The first Carol Golden mystery. Carol Golden isn't her real name. She doesn't remember her real name or anything that happened before she was found in a Dumpster, naked and unconscious, on the beautiful Palos Verdes Peninsula in Southern California. After helping her get some initial medical treatment, government at all levels officially declares her a non-person and doesn't want anything more to do with her. She can't work because she doesn't have a Social Security number, which she can't get because she doesn't have a birth certificate. She can't get a driver's license, and, having no I.D. she can't fly. Fortunately, she receives help from Rigo Ramirez, the young man who found her, and his family. Frances Moran, a genetic genealogist who is an expert at identifying and finding people using DNA and the Internet, offers her services, but nobody appears to be looking for Carol. Nobody, that is, except whoever left her for dead. Is this person going to to finish the job? Carol must overcome the obstacles placed in her path by an unfeeling bureaucracy while she searches for clues to her identity. If the law doesn't protect her, why should she stay within the law? In addition, as her situation gets publicized, the risk of her attacker finding out that she's still alive increases. Carol discovers that she's an "action kind of girl" who doesn't take kindly to being told what she can't do, which is just about everything. She realizes that if she's going to find out who she is, she has to travel to the East Coast and England and do whatever else needs to be done, regardless of the risks.
Forget to Remember
By Alan CookAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2010 Alan L. Cook
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4520-7234-0 Chapter One
What Rigo liked best about his job as a dishwasher was taking out the garbage. This might seem counterintuitive to some people, but it gave him a chance to get away from the hot kitchen and into the balmy air, if only for a few seconds.
He had noticed this joy as a teenager when dishwashing produced his first real paychecks, not just a few small bills handed to him for dog sitting or babysitting. It was still true ten years later as he returned to the minimum-wage job of his youth, using it as a safety net during a recession that had closed down all possibilities of a real job for the proud holder of a newly minted master's degree in psychology.
This was his first garbage run of the day. The brunch crowd was out in force on a sunny Sunday morning. They were better dressed and had fatter wallets than patrons of the typical Southern California restaurant, even if this meant their jeans were clean and they were just managing to make their monthly credit card payments. The recession seemed to affect everyone.
The gate to the wooden-fenced enclosure was unlatched. Carlos had taken his place as dishwasher last night while Rigo attended a tennis tournament. How did Carlos expect to keep out the raccoons, skunks, and possums that roamed the hillsides of the Palos Verdes Peninsula? Rigo would have a word with him. He opened the gate quickly and was happy to see no surprised varmint challenged him or scooted under the Dumpsters.
The green Dumpster lids were closed; at least Carlos had gotten that right. Rigo raised a lid with one hand, intending to swing the plastic trash bag up and in with the other. He stopped in mid-swing as something inside caught his eye—something in the enclosed depths that wasn't black like the bags.
The bloated bag pendulumed back and hit him in the leg. He dropped it on the ground, heart racing, gulping air permeated with the stench of three-day-old garbage. He cautiously peered over the metal rim, hoping, almost praying, that what he'd seen wasn't what he thought it was.
He jumped back, involuntarily, vomit rising in his throat, and the lid came crashing down. The noise startled him into full alertness. The patrons sitting outside on the patio would hear. This was no time for weakness. He swallowed hard and lifted the lid again, carefully, until it stayed open by itself. The Dumpster now took on the appearance of a coffin. Gripping the rim hard with both hands, he forced himself to look inside again.
The human arm he had seen led to a shoulder, topped by a head with short, dark hair. The body had sunk into the spaces between the bags, but Rigo could see part of a back and a leg. He forced himself to lean into the coffin and saw the curve of a breast on the other side of the arm. It was a girl—or a woman. She wasn't wearing any clothes.
He thought he saw her ribs move. Getting up all his nerve, he touched her arm. It was cool but warmer than the air; she was alive! His heart leaped. He had to act fast. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone. It was turned off—"Cell phones must be turned off during working hours." His hands were shaking so much he had trouble pressing the button to activate it.
It took valuable seconds to start up, but the alternative, racing into the restaurant and yelling that he needed to use a phone, would take longer and cause a panic. He didn't want to leave the woman. He knew he could get service in this out-of-the-way place; he had made calls from his cell phone previously at the restaurant. When he finally saw the bars he pressed 911 with fumbling fingers.
"Nine one one. What's your emergency?"
He cleared his throat. "There's an unconscious woman in a Dumpster at Carlson's Restaurant."
The operator asked for his location. Of course—he was on a cell phone. "I'm at Golden Cove on Palos Verdes Drive West and Hawthorne Boulevard in Rancho Palos Verdes."
Even secluded as they were, in the southwest corner of the Palos Verdes Peninsula, he knew there was a fire station just five minutes from here. The operator assured him help was on the way. She stayed on the line with him, asking him questions.
He leaned way over the woman to try to see her face. It had caked blood and ugly red marks on it. He momentarily placed the phone on the trash bag he had brought out and moved her head slightly to make sure her nose and mouth weren't being smothered by plastic. Since she was breathing, the operator told him not to try to lift her out of the Dumpster. That could make any injuries she had worse.
