Little Girls Lost (Carson Ryder, Book 6)

by J. A. Kerley

  “Are these your work, Mr Desmond?” the twit asked.

  “Three are. I can tell by the lighting and backdrop.”

  “Which one isn’t?”

  Truman studied the photo the cop was holding—a school picture, which, though he hadn’t taken it, pleased Truman with its irony. It was Darla Dumont, the girl from last year, the chance meeting that had led to Truman’s new and lucrative enterprise.

  Truman had been sticking Desmond Photography handbills under car wipers at the Winn-Dixie when Darla rode up on her bicycle and asked what he was doing. She was a tawny and impressive little peach, bright, chatty, eager. Truman immediately recalled a message in one of the secret chatrooms: the poster had implied, with utmost tact and shading, an interest beyond photos, a desire for a “corporeal entity”.

  Truman had looked up the word “corporeal”—material, bodily—and he knew what the man wanted. Thus commenced a delicate interchange, Truman determining the man might pay as much as a quarter-million dollars to own the correct “entity”.

  Truman enlisted Darla to place handbills, all the while questioning her about school, family, places she went to be alone. He gave her twenty dollars and pledged her to secrecy.

  “Don’t tell anyone, and I’ll let you help me do this again.”

  He’d had a camera in his car and snapped several shots of Darla, posting them to his correspondent that evening. After a week of feeling one another out, a deal was sealed. He met Darla two days later, as arranged. Rose sprang from the van, and everything ticked like clockwork, the buyer retrieving his product at the Mobile docks a few days later and wiring the fee to a Caymans bank account. When the school-photography job opened, Truman had jumped, slowly and carefully building his bank of selected photos and making his offer known to his select and slender roster.

  I can get you more than pictures …

  Truman tapped Darla/Vitriana. “I didn’t take this picture.” It was true.

  “You sure?”

  “I don’t have a backdrop like that.”

  While the ape looked around like he’d never seen a photo studio before, the twit cop scribbled in a cheap notebook. “How long have you been working with the schools?” the twit asked, looking bored.

  “This is my first year. I’ve specialized in family portraiture since starting in business eight years ago, plus some advertising and PR work. Weddings. Bar Mitzvahs. A few passport photos. But this year I thought I’d give school photography a shot. The paperwork’s a hassle, but next year I’m going to hire an assistant.”

  “You process the photos yourself?”

  Truman shook his head. “I contract with a bulk processor. They print them on sheets, handle the orders.”

  “Do you have much interaction with the students?”

  Truman chuckled. “It’s an assembly line. Sit, say cheese, sit, say cheese, sit …”

  The twit smiled at Truman’s wit. Dealing with these yokels was fun.

  “How about access to personal family information?” the twit asked.

  “The parent or guardian fills out a form for records and billing purposes.”

  “Is a home address on that form?”

  Truman took a sip of soda. “Um, yes. But I never use it. It’s for the schools.”

  “You keep the forms?”

  Truman popped a Cheezo in his mouth, crunching as he spoke. “If I left them with the schools they’d disappear. I hang on to the info until the photos are delivered, then shred and dump it.”

  “No one else works here with you?”

  Truman slapped bright orange Cheezo powder from his palms. “I’m a one-man show, unfortunately.”

  “Bookkeeper?”

  “I keep my own books. Sure you don’t want a pop or a snack?”

  “No thanks.”

  An interrogator’s voice rumbled from behind Truman. “Which do you like best, Mr Desmond, little girls or little boys?”

  Truman’s heart jammed in his throat. He blanked his face, and turned to the ape, shocked to see it had wandered completely across the studio and was in the far corner, standing near the removable flooring above the external drive.

  Truman fought to keep his voice even. “I’m sorry, Detective Conner. What?”

  The ape scratched its head, stifled a yawn, stretched like it was ready for bed. “You know, like who’s easiest to take pictures of? I figure the boys for a pain in the ass. I was.”

  Desmond relaxed and offered a knowing smile. “You’re right, Detective Conner, the girls. The boys are always showing off for each other, crossing their eyes or sticking out their tongues.”

