by Joya Fields
“I spoke with the hospital,” Ben said to Logan. “Margaret’s still in a coma and not allowed visitors.”
He studied the man from across from him. Ben’s bruises were still dark purple, his eyes still swollen, but Logan wasn’t sure if it was from crying or the injuries. How difficult it must be to fall in love so late in age, and then to see that love stolen away in a heartbeat.
Glancing around Keely’s childhood house, he couldn’t help but notice how everything looked the same. Photos of her with her parents, trophies she’d won through her athletics, and craft figures she’d made in art. The items reminded him of the love he and Keely had once shared and the baby they’d made. But mostly, the house made him realize it was Keely as she was now he was drawn to.
He let his gaze travel to the different photos. Ben and Lillian laughing with their heads tilted together. Keely at different ages. A smiling Dave holding a basketball in one hand and a trophy in another and surrounded by a group of sweaty and happy young men. Charlie with two proud young parents holding a swaddled infant. And lastly, Ben and Margaret, smiling, their arms around each other’s waists.
Logan turned to Dave. The man might be a friend of Ben’s, but he did own one of the matching briefcases. Long shot, yeah, but hell, there wasn’t much else to go on. “Do you mind if I ask where you were on Thursday afternoon at three p.m.?”
Dave swept a hand across his face, then heaved a sigh. “I was coaching a boy’s football game, over at Northern.”
“Logan, how could you even—” Ben started.
Dave held up a palm. “He has to, Ben. He has to investigate everyone. Especially those close to you.”
Ben shook his head. “Don’t you think if it was someone I knew, I would have recognized them? It had to be those two kids, the ones who are dead now. Druggies looking for money to get their fix. And when Margaret spotted them, caught them in that video on her phone, they retaliated.”
Logan shifted in his chair. He agreed, but he couldn’t discuss the specifics of the case. Not while it was still under investigation. “Is that the first time you’ve helped a girl from Los Angeles at Loving Arms?” He pulled out his notepad.
“I don’t know. Charlie would know for sure.”
“That’s another thing. Charlie has a briefcase similar to yours,” Logan said.
“Yes, of course.” Ben rubbed leaned forward, elbows on the table. “The McNulty’s had monogrammed briefcases made for several church members and Loving Arms board members.”
“The McNulty’s?” Logan asked, scribbling in his notepad. So far, everything Charlie had told him was jibing with what he was learning from Ben.
“One of the families we helped with Loving Arms. They moved away a few months ago, though. Job transfer to Alaska,” Dave said.
“You have one of these briefcases, too, Dave?” Logan asked.
“It’s right here.” Dave pulled his briefcase onto the table and opened it without being asked. “A little disorganized, but feel free to look.”
Logan leaned forward, glancing through the loose-leaf papers and few pamphlets on Loving Arms. The initials DP were engraved, along with the Loving Arms logo, matching Ben’s and Charlie’s briefcases. Either Dave had nothing to hide, or he’d already hidden it.
After thanking the two men for their time, Logan headed outside, the sense that something was tugging in the back of his mind but he couldn’t quite pull it out. Outside by the car, he stared up at Ben’s brick row house.
Dave hadn’t even paused to think before answering. As if he’d been waiting for someone to ask the question about where he’d been on the afternoon of the attack. Sometimes someone with an obvious alibi was more suspicious than someone without. Easy enough to check with the high school about Dave’s whereabouts during Ben’s attack, but it sounded like a solid alibi.
Logan wiped a hand over his face. Or maybe what had been irritating Keely all along about him really was the problem—he wasn’t seeing people, he was seeing only suspects.
Chapter Eleven
Logan pulled up beside a well-groomed hedge in the neat and clean alleyway behind the Bittinger brownstone and rolled down his window. Jacko had called but wasn’t ready to meet yet, which meant Logan had time to observe the Bittingers. His conversation with Dave hadn’t garnered as many answers as he’d expected. Instead, it made him suspicious of all the church members and people around Ben. A light breeze rustled the yellow and orange leaves of the surrounding bushes. He couldn’t officially interview the Bittingers because he wasn’t on the case. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t take a break in a spot where he could keep an eye on them.
His head still pounded with the information Keely had shared with him about her miscarriage. Being at her father’s house—the house where he’d fallen in love with her as a teenager, had him unable to push their conversation out of his head. He gritted his teeth, angry with himself that he’d left her alone to deal with it all. He’d let her down. Had failed her, even when he’d tried to do right by her.
