Undercover Girl – Chapter Eighteen
By Katherine Day

Chapter Eighteen – Suspicion of Conspiracy

The Browning family, he quickly learned, was notoriously private, and whatever publicity they seemed to gain came from the philanthropic endeavors of Paul Browning, Sr. and his wife, Cindy Lou. Much of their charity work, it appeared, was focused on the suburb of Madison Heights. There was the Cedric Browning Library, named after Paul’s deceased father; the Cindy Lou Browning Youth Center, and the Browning Concert grounds, a well-groomed park with a lavishly appointed bandshell with backstage buildings.

The Browning fortune, it appeared, came largely from the regional food market chain developed by Cedric Browning after World War II. There was also a small inheritance from Cindy Lou’s family. She had been the stereotypical Southern belle with a rich plantation heritage (and a later fortune built on property development) and met young Paul Browning during a spring break vacation along the Florida beaches while both were college students. Apparently, it was true love and after a couple of years, the two married and she moved north. With funds from Cindy Lou’s relatively modest inheritance and his father’s estate, Paul Browning jumped into the hedge fund business. It was a timely splurge and the family fortunes burgeoned in the dot.com upswing, apparently avoiding disaster in the market bust in the early 21st Century.

Apparently, the Browning marriage was a smooth one; at least, there were no embarrassing news stories concerning it. They had children, but strangely, Marcus could find little mention of them. The only confirmation came in a picture from the weekly Madison Heights Journal of May 21, 1992 at the dedication of the Cedric Browning Library, showing Paul and Cindy Lou Browning with three youngsters at their side, identified as Dorothy Anne, 10; Marie Lynn, 7, and Paul Jr., 5.

A Google search of the name “Paul Browning Jr.” came up with three responses that could be linked to the little boy in the photograph. The latest listing was a clipping from a Boston area suburban weekly about a raid of a fraternity house on December 2, 2008, about a Paul Browning Jr., aged 21, a senior at Amherst, being arrested for alleged sexual assault of a minor boy. Young Browning was the only one named in the story; the newspaper explained others were arrested on lesser charges since none of their partners were underage. Marcus checked further but could find no further mention of the incident, making him wonder if somehow the Browning family had managed to shut down additional news coverage. The other stories referred to an honor young Paul had gotten at his high school graduation from the Codington Academy in Massachusetts and a picture of him in an ROTC uniform as part of an honor guard, also at the same academy.

Marcus thought about the arrest story. Was young Browning a budding pedophile? Or, was the incident an innocent one that resulted in a wrongful arrest? Did young Browning favor boys, particularly young ones? Maybe dainty, cute boys like Jefferson Turner and Marcus himself were his fancy? And why was the Browning family so secretive about their family life as the same time it was putting its name on buildings all over the area? Was there something lurking in the family closets?

He recalled seeing a slender young man, effeminate in appearance, standing at the mansion to which he had been taken on that fateful night after which he escaped. Could that have been Browning Jr.?

So engrossed was Marcus in his computer research that he nearly forgot about his lunch date with Latesha; it was well after eleven o’clock when he finally realized he’d have to hurry if he was to be on time to meet his former co-worker at Miss Mattie’s.

*****
It had warmed up by the time Marcus left Heddy’s apartment and he decided to leave the windbreaker behind, hoping a sudden chill might not come up from an unexpected windshift that would bring cool breezes off the lake. Heddy had left her car for Marcus, since Marcus’ own car had been placed into a garage, hidden from the eyes of whoever was tailing him. The generosity of the woman was truly impressive, he felt; she seemed to have no ulterior motive other than to protect him in a time of peril and to resolve the apparent child trafficking scheme, if that’s what it was. She obviously showed no romantic attachment to him since her love for her soldier boyfriend seemed genuine.

Miss Mattie’s was located deep in what was typically called “the hood” by its own inhabitants. Most whites, particularly from the suburbs, were frightened to enter the area, even taking out-of-the-way streets to avoid driving through. Since most of the families he served while at Opportunities, Inc., lived in or near the hood, he had grown used to the streets of the area and by and large he felt comfortable there. He was aware that crime was prevalent there, and stayed alert, but most of his encounters with residents had been friendly and open.

The parking lot adjacent to Miss Mattie’s was full and he was forced to park Heddy’s ten-year-old Chevrolet Malibu on a side street nearly a block away, requiring him to walk along a street where children were playing while some adults sat on the front porches of century-old frame homes that were crammed into narrow city lots.

From his travels in the hood, Marcus had occasionally seen young white women on the streets, most always dressed casually, if not scruffy. He presumed most of them were either working as prostitutes or were staying with their black boyfriends. He knew most folks would dismiss the girls as “losers,” but Marcus knew each one had a story to tell explaining their unlikely presence in the hood.

