Lucky(66)

October 2008

ONEONTA, NEW YORK



“I was sixteen,” Valerie began. “I fell in love. I thought I would die without him. Now I don’t even know where he is. Now he doesn’t matter at all. But I’ve thought of you every single day. After I left you on the church steps, thinking it was for the best and you would have a better life without me, I went back to look for you. But you were already gone.”

The young woman wrapped her hands around the coffee cup in front of her, but it looked like it had gone cold. She closed her eyes. She bowed her head. Her shoulders shook, and Valerie recognized that; it was the way she cried, too—silently, quickly. It was over, and the young woman looked up. Her daughter. Those eyes. “What’s your name?” Valerie asked.

“Luciana,” she said. “But people call me Lucky.”

Valerie wanted to tell her the name she had given her that night, but it felt too soon. “I’ve always counted your birthdays,” she said instead. “Twenty-six of them so far, right? I think I see you everywhere, and find myself constantly searching for you in the faces of strangers.”

“Me too,” Lucky said.

“Abandoning you was a terrible, terrible mistake. Can you ever forgive me? I would love to be able to get to know you.”

“Then you’ll be getting to know a criminal. I’ll tell you everything, and then you can call your colleagues to come and arrest me.”

“No,” Valerie said. “I already know all that. I want to help you. That’s not going to change, no matter what.”





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


When the coffee shop closed, they moved to Valerie’s car. The windows fogged up as they kept talking, safe in their little cocoon. First, Lucky told Valerie everything about her own journey—including the story of the lottery ticket, and its theft. Then Valerie told her how she had managed to find her.

“When Sister Margaret Jean came to tell me she had seen you, I started to piece it all together,” Valerie said. “I traced the license plate number she gave me, found it belonged to a Marisol Reyes, and learned who she was, and that she had just picked up John Armstrong at San Quentin. When I showed Margaret Jean a picture of John, she confirmed he was indeed the man I was looking for—the man who had taken you from the steps all those years ago. But that wasn’t all there was to it. I dug deeper, and it was your involvement with David Ferguson—whose real name is Cary Matheson—that I was interested in.”

“Cary. Yes. He was my partner.”

“Do you know that he was the son of Joshua Matheson and Priscilla Lachaise?”

“I know Priscilla, not Joshua.”

“Joshua Matheson was a drug kingpin who was killed years ago by a gang leader in California. But the theory has always been that Priscilla had him killed. She didn’t deal drugs, though; she laundered money. Less messy, easier profits. But she was greedy. She started a fake charity to launder the money, but started pulling in large enough sums that someone looked into it. She went to jail, as did John and Reyes. Priscilla came out of jail claiming to be a reformed woman, but I’ve been investigating her for years. And I’m not the only one. Police departments across the country have been trying and failing to prove that she is still a massive money launderer with deep ties to organized crime in several states. She’s been so hard to catch. Apparently she doesn’t trust anyone.”

“Except family,” Lucky said.

“Exactly. Which brings me back to Cary. I checked in to see if there had been any John Does admitted to Nevada hospitals in the past month—and they found someone who fit Cary’s description.”

“Oh my God.” Lucky’s hand rose to her mouth, and for a moment she tried to keep her emotions in check.

“He was found badly beaten in an alley near the Bellagio. He’s in a rehab facility now, and claiming he has amnesia—but I think we both know that probably isn’t true. Are you okay? Here.” Valerie reached into the back seat and handed Lucky a bottle of water and a tissue box.

“We know where Priscilla is,” Valerie continued. “She’s staying at a hotel in Syracuse.”

“She stole the lottery ticket from Gloria,” Lucky said.

Valerie nodded. “Meaning she’s probably holed up, planning to cash it in—but she may be delaying for a few reasons: because she won’t be anonymous after, and because all of her contacts will catch up with her and make her pay for her crimes.”

“I have crimes I need to pay for, too,” Lucky said.

“You haven’t had many choices in your life. And what you’ve done pales in comparison. Plus, you can help us. I’m going to be able to negotiate a plea bargain if you work with us on catching Priscilla.”

“I don’t want to avoid punishment. It’s about time I actually tell the truth and make amends for what I’ve done. I’ve wronged people, stolen from them—I’ve made conscious choices. I need to repay all the money I took. And then I can serve my time. Someday, maybe I can start fresh. Without any black marks to atone for.”

Valerie looked at her thoughtfully. “There are different ways to pay for things. Yes, if we can get the ticket, and you can cash it in, those funds could be restitution—which is a big part of redress when it comes to crimes like this. But if you help us put Priscilla behind bars, trust me, you’ll have done a lot more good for society than you realize. Are you willing to help my department with that?”