by Jami Alden
Megan had a twinge of conscience as she approached the entrance. She’d promised Dev she’d tell the police, and she would, she promised herself. After she’d had a chance to ask a few questions on her own.
She wasn’t interfering with the FBI’s investigation, she rationalized. She was going to tell Cole what Devany had revealed. But not before she found out everything Sister Mary Theresa—or Sister MT as she was known in the neighborhood—remembered about Bianca Delagrossa.
Megan had first met Sister Mary Theresa four years ago when she’d gotten involved as a court advocate. Within a week, thirteen-year-old Courtney had run away and Megan eventually tracked her to the mission, just two streets over from the girl’s apartment. Sister MT had spotted Courtney lurking in a doorway, huddled against the cold and damp. When Megan arrived, Courtney was wrapped in a sweater two sizes too big, sipping cocoa and playing a board game with a group of kids. Within five minutes, it became clear Sister MT kept tabs on everyone.
Homeless, drug addicts, prostitutes, and runaways, Sister MT greeted them all with open arms, and she never forgot a face.
Megan showed Sister MT the photo she’d downloaded from the missing-and-exploited-children’s Web site. “A friend of mine said Bianca used to come in here,” Megan said.
“Oh yeah, Bibi.” Sister MT’s eyes flashed in recognition. “She was an interesting one. Showed up here the first time about four years ago, looking for a bed and a hot meal. Beautiful girl, but so beaten down. She worked the neighborhood for a while and I’d see her every so often.”
“Do you know who her pimp was?”
Sister MT frowned. “Ruby,” she called over to a young woman who sat hovered over a cup of coffee. “You remember this girl? You know who her pimp was?”
Ruby pushed herself up and made her way slowly, carefully across the room. As she drew closer, Megan could see why she was moving like an eighty-year-old. One eye was swollen nearly shut, and a purple bruise blossomed across her left cheekbone. Her skintight jeans and hoodie hid other painful injuries, if the way she carefully sank into her chair was anything to go by.
Megan felt a tug of sympathy and darted a look at Sister MT, who quickly verified her suspicions.
“Ruby got knocked around by a trick the other night, so she’s hiding out with us for a few days,” Sister MT said, with her typical matter-of-fact delivery and complete lack of censure. She held out her hand, and Megan handed over Bianca’s picture.
Ruby shook her head. “I don’t think I seen her working around here.”
Megan looked at Sister MT. “But you’re sure she was hooking around here.”
The nun nodded. “That was a while ago. I didn’t see her at all for a couple of years; then she showed up with an envelope of cash and said she wanted to volunteer.”
“Was she still hooking?”
Sister MT shrugged. “She never talked about it, but she showed up here a couple times with a big donation and no explanation how she got it.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Last Monday. It was the strangest thing. She hadn’t been down here in mons, and then she just showed up with a big pile of stuff. Clothes, shoes, books, like a whole house worth. Said she was moving away and didn’t need it anymore.”
Last Monday. By Tuesday night she was dead. Did she know who she was running from?
“She didn’t say anything about where she was going?”
“No. She was jumpy, though, and in a really big hurry to get everything unloaded. I went to get a donor receipt for her, you know, for taxes, and by the time I came back, she was gone.”
“Do you still have everything?” There was a chance she’d left something behind that might provide a clue.
Sister MT shook her head, strands of her graying hair catching the light behind her. “Most of what she had was already sorted and given out, but I think there were a few things we kept aside to sell in the church thrift shop.”
Megan’s heart sank as she followed Sister MT out of the mission’s common room, down a narrow hallway to a large utility closet. By now, Bianca’s stuff had been distributed to dozens of different people. No way was she going to be able to track it all down.
Sister MT switched on the single-bulb light. Boxes lined the walls, neatly labeled by type of clothing or item the box contained. “That’s all the free stuff over there,” Sister MT said, gesturing to the left side of the closet. “Over there’s the stuff that’s nice enough to resell,” she said, indicating a few boxes to the right. She walked over and retrieved a small cardboard box. “I think this is mostly Bianca’s stuff. You’re welcome to look through it.”
