank, I’m expecting you to iron out this thing,” said Gatlin. “Listen. I’m due in court all day tomorrow and can’t miss a minute, so leave a message. I’ll ring you back late on your cell.”

“Does tomorrow’s case happen to be televised on Court TV?” I asked.

“Yes, but so what?”

“I can’t figure another reason why you’d stay glued to the defense counsel table. Mr. Gatlin always plays for the cameras.”

“Good night, Frank.”

* * *

First thing the next morning I soldiered out to a corner store and snapped up a fifth of Kentucky bourbon and all the bottled water I could carry back to my room. My morbid dread was of Giardia, a waterborne microbe hereabouts causing diarrhea. The bourbon was in the lucky event I got to entertain any female company. Right at the moment, I was cycling through my dry period that had lasted the past eighteen months. Bummer.

Stretched out on the bed, I scanned through the current issue of the New Zealand Herald for any item about the Hawkins hoax. Nothing popped up. Strange. Gatlin had heard a report on CNN that the mystery lady was rumored to have placed her telephone call from New Zealand when she averred to be in Seattle. Gatlin did some backchanneling with his media cronies to confirm, yes indeed, the information was legitimate. Our best leads came from CNN. Anyway, that news report triggered his secretary to arrange my next few days in New Zealand and here I was.

The age-progressed portrait I held was of Nancy Hawkins the way she’d appear today at age 19. Advanced graphics might be amazing but if Nancy had a face as this computer-generated one, she might want to stay in cognito. My own imagination visualized how I believed her to look. A petite girl, willowy red hair, flat and high forehead, an aquiline nose, oversized hazel eyes, a smattering of burnt orange freckles, thin lips, a long neck, and angular jawbone. In brief, an attractive and intelligent girl but not cursed with killer looks.

“That’s your key clue?” I asked myself. “A picture no better than a damn mugshot. Good luck.”

Next, I retrieved the transcript of how Mrs. Hawkins remembered her telephone conversation with the mystery lady ran: “Hello, mom?…I’m fine, really…so long I’ve wanted to call…but let me tell you in person…I’m just busting at the seams with joy…I’ll call you back in a bit…got to go now, bye-bye.”

One thing struck me as somewhat odd—the mystery lady hadn’t mentioned anything personal about Nancy Hawkins. Say, like the name of their family pet dog. Or a memorable occasion mother and daughter had shared. This conversation seemed rehearsed and scripted. Okay, what was the motive behind such an elaborate ruse? That stumped me. Beyond a churlish and crazy spirit, I couldn’t read anything further into the tea leaves.

In the past, I’d toss back a couple stiff ones to get the brain cells working. Now I was at sea over what to do. Wait and see, I concluded. That evening, the concierge in the lobby told me to go see the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra in the Auckland Town Hall. Stupendous music, he effused. No, no, I thought while nodding my thanks and spilling out the revolving door into the morning’s rush.

Cigar bars were all the rage in Auckland and by chance I wandered into the Crowbar down on Wyndham Street. Coughing, I staked out a corner booth in the moody dim. A waiter in stone-washed jeans ambled over and jotted down my order. Two White Owl cigars and a Horny Monkey, a nonalcoholic drink that turned out to be overpriced ginger ale.

I touched match to the first stogie and puffed in a lungful, counted to three, then exhaled. What was I doing here? After a second inhalation and a first sip, I settled into my thoughts. Motive. Why such a ruse? Toss out a mean joke and what was left to mull over? I’d gone to the well many times and it was still gourd dry. That scared me. So, I went with a known quantity, Mrs. Hawkins. But what did I know about her? The lady loved jazz with unbridled passion, she’d told Gatlin. The waiter flitted up to my booth and beside my elbow asked:

“That be all, mate?”

“Yeah, I’ll pay my tab. Listen, I wanna catch some tunes. Any jazz joints in the city?”

“Jamming Jive Jazz,” he said. “Down on Ponsonby Street. Chic and hip. Not cheap and touristy like many clubs. No cover charge. They’ll treat you right there, mate.”

He fed me directions along with solemn assurances that jams spilled into the late morning. If I hurried, I might catch some of the old cats wailing their saxophones. When I emerged on the now peopleless sidewalk, a blue drench kicked down the street. With no taxis or buses, I’d little choice but to walk it and get soaked. I loped by the Sky City Casino at Victoria and Federal Streets where inside 1000 slot machines chirred. In my mind, I saw the rows rolling up as triple lemons, no cherries. If not for lousy luck, then I’d have no luck at all.