“Hey, you. Come here to daddy,” one older man yelled from a porch. “Got somethin’ for ya’.”

Marcus ignored the remark and continued walking. “Think you’re too good for this ol’ nigger?” the man chided.

He couldn’t ignore a younger man, tall, slender with almost a childish, sweet face, who was approaching on the sidewalk. Marcus could see the man eying him, but Marcus, having been trained in the job to present a confident business-like demeanor to avoid problems, straightened himself and looked straight ahead.

“Say, miss. I have a question,” the man said, stepping in front of Marcus, forcing him to stop.

Marcus suddenly felt frightened. Even though the man spoke articulately and looked harmless, he detected something sinister in the man.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing here? You need company?”

Marcus realized that even when he dressed in rough female clothes, he became a lovely, attractive young woman. He could never hide his natural female beauty.

Thinking fast, Marcus summoned all his courage and looking up at the taller man and said, “Let me by. I’m meeting my boyfriend at Miss Mattie’s.”

“Your boyfriend? You’re spoofing little girl.”

“He should come by any minute and he’ll kick your sorry ass from here to Lake Michigan. Now get out of my way,” Marcus said. In his excitement, his voice rose into a natural feminine range, surprising himself by being able to speak for forcefully. Meanwhile, he was shaking and feared he’d be wetting his panties.

“Whoa. Whoa. You’re a feisty one, you are,” he said, moving aside to let Marcus pass.

Marcus was still tense as he entered the restaurant.

*****
There was a short line of customers awaiting their turn to see the hostess. Marcus looked about the room in vain to see if he could locate Latesha. He saw mostly African-American folks, though there were occasional whites sprinkled about in the large room. Most of the whites tended to be middle-aged men in business suits, obviously politicians who needed to retain their creds in the black community or else real estate or insurance salespeople out hustling customers.

“You must be Miss Miranda,” the hostess queried.

He nodded.

“Latesha said you’d be joining her, dear. Follow me.”

The hostess, a large, middle-aged matronly woman, led Marcus through the large room into a smaller backroom with partitioned booths.

“Miranda!” Latesha squealed as Marcus approached.

She rose and hugged him firmly.

“Thanks, Wanda,” Latesha said, as the hostess turned to leave the room.

When they had settled into the booth, Marcus spoke, “It’s good to see you, Latesha. I’ve missed you all, and you’ve always been particularly nice to me.”

She smiled at the comment, but then shook her head, “No, it’s not me. It’s you. You’re easy to be nice to, Miranda. I understand now you’re living a bit in the dark, as Miranda?”

“Yes, it seemed best and I’m trying not to stand out. That’s why I’m dressed as scruffy as I am today. It wasn’t any disrespect to you, Latesha. Just a necessity.”

“I understand. And knowing your need to remain . . . what shall I say? . . . undercover, I asked Wanda if we could get a table back here.”

“Wanda? You know her?”

“She’s my auntie,” Latesha smiled. “She runs this place and she can be a real terror if things don’t go right, but otherwise she’s loved by everyone.”

“Well, it looks like she’s got a smooth operation here,” he said.

The two shared small talk as they ordered and ate their meals. Marcus let Latesha order for him and he was pleased learn how tasty soul food was.

“Now, here’s what I really want to talk about,” Latesha began as their plates were cleared away and they both sipped on their refilled glasses of iced tea.

“Well, here I am,” Marcus said, sipping his tea.

She began by lamenting over the decision to terminate Marcus, stating how the entire staff confronted Amy Dacosta, noting how unfair it was that he was let go.

“We all thought you had more than proved yourself and that you were a caring, hard-working staffer,” she said. “But Amy got really defensive and just said the decision was made on top, by Hector, and she could do nothing about it. If we had a problem with it, she said we should go to him. We did, but all he said was that the reason for your termination was none of our business, that you were still in your probationary period and that was that.”

“So, it wasn’t Amy letting me go?” he asked.

“I guess not, but none of us think she fought hard enough to keep you. I knew you two had a falling out, Miranda.”

“You did?” he asked, astonished, thinking both he and Amy had kept their night-time affairs private.

“Well, we don’t know exactly what you and Amy were up to, but it became obvious just from the way the two of you acted toward one another. God, before you’re cooling off, it was sickening at times to see how smoochy you guys could be.”

Latesha laughed.

“We were that obvious then. Damn, Latesha, I loved her, even though we could hardly be termed ‘right’ for each other, given our age and my lack of masculinity. But I never felt so comfortable with anyone else before. I really miss her, but she has rejected me out of hand. We haven’t talked.”

