Wish Upon a Christmas Star

“The photo’s from senior year, a few days before Mike dropped out of high school and went to New York City.” Caroline brushed her newly blond hair back from her face, calling attention to her expertly made-up eyes. “It came in the mail yesterday.”

“Who sent it?” Maria asked.

“That’s the thing. I don’t know. There was no return address, no note.” Caroline pulled something from the outside pocket of her leather handbag—Coach, as trendy as it was expensive—and held it out. “There was, however, a second photo.”

The teenage Caroline was the only person pictured. It was a side view of her sitting on a bearskin rug beside a fireplace with her knees pulled to her chest, completely nude but with none of her private parts visible.

“Mike promised me he’d destroy that photo,” she said, her voice a murmur.

“Obviously, he didn’t.” Maria couldn’t imagine how the person who’d sent the photo had come into possession of it. However, she still didn’t understand why Caroline was here. Did she want to hire Maria to make sure no other nude pictures of her surfaced? “Are there more?”

“No, just the one.”

“As these kinds of photos go, this one’s pretty mild,” Maria said. “I suppose I could try to find out who sent it, but I don’t see the point.”

“I think I know who sent it,” Caroline said, her voice steady. “I think it was Mike.”

“What?” The word erupted from Maria. Pain lanced through her, strong enough to have felled her if she hadn’t been sitting down. “You know that’s impossible. Mike died at the World Trade Center.”

Her visitor leaned forward in her chair, her gaze pinned to Maria’s. “What if he didn’t? What if he’s still alive?”

Maria had clung tight to that hope after the terrorist attack. Mike had started working as a busboy at the Windows on the World restaurant only a few days before. She’d rationalized that he might not have shown up for work that day. As the days and the weeks and the months went by with no contact from him, however, she’d had to let go of the hope.

With as much calm as she could muster, she handed the two photos back. “I’d like you to leave now.”

Caroline made no move to take them. “I haven’t even told you yet why I think they’re from Mike.”

Maria reached for the other woman’s cool hand and pressed the photos into it. “Somebody sent you the pictures as a prank, Caroline. I assure you it wasn’t my dead brother.”

“It wasn’t only the pictures,” Caroline said. “Mike called me, too.”

Maria shook her head. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, coming in here and lying to me like this, especially eight days before Christmas.”

“It’s not a lie!”

“Oh, no? What did Mike do? Leave a message on your voice mail that he wasn’t dead, after all?”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic,” Caroline said.

But she did. Even though eleven years had passed, the pain of losing her brother was still so raw Maria could barely stand it when someone mentioned his name. Of all the DiMarcos, he’d been the most like her, in both looks and temperament. That hadn’t always been a good thing.

“What would you have me do?” she asked.

“Hear me out,” Caroline said. “Can you at least do that?”

Maria’s law enforcement training kicked in. She’d been a dispatcher and a police officer before she’d become a private investigator. She knew not to discount anything, no matter how preposterous, before hearing the entire story. She nodded once.

“Thank you.” Caroline took an audible breath. “I got the first call about a week ago on my apartment phone. It was a man. He said in this whispery voice, ‘I miss you, Caroline.’ I asked who it was. ‘How could you forget me?’ he said, and hung up.”

It sounded like a classic prank, although more insensitive and cruel than most. “What came up on your caller ID?”

“It said Wireless Caller but didn’t give a name or number,” she said. “I only picked up because Austin was asleep and I didn’t want the ringing to wake him.”

Maria’s eyes dipped to Caroline’s ring finger. The overhead light glinted off a pear-shaped diamond that appeared about two carats in size.

“Austin’s my fiancé,” Caroline explained. “We’re getting married on Valentine’s Day.”

Mike’s impassioned voice insisting that Caroline would be his wife someday came to mind, along with her own, telling him he was being a fool. Maria couldn’t bring herself to offer congratulations.

“Why did you leap to the conclusion the caller was Mike?” she asked.

“I didn’t, not then,” Caroline said. “After a while, I even started to forget about it. But then Saturday, the day the photos arrived, I got another call. I probably shouldn’t have picked up, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was the same man. Again he told me he missed me.”

“Is that all he said?” Maria asked.

Caroline shook her head, her teeth worrying the red lipstick off her bottom lip. “I demanded to know who it was. He said it was Mickey. And that’s when I thought it really might be Mike.”

“Mickey?” Maria repeated.

“We took a shortcut through an alley once when we were in downtown Lexington. A mouse darted out from behind a Dumpster and Mike screamed,” Caroline said. “So I started calling him Mickey. You know, short for Mickey Mouse.”

Maria refrained from saying she thought the nickname was mean-spirited. If she tallied up the transgressions Caroline had committed against Mike, that one might not even make the top five. Dumping him in the cafeteria in front of all his friends topped the list.

“I never heard anybody call him Mickey,” Maria said.

“Nobody else did, only me, and only when we were alone,” she stated. “You know how macho Mike was. He hated the nickname, because he didn’t want anyone to know he was afraid of mice.”

That sounded like Mike. He’d projected a tough-guy exterior that only those closest to him knew shielded a vulnerable heart. Maria could feel her own heart speeding up, thumping so hard she thought Caroline might hear it. “Are you sure nobody else knew about the nickname?”

“Positive.”

Mike’s remains had never been found. They’d never spoken to anyone who had seen him go into the World Trade Tower that day. They’d never buried him.

“Did the caller say anything else?” Maria asked.

“No,” Caroline said. “He hung up. And Saturday I got the pictures in the mail, just like I told you.”

Maria felt almost dizzy. That wouldn’t do, not if she was going to get to the bottom of this. She tried to shut off her emotions and think like the private investigator she was. “Do you have the envelope the photos came in?”

“I do.” Again Caroline dug into the side pocket of her handbag. “Here it is. And here’s a printout of my phone record I got off the internet. I circled the two anonymous calls in red pen.”

The envelope was plain and white, with what appeared to be a computer-generated typed address. Handwriting comparison, then, wasn’t a possibility. There was no return address. The postmark was from last Wednesday in Key West, Florida.

Think, Maria, she commanded herself before looking back up at her visitor. “Does anyone you and Mike went to high school with live in Key West?”

“I don’t think so,” Caroline said.

Something to check out, Maria thought.