Burrowing into my upraised coat collar, I didn’t loiter to watch suckers blow their hard-earned money. No, my pursuit of two nutty ladies in a sprawling city made infinite more sense. The cigar bar’s waiter had given me a shortcut through a rabbit warren of arcades and boutiques selling tapa cloth and flax mats and baskets. By and by, I ducked into a cyber-bar (they seemed to be all over Auckland) and mapquested the correct way to the Jamming Jive Jazz. After making the correct adjustments, I put myself back on course and located the jazz club with little trouble.

Unlike what I expected, the place wasn’t dark and smoky but bright and shiny, the accent on brass and glass. A lank, dark-haired man at the door nodded me inside without demanding a cover charge. Excellent. A short toot on a clarinet moved me inside to a kidney-shaped bar. In the glaring illumination, I recognized it as built from palm, same wood as the Metropolis lobby’s desk. The barkeep who wore Foster Grant runway shades (and no damn wonder) caught my inquiring glance and sauntered to my bend in the kidney.

“You look lost, mate,” he said. A new set began on the raised stage behind us. The notes were precise and cut into an uptempo number that seemed too jittery for this early in the day. But then I was only a tourist in a strange land.

“I’m from the U.S.,” I said. “Seeking out jazz to cure my homesickness.”

Foster Grant slanted his lips into a knowing smile. “Ah, another one comes to our oasis,” he said. “A lady was came here no more than ten minutes ago and told the same sad tale as yours.”

My eyes sliced over his right shoulder. CNN was on the television. Mrs. Hawkins’ interview was running, probably every hour. Anything with the melodrama and weirdness of her story was assured heavy play on CNN. “Take a look,” I told Foster Grant. “Is that your lady with the sad story, the one on the television?”

“Damn if it isn’t,” he said, peering up at the CNN interview. “You know, the damn thing is on all the time and I hardly even look at it anymore.”

“Did Mrs. Hawkins tell you were she might be headed?” I asked.

“Headed?” he asked, confused by my question.

“I assumed she split the scene.”

“No, mate. Sorry to mislead you,” he said. “She’d never split this scene. The lady is still here.” I followed his hand back to the raised stage in half-shadow.

A middle-aged lady lingered in those half-shadows. An old-fashion standup microphone fronted the combo slowing it down to a syrupy interlude. After thanking Foster Grant, I walked straight back to them. What I saw shocked me. Mrs. Hawkins stepped up to the microphone. Turning, she cleared her throat and her first lyrics rode out mellow and serene, the instruments in drag.

She belted out an entire stanza but I didn’t take in a damn word she sang. No, my unhinged jaw dropped a full inch. My next impulse left me feeling like a prized sap. Smiling, she broke after the chorus, rested her chops to launch into the second stanza coming up fast but I wasn’t having any part of it. The leap onto the stage was an easy one. I motioned away the musicians, grabbed Mrs. Hawkins’ expressive wrist.

“Excuse us,” I told them. “But we need to confer in private.”

I escorted our client to the nearest table and sat down with her. “All right then,” I said. “What the hell is going on here?”

Mrs. Hawkins took her time composing a response. “My lifelong dream has always been to sing in a jazz band,” she said. “There’s not much opportunity in Quarry, Indiana. In fact, there’s not much opportunity to sing in a jazz band any damn where but here.”

I cut in. “Skipping the details, let me summarize. Your missing daughter Nancy calling out of the blue after all this damn time was nothing more than a publicity stunt.”

“That’s it,” she said. “Can you begin to understand it?”

* * *

“And that’s the way it is,” I told Gatlin over the phone. This luxurious room had a sudden dirty feel to it.

Of all things, Gatlin chuckled in my ear. “Sumbitch if that don’t beat all,” he said. “The Henshaw lady must want to sing awfully bad. I’ve no idea how many laws she’s broken.”

“Mrs. Hawkins doesn’t give a rosy red rat’s ass,” I said. “Public adulation is what she yearns for. Her jazz singer career is now off with a big bang. We end up looking like imbeciles. What now, Counselor?”

“Let it go, Frank,” said Gatlin. “Come on home.”

After a restless night, I checked out of the Metropolis early. The fifth of bourbon I left on the nightstand for the cleaning maids. And on my way out to the taxi stand, I dropped a sealed brown envelope into the mailbox. Its contents were the materials I’d brought along about the missing little girl named Nancy Henshaw. The envelope was addressed to her mother, c/o Jamming Jive Jazz Club.