The waitress dropped the bill on the table and Latesha grabbed it, quickly pulling out a credit card from her purse. Marcus tried to object, but Latesha said, “Look you’re out of work and I still get a paycheck.”

She continued, “Things have really gone to hell at the agency since you left. Amy never talks to us, just closes the door to her office. Never even says ‘good morning’ or share in any of the office jabbering like she used to. You two have to make up.”

Marcus shook his head and began to tear up. Ashamed of his reaction he looked down at his iced tea glass and judged he had about one-third of the glass still to drink. Latesha reached over and put a hand on his left wrist, holding it firmly, but gently, lightly stroking his smooth soft skin. She said nothing, just held his wrist and continued to caress his forearm. It was comforting and he slowly composed himself.

“I want to make up with her, ‘tesha,” he mumbled, using a shortened name that he had heard the girls in the office sometimes call her.

“I know you do. Maybe you should call her.”

“I can’t. She fired me and she wasn’t very nice about it, either.”

Latesha removed her hand from his wrist, straightened herself a bit. “You know, ‘randa,” she said, “she didn’t have a choice. Hector forced her into it.”

“But, why would he? He has praised me over and over.”

“Maybe he was forced into it.”

“Who would force him?”

Latesha didn’t answer immediately. Instead, it looked like she seemed to have lapsed into momentary reflection, her eyes going blank. Finally, her eyes gained focus and she looked directly at Marcus, her face taking on a serious look. “Can I trust you to never repeat to a living soul what I’m going to tell you, Marcus?”

He nodded “yes,” a bit hesitantly at first. Yet, he knew she was serious, particularly since she reverting to using his masculine name.

“I’m serious, Marcus. This has got to be between you and I until I tell you otherwise. OK?”

“Right, OK.”

“There’s been a lot of strange coincidences going on for some time in the agency, but I never saw them until recently,” she began.

*****
The “coincidences” Latesha mentioned were strange, Marcus realized when she had finished.

First, why did Jefferson Turner’s foster family, the Harrisons, seem to be assigned with boys of an effeminate nature, like Jefferson? Their youngest foster son, Larry, was apparently being groomed for a similar role. Latesha said she had noticed the boy’s growing girlish behaviors in just the few months she had been visiting the family.

“I never did much about it, since our policy is now to be open to transgender youth and it’s always good to have foster parents who understand such behaviors, but still I wondered why one family would have two such boys,” she said.

Secondly, Latesha said Jefferson and Larry were not the only foster sons that the Harrisons had cared for who were noticeably effeminate. She checked with Maria Gonzalez, who used to work in their section as a home-visitor and had served as the social worker serving the Harrisons. Gonzalez told Latesha that she, too, noticed several other boys fostered by the Harrisons had similar tendencies. Gonzalez also said she sensed a similar situation with another foster family, named Wirth; she had visited them only twice (subbing for their usual worker) and saw a remarkedly matching situation with the Harrisons: the houses were clean and inviting, the atmosphere open and welcoming and the children outwardly pleased with the settings.

“Yet, I noticed, as did Maria, that when she interviewed the children they seemed to be holding back on us, even though each kid praised their foster parents,” Latesha said. “It was uncanny. I’ve never seen ‘perfect’ foster homes, but both the Harrisons and the Wirths seemed to be just that. Too good to be true.”

Thirdly, in Latesha’s narrative, Hector Ramirez, the agency director, seemed to be prospering financially. Ramirez, she said, had recently bought an overly plush Cadillac Escalade and that just a few months ago he moved his family from their rather ordinary bungalow in a largely Latino neighborhood into a large home on the city’s posh North Shore area.

“How does a poor kid from the streets get enough money on his social service agency salary to afford to live like that?” she asked. “And, did you notice how expensively he’s been dressing recently. Where’s his money coming from?”

*****
Marcus mulled all of this over in the drive back to Heddy’s apartment, his mind becoming occupied first with thoughts about his affection for Amy Dacosta and then with what appeared to be a conspiracy involving the trafficking of young, usually effeminate boys. His suspicions grew intense, even to the point that he wondered whether Amy was a party to all of it.