At her suggestion, he took off his apron and laid it on top of the woman to help warm her up. Although the day promised to be summery, it was still cool in the shade. Rigo was getting used to touching her now. He gently felt for a pulse in her neck. It was slow and faint, but it was definitely there.
Approaching sirens told him help was on the way. He felt relief and hope. Relief that someone else would take over the responsibility for her and hope she would be all right.
* * *
Rigo backed up three steps from his position at the net and watched the lob arc downward toward him. Too short. His savage overhead smash sent the ball into the far corner of the court where it hit just inside the baseline and then careened away from Adam Loken who stood like a statue, watching it.
"You're too good for me today."
Adam strolled to the net, assuming a nonchalance Rigo knew was out of character for the very competitive friend he had known since elementary school. They clasped hands briefly in the twenty-first century version of a handshake and walked to the bench at the side of the court where they sucked water from plastic bottles and wiped the sweat from their faces with towels.
Adam focused his blue eyes on Rigo. "All right, I've tried to be patient. You were barely talking when we started. Now tell me about the girl you found in the Dumpster this morning."
Rigo was talked out about the girl in the Dumpster. First the rescue truck had arrived, with its siren wailing, and several paramedics had raced around to the back of the restaurant, carrying a bag full of their instruments and a cart for transporting her. All he had to do with them was direct them to the Dumpster.
They went to work, quickly and efficiently, determined she apparently didn't have any injuries that would be exacerbated by moving her, and then gently lifted her and placed her on the cart. They covered her with a sheet, wheeled her rapidly past the astonished outdoor diners, and slid her into the waiting ambulance. Before the door closed, Rigo, who had followed the action around the building, saw the attendant give her what looked like oxygen.
By this time, a sheriff's car had arrived. The Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department provided police protection for the city of Rancho Palos Verdes. The deputy asked Rigo questions and took notes. More police types came and put tape around the trash area. They took the bags out of the Dumpsters and searched through the garbage. Rigo answered questions and wondered who was going to clean up the mess they were making.
Last came the media, consisting of a couple of television trucks with satellite dishes on top and several reporters, including one for the local Palos Verdes Peninsula News. All of them asked Rigo questions. He would be on the five o'clock news and in the newspapers. The restaurant manager excused him from working his shift but that probably meant he wouldn't be paid.
By the time everybody was through with Rigo, he was physically and mentally exhausted. He considered cancelling his tennis date with Adam but decided that kind of activity was what he needed to clear his head. He took his emotions out on the court, and poor Adam suffered the consequences.
Now Rigo briefly summarized what had happened for Adam's benefit, repeating the words that had become a memorized speech. He saw shock and awe on Adam's face—Adam, who was usually imperturbable.
Adam waited until Rigo finished before he spoke. "Damn. No wonder you slaughtered me. I know this sounds like an inane question, but—is she a babe?"
"She might have been before some asshole made a punching bag out of her face."
"Will they catch who did it?"
Rigo shrugged. "I gather they didn't find any clues. No weapon, no clothes, no ID. They tried to get fingerprints off the Dumpster, but I think that's a long shot ..."
"Maybe when she comes to she can tell who did that to her."
"If she comes to. She looked pretty bad."
Chapter Two
She was sitting in the vinyl-covered chair beside her hospital bed reading the newspaper accounts of how she had been found when the lady walked into the room. She wasn't surprised; a lot of people had walked into her room during the several days for which she had any memory, including policemen. At least they said they were policemen. They hadn't been in uniform, although they had flashed what looked like badges in front of her eyes.
The lady wore slacks and a shirt unbuttoned one more button than was respectable for someone her age. She could stand to lose weight and needed to exercise. Her light brown hair was too long and looked dyed. She smiled.
"Hi. I'm Andrea McGuiness. I work for Los Angeles County. You must be feeling better."
"Thank you. I am. I ate some real food this morning. Soon I hope to get rid of this." She indicated the IV in her wrist with the tube attached to the bottle on the pole beside her. "I have to roll it along with me when I take my walks. All the people who've been to see me seem to work for Los Angeles County. I understand I'm in Torrance Hospital, which, coincidentally, is in the city of Torrance. But people keep telling me this is Los Angeles County."
"It is. There are lots of cities in Los Angeles County, including Torrance, and, of course, the city of Los Angeles."
"And where I was found is also Los Angeles County?"
"Yes, Palos Verdes is in Los Angeles County."
"Thank you. I'm just trying to get oriented."
"I'm here to help you do that."
Andrea shifted the only other chair in the room so that the two chairs faced each other. She sat down. "It would help if you could tell me your name."
"I-I can't remember. I told the policemen that."
"Yes, but that was yesterday. I was hoping your memory might be coming back."
"It hasn't. The first time I looked in a mirror, I didn't recognize the person there. Of course, I'm covered with bandages, and I've got all these cuts and bruises ..."
"The doctor told me you'll be fine. You were apparently hit on the head with a blunt instrument—"
"Yeah, I have headaches and I've got holes in my head—" "Well, depressions. But they'll heal. How are your ant bites?"
"They put ointment on them to stop the itching." She smiled. "It could have been worse."