Megan jumped at the sound of a loud crash coming from down the hall. “I’ll fuckin’ cut you, motherfucker!”
“Oh Lord, that sounds like Snoopy. I better go see what’s going on.” Sister MT rushed from the closet, and Megan could hear her yelling down the hall. “I told you, Snoopy, you keep causing trouble and you’re gonna find yourself sleeping on the sidewalk!”
Megan marveled at the steely toughness of the tiny woman, matched only by her boundless heart. She could make out the tone more than the words, but it sounded like Sister MT was scolding Snoopy as if he were a fifth grader in Catholic school. He must have known you don’t mess with Sister MT, because the ruckus quieted almost immediately.
Megan settled on the floor and flipped open the lid of the box. Of the boxes of stuff Bianca had dropped off, only two pairs of shoes, a pair of designer jeans, a gray cashmere sweater, and an assortment of gold and silver jewelry remained. Megan picked up the jeans and searched the pockets for a business card, a scrap of paper, even a receipt. Nothing.
She lifted out the shoes for closer examination. Black patent leather with a peep toe. When she flipped them over, she recognized the trademark red sole of a well-known designer. These shoes ran several hundred dollars a pair. Not your ordinary hooker fuck-me shoes by a long shot. The simple cashmere pullover was also made by a high-end designer.
If Bianca had been still hooking, she’d moveup to the high end, with very generous clients. No twenty bucks for a quick blow job for her.
As Megan went to tuck the sweater back into the box, she realized something had been hidden underneath it. A small beaded handbag was tucked into the corner. She reached for it, her fingers shaking with anticipation. Please, please let there be something. She flipped the silk-covered catch on the clutch and peered inside.
It was empty except for a receipt from the Mekong Noodle House, dated three days before she was killed.
Megan sat back on her heels, her heart sinking to her stomach. What did you expect? A note detailing the last week of her life, including who killed her?
At least you know she fills up on pho before a big night out. That’s helpful.
Megan shook her head, wondering for the thousandth time if she really was just crazy. Even if she found out more about Bianca—hell, even if they found the killer—there was no guarantee they’d find anything to link him to Sean’s case.
As usual, Megan was acting on nothing but a hunch and blind desperation. But she couldn’t give up now, no matter how high the odds were stacked against her.
Against Sean.
A wave of grief settled over her like a wet wool blanket as she thought of him. Alone in his cell, refusing to see anyone. Waiting to die.
She tucked the purse back in the box and heaved herself to her feet. There had to be someone, somewhere who knew something about where Bianca lived and her recent activities. No one existed in a bubble.
And she had an address for the restaurant, which was only a few blocks south. A neighborhood joint, and she’d be willing to bet anything Bianca lived nearby.
She stopped in the kitchen to say a quick good-bye to Sister MT before heading out. She turned her collar up against the chill on the five-minute walk to the restaurant. It was a dingy hole-in-the-wall, with chipped Formica tables and cracked linoleum. But the décor couldn’t detract from the mouthwatering aroma
of savory broth and exotic spices. Even well before the dinner rush, the place was packed with customers slurping down mouthfuls of noodles.
Finally Megan worked her way to the front of the line and got the attention of the woman working the cash register. “What number?” the woman asked.
Megan held up a hand. “I’m not here to eat,” she said, and extracted Bianca’s photo from her pocket. “I wanted to know if you recognize this woman, if she lives around here.”
The woman put a laminated menu in front of Megan and tapped it with her fingertip. “You pick number. Make order.”
“I don’t want to eat—”
Megan was cut off as the woman let loose with a string of Vietnamese and gestured at someone behind Megan.
“Can I help you?” Megan turned to see a Vietnamese boy of about sixteen. His hair was cut so short it stood up like a brush, and his slim body was swallowed up by a green-and-black flannel shirt and baggy jeans. “My grandma doesn’t speak good English.”