He grew restless as the afternoon wore on; he tried for a while to do research on the internet, vainly hoping that his “Googling” would lead him to an answer about the Brownings, but all he could find were stories of the family’s seemingly overly generous philanthropy, plus boring stories in the business section about the family’s hedge fund, Browning Investments and the genius of the family patriarch, grandfather Cedric T. Browning. Cedric’s obituary, written in the year 1995, told how the boy was born an orphan and was adopted by a Union City, Indiana, railroad worker’s family. As a young man, Cedric rode the rails, lived in hobo camps during the Depression and somehow cobbled together enough money to buy a small grocery store in 1938 that many considered a foolhardy venture in those troubled days. Somehow, Cedric made it all work and early on came onto a new concept – a self-service grocery with cashiers at the door, thus saving on the need for clerks. Thus, he became the first in the city’s metropolitan area to establish the modern supermarket. After World War II (he was spared from service due to his age and family with its three children), he soon expanded to erect eight stores throughout the area, rivalling the two giants of retailing then, the A & P and National Tea stores.

Cedric turned the stores over to son Paul on his 70th birthday in 1975. Ten years later, Paul tired of the grocery business and sold out to a national chain, grabbed the hundreds of millions of dollars in proceeds and set up the hedge fund, becoming filthy rich. Soon the news clippings were of Paul’s yachting adventures, but little was said of his wife, Cindy Lou, and the couple’s three children.

This was all interesting, Marcus found, but did little to enlighten him on a possible child trafficking conspiracy. Growing restless, he rummaged through Heddy’s clothes to see if what he could find something else to wear. Even though she had suggested he could wear any of her things – except for a few dresses she wore for special occasions – he took advantage of her invitation, even if he felt a bit guilty.

He had dressed particularly ordinary, or even dowdy in his mind, for his luncheon date with Latesha and wanted desperately to put on a skirt and blouse to feel more feminine. Finally finding an outfit he liked, Marcus took off the slacks and top he was wearing, stripping down to his bra and panties. He caught a glimpse of himself in this disrobed fashion and smiled at the slender, lovely figure he saw in a mirror.

He emerged from the bedroom in a calf-length flowing print skirt in white with stylish pink starburst designs and a purple sleeveless top. He undid the bun into which he had tied his hair, and brushed it so it fell to his shoulders, straight with a slight bob. He felt totally feminine.

“Miranda, dear Miranda,” the slender young man mused as he paraded in front of the full-length mirror that Heddy had placed on her closet door. “You’re lovely, a true beauty.”

No longer was he Marcus; he was now Miranda. He desperately wanted Amy to see him as he was now – dainty, soft and feminine. He mused about the hours he had been engulfed in Amy’s strong arms, how lovingly she caressed him and how passionately she had said, “Miranda, Miranda, my Miranda.”

He thought over Latesha’s description of Amy and how much she had changed since Marcus had been discharged from the Agency. In Latesha’s eyes, Amy’s uncharacteristic behavior stemmed from the breakup between the two of them. “You have got to call her,” Latesha had urged Marcus.

Marcus remembered that nearly all his feminine clothes were at Amy’s. Perhaps, he mused, he could call her to see if he could arrange to pick them up some time.

“Yes,” he said aloud, using his soft, breathy feminine voice. “I’ll do that. Tonight, I’ll call her and maybe we can talk.”

He smiled into the mirror. He was a beauty, even more so when he smiled.

*****
Heddy came home briefly at the end of her shift, changing out of her uniform into a short, pleated skirt, modest heels and a pullover blouse with a v-neck. It was Friday night and she had a dinner date with a man she described as “an old high school friend.”

Marcus was surprised to learn she was dating; hadn’t she been in love with her boyfriend serving in Afghanistan? His skepticism must have shown.

“It’s nothing serious, Marcus,” Heddy explained. “He’s back home from the East, visiting his parents and we are just friends. Sorry to leave you alone tonight.”

“It’s no problem. I’ll finish up that leftover pizza and make a salad. I’ll be fine,” Marcus said. Furthermore, he was happy for be alone for his call to Amy.

Marcus punched Amy’s cell phone number three times, ending the call even before the rang began. He began to question whether he should make the call. Finally, recalling Latesha’s advice, he punched in the number for a fourth time.

After Marcus agonizingly endured six rings from Amy’s phone (all the time fighting the inclination to hang up), he heard the woman’s answering machine message. In a shaky voice, he said, “Amy . . . ah . . . this is Miranda. Call me . . . ah . . . just a quick question. Please.”

He hung up. He knew Amy had a practice of checking caller ID before answering her phone. She knew his number, of course. She wouldn’t call back, he knew it.

But she surprised him. Fifteen minutes later, his cell phone buzzed and the caller ID said only “Restricted.” It could be Amy, since she blocked her ID when she called folks, largely due to the need to protect her from agency clients. (The job of serving families often requires making tough decisions that anger families even to the level of violence.)

With his heart beating heavily, Marcus answered his phone after letting it ring five times – just before the automatic answering service took over.