  The ape made a gurgling sound Tru assumed was a giggle, and said, “Hell, I still do.”

  The twit shook his head slowly, as if saying, Look what I’m burdened with.

  There were a few more meaningless questions before the cops left, the twit in the lead, the ape slouching behind. Truman knew he should have felt secure when the door closed, but a warning light was blinking in his head. Sometime during the interview, the ape had moved away. How could it move so softly on the creaky wood floors? What had the ape been doing? Looking at?

  Should I worry? Did I do something wrong?

  No, because there was nothing the ape could have found. The only incriminating object in the studio was the external drive, and it was safe. The ape’s simple-minded question about boys and girls almost made Truman fill his drawers. But he hadn’t flinched, had he? Instead, he’d delivered an Academy Award performance, sliding past the question like a greased eel.

  Truman shrugged the worry from his shoulders. The way he’d handled those yokels was brilliant; he could have pissed in their mouths and they’d have thanked him for the lemonade. Still, he was glad they had gone; something about that big ape gave him chills.

  He picked up the broom and resumed sweeping the dust and crumbs and torn edges of Rose’s power-bar wrappers.

  Chapter 30

  Sandhill and Ryder drove two blocks and parked in the rear of a Popeye’s restaurant. The smell of fried chicken poured into Sandhill’s truck like hot fog. Ryder watched a stray dog feast on chicken scraps at the edge of the asphalt.

  Sandhill said, “So what’d you take from the guy?”

  “He seems like a typical photographer, but something’s hinky. Probably has nothing to do with the abductions, but he’s got a worm somewhere in his gut. He was jumpier than he looked.”

  Sandhill nodded. “Smug little bastard thought he was leading us around like carnival ponies.”

  “What was in the back cabinets?” Ryder asked.

  “One held tripods, conduit, switch boxes, reflector stands. The other was a snack stash: three industrial-size cases of Cheezos from one of those discount joints. Plus paper towels and cleaning supplies.”

  “I saw you snatch something from the floor.”

  Sandhill used the nails of his thumb and forefinger to extract several pieces of silver paper from his pocket. A car behind them pulled out and Ryder waited until it was gone before leaning close.

  “What is it?”

  Sandhill shook his head, staring at the paper. “No idea. I saw a bunch of them in a pile of sweepings. I was just thinking, the way you tear something like this off …” Sandhill mimed ripping the end from a package.

  “Yeah, perfect for thumb and forefinger prints. I’ll take it to the lab tonight,” Ryder said.

  “How about you drop me at Nike’s? I want to check on her.”

  There was a long pause; Ryder contemplating a question he’d had for a couple of days. “Can I ask you a question, Sandhill? Something I’ve been wondering about?”

  Sandhill raised an eyebrow. “And the subject?”

  “How Jacy came to be with Nike Charlane …”

  Sandhill looked away, out the window. “Jacy’s real mother died. Ovarian cancer. The kid was three. Nike’s the girl’s aunt and she—”

  “Not that. I know you and Nike Charlane are friends, but I’m feeling something more betwe
en you two, something deep and complex. Were you two ever lovers?”

  Sandhill sighed. “Not Nike … Thena. Thena and I were lovers.”

  “Thena?”

  “Nike’s older sister, Athena—Jacy’s mother. It ended years ago. Almost a decade. We were together less than a year. Then Thena split for someone more her style, I guess.”

  “Were they much alike, Nike and Thena?”

  “Nike is pragmatic. Thena was metaphysical. New Age-y spiritual: Tarot cards, crystals, whatever.”

  Ryder raised an eyebrow. “What kind of work did she do?”

  “Made jewelry from precious metals and polished stones. We’d be walking in a park and she’d reach down and grab some dusty chunk of rock. Two days later it would be set in silver and shining like a rainbow.”

  “Where’d you meet her?”

  “The Church Street Cemetery, behind the library. I’d taken out some books and headed to the graveyard to read. Thena waltzed into the cemetery wearing a rainbow skirt, brocaded vest, hoop earrings, silver bells tinkling from a bracelet. Hair a mane of wild curls. She was happy as a kid at the circus, smiling, touching gravestones like old friends. I thought …”

  —that woman’s crazy. Or on something. But wow …

  “A good-looking woman, I take it?”