Megan showed him Bianca’s photo. “I’m trying to find this woman,” she lied. “I think she might live around here.”
“Oh yeah, I know her house.”
Megan’s head jerked in surprise. “You do?” Really, was it going to be this easy?
“Yeah, I deliver to her house sometimes. Her and her roommate, they like the number four with tofu and chicken. Nice. Pay cash. Good tipper.”
A roommate. “What’s her address? And do you know her roommate’s name?”
The kid’s eyes narrowed warily. “Are you cop or something? You going to get them in trouble?”
Megan shook her head. “I swear I’m not a cop. I just want to check on my friend.”
The kid rubbed his chin, his dark eyes shrewd. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m thinking of different girl, different house.”
Megan rolled her eyes and dug a twenty from her wallet. “Maybe this will help with the early onset Alzheimer’s.”
The kid’s eyes did a quick sweep of the restaurant as he palmed the twenty. Megan keyed the address into her phone as he recited it.
“And she lives with another girl—Stephanie, I think her name is.”
Bianca, or Bibi as she was known around here, lived in a tiny two-bedroom house on Seneca Street, about a ten-minute walk from the Mekong Noodle House. Megan was vaguely familiar with the neighborhood. If Bianca really was a high-end escort, she wasn’t spending any of her money on rent.
She pulled her coat tighter around her, steeling herself for the walk. The farther she got from the Market Place and the tourist traps, the seedier the neighborhood became. Even in the early evening, it wasn’t a great place for a lone young woman. But the cabs didn’t troll this area of town for fares, and Megan didn’t have any time to waste. At some point, Cole would show up at Bianca’s house, if he hadn’t already.
She walked swiftly, with purpose, ignoring catcalls and kissing sounds, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. Finally she reached Bianca’s street, where she found a long row of small houses in varying states of disrepair. The street was eerily quiet, with no evidence of human activity. Somehow that was even scarier than the gauntlet of pimps, dealers, and junkies.
She stopped in front of a small, one-story house, its blue paint chipped and fading. She double-checked the address the kid at the noodle house had given her against the fading numbers on the mailbox. Cold gray mist swirled above a patch that was more dirt than grass.
“What are you doing here?”
Megan’s heart galloped in her chest as a strong hand wrapped around her arm, nearly lifting her off her feet as she was spun around to face her assailant.
Her panic faded only marginally when she recognized the new head of security at Club One.
“I asked you what you’re doing here.” Though his voice was low, his blue eyes were icy with something that looked like malice. A black knit cap covered his hair, and a black wool overcoat hung from his huge shoulders. She hadn’t heard so much as a whisper of his approach. How in God’s name did such a big man move so quietly?
Megan swallowed hard, trying to shove back the bite of fear and failing miserably. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about Jack Brooks, with his too-watchful eyes and shadowlike stealth scared the ever living crap out of her. “I’m v-visiting a friend,” she managed, wincing at the stutter. She tried to pull her arm free of his grip. The leather-glove-covered fingers tightened.
He looked at the house and back to her. “You expect me to believe you have a friend who lives here?”
“What business is it of yours?” She yanked at her arm again, and this time he let her go. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“I live close by. It’s convenient to work.”
Megan had gotten a little turned around, but she remembered the club was about a half mile away. Maybe Jack knew Bianca.
But an internal alarm bell went off, stifling the question before it passed her lips. Something in her gut told her not to reveal any secrets to this man. “You better go before you’re late, then.”
“And you better get the hell out of here.”
Scared or not, Megan’s hackles rose at being bossed around. “I missed the part where you became the boss of me.”
Jack yanked her close and got right in her face. “You need to be careful. I know you think you’re helping your brother, but you might want to think twice about nosing around where you don’t belong.”
“Maybe you should tell me what’s going on.” Uneasiness ate like acid in her stomach and her mouth went bone-dry.
His laugh was dry and mirthless. “Trust me, little sister, it’s nothing you want to get mixed up in. Now why don’t you take yourself home?”