“Hello,” he answered, his voice quivering.

“What’s your quick question?” Amy was curt and direct.

Taken aback by her coldness, Marcus had to pause.

“Well? I haven’t got all night?” she pressed impatiently.

“Amy. I’d like to stop by and pick up my clothes at your place . . . that is, if you haven’t thrown them out.”

“No, they’re still here in the closet.”

“Oh, that’s good. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Can I come by about ten in the morning?”

“Make it four in the afternoon. OK?” Her voice was still cold and unfeeling.

“I can do that?”

“Be here on time,” she warned, hanging up abruptly.

There wasn’t a hint of warmth in her voice and as he ended the call, Marcus wondered if there was any hope at all that the two could resume their friendship. He broke into tears. He was heartbroken.

*****
Marcus had trouble sleeping that night, his mind mulling over conflicting explanations to explain Amy’s cold behavior in the phone call. Was it, as Latesha speculated, that she felt guilty for having terminated him? Maybe she really did love him – or love Miranda, at least? No, perhaps she was embarrassed to be associated with an effeminate, girlish man like himself? Or, was it because he truly did act unprofessionally by pursuing the causes behind Jefferson Turner’s situation?

Fortunately, Mollie and Latesha called the next morning and invited him to lunch where they reinforced his decision to follow through with his trip to Amy’s apartment. They met at Sterling’s, a family restaurant famous for its special salads and pies. Marcus came as Miranda, dressed purposely in jeans and a pink sweatshirt adorned with bunnies so as to not attract attention. The three laughed and giggled through lunch with no mention of Amy Dacosta. Once coffee was served the conversation turned toward Marcus’ coming visit to Amy.

“She’s still in love with you, Miranda,” Mollie insisted.

Latesha agreed. “Just give her an opening, Miranda.”

Marcus and the young women shared a group hug and Marcus returned to Heddy’s apartment, looking carefully around the street to see if he saw anything that would indicate his pursuers had located him. There was a plumbing firm’s truck parked at the curb; it had been there when he left several hours earlier and Marcus saw no activity coming from the truck. It looked innocent enough; yet, he couldn’t be too careful.

*****
It was time to see Amy, Marcus realized, and he readied himself to visit her. Heddy was gone for most of the weekend, having gone on a camping trip with friends, one of them apparently the young man who she knew from high school. He left a note, informing Heddy that he was spending the weekend with Amy, and that she shouldn’t be alarmed. “I’m in safe hands,” he wrote.

It was only on impulse that Marcus – dressed as Miranda in a knee-length print skirt, a burgundy-colored blouse, a cardigan and flats – stopped at a small florist’s shop located about a half-block from Amy’s apartment. Being a bright, sunny, cool afternoon in early fall, he spied the mums lined along the storefront. He bought a plant of mums, spending $16 of the $20 he had in his purse, figuring he’d present it as a token of his appreciation for Amy’s early support at the agency and their previous affection for each other.

As he carried the plant into her apartment building, his anxiety over the meeting Amy seemed to subside; whether it was the sunny day or the bright yellow of the mums, his mood was calmed.

“Come on up,” Amy said simply through the speaker as she buzzed him into the foyer of the building. He could detect no hint of warmth in her tone. Amy was standing at her apartment door, awaiting as he stepped off the elevator. She was not smiling.

“What’s this?” she said as he approached with the plant in his arms.

“I thought you might like this plant for your balcony. That’s all.”

She said nothing and merely nodded for him to put the plant down on the floor, near her entry door.

“Sorry, I thought you’d like this. I’ll take it home then if you want me to,” he said, suddenly feeling embarrassed for arriving with this floral gift.

“Leave it here,” she said stiffly.

The two stood, looking awkwardly at each other. Neither spoke. Marcus felt an urge to hug her, to rush into her arms, to feel her comforting hands caress his own feminine softness. They avoided each other’s eyes for a moment; finally, Marcus looked toward Amy and was surprised to see that Amy was now looking straight at him. He wanted her so badly; yet he stood there silently, his hands nervously playing with the cloth of the cardigan.

He watched in amazement as Amy’s eyes began to moisten and soft tears began to run down her cheeks. He felt his own eyes grow moist and soon he felt the tears move down his cheeks.

“I miss you, Miranda,” Amy said finally.

Marcus said nothing for a moment, resisting the urge to rush to her side, but all the time looking to be held by her, to smell her always soapy, clean scents and experience her hands kneading his mushy flesh.

“Oh my God,” Amy said, rushing to him, locking him into a firm muscular embrace.
(To be continued)
(Thanks to Eric for proofreading and other suggestions.)