  “The regal bones of Nike with larger, gentler eyes. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. A few minutes later she jangled by a few feet away.”

  —What cloud are you on, lady?

  “She moved like snow, floating. I went back into the library to exchange one book for another. When I came out she was cross-legged on the hood of my truck holding a deck of Tarot cards.”

  —Excuse me, lady. My truck has an appointment and wants me to drive it there.

  —Here, hold these cards. Come on, they won’t bite. No, tighter. That’s it. Now pass them back. My, your hand is cool for such a warm day. Take three cards from the deck …

  —I don’t have time for games, lady.

  —Are you scared? A big man like you?

  —One, two, three. Three cards. Now what?

  —Lay them face up in front of me.

  —Whatever you want, lady. Here’s a guy in a crown, an old bum in rags, and a woman with a set of scales. We done here?

  —Oh my.

  —Oh my what? Look, lady, I’ve got to be—

  —The King of Cups, the Hermit, and the card of Justice. That’s very … unusual.

  —Could you stop staring at me? And maybe tell me how long you’re going to be squatting on my hood?

  —I’m not sure. How many notes are in a song?

  “She sounds like an original,” Ryder said.

  “Somehow we ended up ended up having supper at that seafood joint on the causeway. She was vegetarian, sat there smiling over her salad watching me chow down on snapper and filet until I felt—Jesus—guilty.”

  —Two hours and I don’t know your name.

  —Is it important? Athena Diana Charlane. From mythology; my father loved the stories. Friends call me Thena.

  —Athena is the goddess of war, isn’t she?

  —Of many things, including handicrafts—more to my taste. And Diana is generally regarded as the goddess—

  —of the hunt. What do you hunt, Thena?

  —The heart of the matter. Or hearts.

  Ryder said, “I have a hard time visualizing you with someone so … different.”

  “We were fire and water. Or earth and sky. Pick any opposites you want. By all rational rights we should have run from one another the second our eyes met. But I was … enchanted.”

  —What are you feeling, Conner?

  “She drove me nuts at times, Ryder, always asking, ‘What are you feeling, Conner?’ I’d say, ‘I’m not feeling anything, Thena, I’m thinking.’ She’d get that damned elusive smile on her lips and say, ‘So how do you feel about what you’re thinking?’”

  “How did it fall apart?” Ryder’s voice was a whisper.

  “One day Thena said she’d been called to a mission and would have to go away for a while.”

  “Mission? You didn’t try to—”

  “It was her life, not mine. My thinking was she happened on another guy like she’d happened on me. Someone more touchy-feely. Jacy was born a year after she bailed, as I later discovered from Nike. Thena’d found what she’d been hunting. Or who.”

  “Was it love between you and Thena?”

  Sandhill looked away, said, “Let’s git.”

  Ryder cranked on the engine, put the truck in gear, and pulled from the lot. They were fifteen blocks from Popeye’s before Sandhill spoke again.

  “It was good, Ryder. I’ve never felt that good since.”

  Chapter 31

  “We can’t stay closed through this, Conner,” Marie scolded.

  Sandhill had returned to the restaurant to find the CLOSED sign replaced by OPEN 4 P.M. TO-DAY.

  “I don’t have time to deal with the place, Marie.”

  “I’ll handle everything today; tomorrow I got Dora coming in. I talked to her about working full time for a while and she said she’d do anything.”

  “Marie, I don’t want you to—”

  “I need to do something, Conner. If I sit around I just shake and cry. And we need the money, you know we do.”

  She was right, as usual, Sandhill admitted, heading to the kitchen to check the gumbos. He’d been in the kitchen a half-hour when the phone rang.

  “Conner?”

  It was Nike, her voice weary, but not so ragged.

  “Nike. How are you? Can I—”

  “That damned Turnbull’s over here wanting to hold a candle-fucking-light vigil or something. There must be fifty people in the street. Why would anyone hold a freaking candlelight vigil in broad daylight?”