"You can't remember who attacked you, and you seem to be a stranger to the Los Angeles area."
"I can't remember anything. I don't know where I live although, I'm quite sure it isn't in California. I don't know who my parents or other relatives are. I don't even remember whether I'm married. I didn't have a ring on my finger."
"According to the doctors, there's no evidence you'd been wearing a ring. Your attacker did a thorough job. He didn't leave anything behind that belonged to you."
"Including my clothes. This hospital gown is ugly and doesn't cover anything." She tried to pull the flimsy cloth over her knees to demonstrate. "Those hunky paramedics who brought me here came in to see how I was doing. I wish I looked better for them." They had seen her naked in the Dumpster—horrid and icky naked, not sexy naked. She didn't look that much better now.
"The only things I was wearing were these earrings." She turned her head so Andrea could see the studs.
"They're pretty. They look like silver."
"I don't know, but I'm not going to take them off. It's hard to explain, but they may be my good luck charms."
"We need to be able to call you something."
"I've been thinking about that. I think I'd like to be called Carol Golden."
"Any special reason?"
"Well, I was found at Golden Cove. And I just like the sound of the name Carol."
"Is there an 'e' on the end of Carol?"
"No 'e'; just 'c-a-r-o-l.'"
"Do you think Carol is your real name?"
"I have no idea."
"At least it's a starting point. Okay, Carol Golden it is. I'll try and get you some clothes. I don't think mine would fit you."
"No." Oops. She had said that too quickly, with too much emphasis. "I mean, just in the short time I've been here, I've lost weight. I don't remember what I weighed before, but they weighed me when they brought me in."
"Getting fed intravenously will do that to you. Maybe that's what I need. Well, at least you're eating now. You shouldn't lose any more weight. Let me ask you some questions to see if you can associate with any place or have any other memories."
Andrea had a laptop computer with her. She took Carol to a room where she was able to get an Internet connection. They looked at maps of various parts of the country, including many of the larger cities. When Carol showed an interest in a place, Andrea went to Google Earth and they zoomed in for a closer look.
Carol felt some affinity for the East Coast, especially Massachusetts. They looked at pictures of the Boston area, buildings and other landmarks, but those didn't jog her memory. Andrea finally said she had to go. They went back to Carol's room. Andrea gave Carol her card and told her to call if she needed help or remembered anything.
Carol shook her hand. "Thank you for helping me, Andrea. I really appreciate it, even though we didn't have any breakthroughs. Maybe you can help me do one other thing."
"What's that?"
"I'd like to talk to the man who found me ..." she consulted a newspaper article, "... Rigo Ramirez."
"Oh, why?"
"To thank him."
* * *
Rigo wasn't a big fan of being inside hospitals, but then who was? He was overcoming this reluctance, partly because the young woman he had found asked to see him and partly because he wanted to know how she was doing.
He left his old Toyota in the parking structure and found his way in through the main entrance. Senior ladies with recently styled coiffures sitting behind a counter in the lobby promised information for the confused visitor. He gave them a room number and one of them pointed toward the elevators.
As he emerged at the designated floor, Rigo had to admit the place exuded cheerfulness, from the pastel walls to a nicely furnished waiting area. A nurse in uniform was talking on the phone behind a counter and barely glanced at him as he walked by. He found the room with no trouble. He stopped just before the open doorway and took a deep breath.
He wondered how she would look. The initial newspaper and TV accounts had given him some pictures and information, but the news reports about her had slowed to a trickle in the last couple of days. He had thought about coming to the hospital but wasn't sure he'd be welcome. Then Andrea had phoned and told him Carol, as she was calling herself, wanted to see him.
Getting up his courage, he walked to the doorway and knocked on the door. She looked up from the chair she was sitting in and smiled.
"You must be Rigo. Come in."
Rigo smiled back. She didn't look half as bad as he thought she would. There were still a couple of small bandages on her face. Her head had been shaved in several places, and dressings applied to her wounds. However, her innate beauty shone through. Her skin was a shade darker than his. She was wearing a robe that was too large over her hospital gown.
Before he could say anything, she stood up and gave him a bear hug. "My savior."
Now Rigo was embarrassed. "I didn't do anything."
"If you hadn't found me, I'd be dead."
Rigo wondered what would have happened to her if he'd put the garbage in the other Dumpster. Or hadn't seen her and tossed the bag on top of her. Or what if she'd been placed in the Dumpster on any other night except Saturday? Sunday was the only day the restaurant opened before dinner. Confusing and terrifying dreams disturbed his sleep.
She released him and motioned toward a second chair. "Sit down, Rigo. I'm Carol, by the way. Carol Golden."
"Yeah, that's what Andrea said."
"Of course, that's not my real name. I don't know my real name."
This was awkward. Something welled up inside Rigo, and he didn't know what to say. "How do you feel?"
"Much better. Of course, anything would be better than how you found me. Although I look a mess, my head and face are healing. So are my bites and the bruises on my body. I have one scar on my abdomen the doctor said is old."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Forget to Rememberby Alan Cook Copyright © 2010 by Alan L. Cook. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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