Anxious to get away, Megan took off down the street as soon as he released her, in the opposite direction of Club One. It was easier to pretend to run, tail between her legs, and then double back once he was gone than to try to reason with him.
Megan rounded the corner and ducked into an alleyway between two houses. She waited five minutes, and when she was satisfied Brooks hadn’t followed her, she doubled back to Bianca’s house.
This time she kept one eye over her shoulder as she went up the walkway to knock on the door. No answer. She knocked again, this time calling for the roommate. “Stephanie? Are you there?”
She tried the knob. Locked.
A black SUV drove by, the bass pumping so hard Megan’s insides quivered. But other than that, the street was quiet. Deserted.
She did a quick sweep of the street to reassure herself no one was around then darted around the side of the little house. She felt a little stab of satisfaction when she saw the sliding window midway up the side of the house. It wasn’t even closed all the way—probably a bathroom window left cracked to let out the moisture.
In any case, to Megan, who had locked herself out of the house enough times as a kid to become an expert on breaking and entering, it was as easy an access point as a wide-open front door.
She pulled a pair of thin leather gloves from her pocket and slipped them on and did another scan to make sure she was clear. She reached up and carefully pried the screen from the frame and slid the window the rest of the way open, then grabbed the sill and jumped up. It was a tight fit, but she was able to twist her shoulders and hips through the small window. She lowered herself carefully to the floor, making as little noise as possible.
The bathroom had a narrow stall shower with the usual array of feminine toiletries. Towels hung on a rack above the toilet, but they had hung there, unused, long enough to dry.
Megan was no forensic scientist, but she knew that in Seattle’s moist climate, that took at least a couple days.
She crouched on the bathroom floor for a beat. Hearing nothing, she went to the door and looked out into the short, dark hallway. She flicked on the light in the bathroom, its dull yellow glow enough to illuminate the hall. She turned to the left and walked into the small living area that flowed from th
e kitchen. It was empty but for a couch and a shoddy faux wood coffee table. Fashion magazines were piled high on the table. Megan looked through all of them, but there were no subscription labels. No additional information on the mysterious “Stephanie” who supposedly lived with Bianca.
The kitchen was sparsely furnished, the few dishes tucked neatly away in the cabinets. It was weird. The refrigerator contained a six-pack of Diet Coke, a half-empty bottle of wine, and a gallon of milk well past its expiration date. The freezer was empty. The rest of the cabinets revealed a box of saltines and a box of Cheerios. Other than the pile of magazines and scant food, the place showed very little sign of being lived in.
The bedrooms revealed little else. One room, which she assumed had been Bianca’s, looked like the scene of a robbery. Closet doors hung open; dresser drawers lay empty on the carpeted floor. The entire room had been stripped bare. Sister MT hadn’t been exaggerating when she said it seemed as though Bianca had donated everything she owned.
A search of the other room showed a few more clothes, but nothing else. No papers, no odds and ends, no bills with the inhabitants’ names. All of the wastebaskets in the house had been emptied, but underneath the kitchen sink, far back in the corner, was a crumpled piece of paper. Megan fished it out and smoothed it. It was faded and food-stained, but she easily recognized Binca in the black-and-white photo of the woman reclining on a bed wearing a black lace bra and matching panties. She saw the address in the upper right corner and realized it was the printout of a Web page.
Megan felt a buzz of excitement as she pulled out her phone and entered the URL to check later. She wouldn’t know until she checked, but she bet this was how Bianca was reaching out to clients. Maybe it was how the killer found his other victims too. It was unlikely it would provide the link to Evangeline she was looking for, but it was something. She crumpled the paper back up and tucked it into the corner for the police to find when they eventually searched the house.
Megan went back to Stephanie’s room and pulled open the closet, determined to do one last search for information.
It was in the back pocket of a pair of black leather pants that she found it. A cocktail napkin with a crimson smear of lipstick against the snowy-white backdrop.