  Sandhill’s watch confirmed his opinion: 4 p.m. “To get it on the five o’clock news.”

  “I don’t want that bastard using me like that, using Jacy like that.”

  “If it’s peaceful there’s nothing you can do.”

  “He’s got a bullhorn and he’s yelling ‘Save our babies’ over and over. I don’t think I can take this, Conner.”

  Nike fell silent and Sandhill heard amplified ranting in the background. “Do you want to come over here? Or go to Marie’s?”

  “I’d feel better at your place, Conner. Please come get me. I can’t deal with this kind of craziness now.”

  “I’ll call Ryder. He and Roland Zemain can walk you out. I don’t think a heavy police presence would be good.”

  “Hurry, Conner. Please hurry.”

  Sandhill called Ryder, who’d already gotten word.

  “The brass is still discussing what to do, Sandhill. On one hand those people have the right to peaceful assembly; on the other—”

  “Screw the brass. Nike wants out of there. Can you do it? I want to scope out the crowd; the abductor may be drawn to the action.”

  Ryder said, “Squill send me? Not a chance.”

  “I’ll have Nike call and say she wants to leave. But only with you.”

  Ryder said, “Squill’ll be bad pissed.”

  Sandhill noted Ryder sounded elevated by the prospect. “Squill was born pissed. Can you take Nike to my place?”

  “Done. By the way, there were latents on that silver wrapper. A full thumb and index and a partial middle. They didn’t belong to Truman Desmond.”

  “Desmond’s got prints in the system? For what?”

  “Anyone doing business with the schools gets printed. Desmond’s clean, no record. Not even a parking ticket. And whoever left the prints is just as immaculate.”

  “Shit. I was hoping photo-boy’d have some type of sexo beef—weenie wagging or something. Give you a chance to toss his place.”

  “Can’t do it,” Ryder lamented. “Desmond’s clean as a new whistle.”

  Walter Mattoon’s various in-port dealings often required local phone directories and he’d collected nearly thirty of them. He chec
ked his watch, made the time corrections, and figured it was just past noon in Mobile. He had the communications engineer make the satellite connection, then sat back at his desk and listened as connections fell into place, tapping the small ad in the Mobile Yellow Pages.

  A leisurely drawl danced through the phone. “Bridgett’s Bridal Fashions.”

  “I need to speak to someone in charge,” Mattoon said.

  The woman said, “That would be me. Bridgett Boistellier, the owner.”

  “My name is Ernest Martel. I’m with Angel Productions, an independent film company currently shooting a commercial in the Mobile area.”

  “Yes sir. How can I help you?”

  “Let me give you the scenario. A little girl is dreaming of the day she gets married. But time is mixed up and she dreams herself in a wedding dress while still youthful. We have a dress that was made for her, but I don’t think it’s right. It’s far, far too contemporary.”

  “Clean, straight lines? No lace or ruffles?”

  “I don’t want strict traditional, but a more formalized elegance.”

  “Full veil, sleeves, lace at the bodice, a layering effect from the waist down …”

  “Exactly. No veil, though. I—the camera needs to see her face.”

  “I can do that. I’ll need the girl in for a fitting, of course.”

  “No can do. She’s being flown in from Tallahassee just the day of the filming. I can call back with her exact dimensions … uh, measurements.”

  “If that’s the only way.”

  “There’s one other little thing, a slight time constraint.”

  “When will you need it, Mr Martel?”

  “Four days from now.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Martel. Four days is way too little time to—”

  “How much do you normally charge? A general range.”

  “We’re probably talking about twelve to fifteen hundred dollars, but like I said about the time—”

  “Have it ready in three days and I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars. We can send your bank a down payment within minutes. Now, Miss Boistellier, how does that sound?”

  A throaty chuckle. “Like I’m going to be working nights.”

  Seconds after Truman sat, a black waitress waltzed by with a tray of full gumbo bowls in one hand, a pitcher of tea in the other, yet somehow managed to set a blue paper menu in front of him. She looked tired.