And last night…his thoughts drifted to the way it had felt to hold her.
Unbelievably good…
He could get used to having Keely around. Her smile warmed his blood. She wasn’t supermodel gorgeous. Instead, she had an approachable, girl-next-door type of beauty. Her wispy light brown hair often fell across her face, making him want to reach out and stroke her hair…touch her face.
Shit. Where was his self control? Hadn’t he stayed away for years to ensure her happiness? He couldn’t afford a repeat of last night. The thought of her strengthened his resolve to leave. She was better off without him, and if he stayed close, he’d never be able to resist her.
He tapped his smartphone and entered Amy Bittinger’s name into Maryland Case Search, a public record of arrests and criminal history. Nothing. He input Craig Bittinger’s name next.
Bingo. A couple of speeding tickets and a DUI. No Citizen of the Year award for Mr. Bittinger. He scrolled down even further. Ten years ago, Craig Bittinger had paid a large fine and agreed to community service for making fake IDs. Today a charge like that—identity theft—would carry heftier charges and jail time. Making fake IDs for college buddies wasn’t the smartest decision, but Logan knew full well how easy it was to make bad choices during one’s youth. The search showed that for the past ten years, Craig had been the father and local business owner he depicted to the community.
The sound of a motor pulled him from his research. A late-model Mercedes screeched out of a parking pad behind Bittinger’s house and raced down the road. But not before Logan recognized Craig Bittinger as the driver. What was the big hurry? He pulled out to follow the car. Anything to get his thoughts off Keely.
He stayed a few car lengths behind the Mercedes as it changed lanes and exceeded the speed limit. Once Bittinger made the turn onto a one-way street, Logan figured the man was heading to his restaurant. Hmm. Just an ordinary guy on his way to an ordinary work day? In this much of a hurry?
Bittinger pulled up to the back door of a diner and honked his horn.
Three petite girls with black hair pulled back in ponytails filed out of the back kitchen door. Craig got out to hold open the door to the backseat, and the girls climbed in.
Who were these young girls, and why were they getting into Craig’s car? Logan sped to park behind Craig, blocking his exit, then got out of the car.
Craig shut the car door on the girls, shot a look at him, and hustled to the driver’s side.
“Craig Bittinger, right?” Logan jogged up next to the man. “We met the other day. I’m Detective North. I’m helping out Ben Allen.”
Craig’s expression turned friendlier, his frown disappeared, and his gaze darted around the lot. “How’s Ben? I’ve been meaning to stop by.”
“Getting better. And who are these lovely young ladies?” Logan asked, peering into the car. All three girls looked foreign. Asian.
Craig opened his mouth, then pressed his lips together.
“Do they h
appen to have ID?” Logan asked. What the hell. He was in too deep to back out now. He didn’t have a legal reason to force them to show identification, but to his surprise, Craig leaned his head inside the car.
“Show this man your ID, girls.”
After some rustling, they passed their Maryland state IDs to Craig.
Logan glanced at the first card. “Claire Li?”
The girl leaned forward. “I am Claire Li,” she said, her words precise.
Logan frowned and tried to place her Asian accent. What she’d said sounded practiced, forced. Her ID claimed she was eighteen, but she looked younger.
“Chris Cho?”
The next girl leaned forward, glanced at Craig, then nodded. “I am Chris Cho.”
Huh. Different name, same forced tone.
“And you must be Kim Pak.” He looked to the third girl.
The girl nodded. “I am Kim Pak.”
Too rehearsed. Too scared. Logan glanced at the photos and then at each girl. The pictures matched the ID. Each girl had a different address.
Logan handed the IDs back to each girl. “Thank you.” He turned to Craig. “Do these ladies work for you?”
“Yes. In the kitchen. I give them a ride home when the bus isn’t running.” He rattled his keys in his hand.
Was Craig one of those restaurant owners who hired undocumented workers but treated them well? The women looked healthy, but scared. Of course, if they weren’t in the country legally, they had a lot to fear from any stranger. Logan had a contact at ICE he could ask to keep an eye on Bittinger’s diner, just in case.
“Have a nice day,” Logan said. Cop speak for I’m keeping an eye on you.
Craig’s frown shifted to a quick smile. “Okay. Then I guess I’ll be going.”
Logan shook Craig’s hand, wiping off the man’s sweat after releasing his grip. He moved his SUV so Craig had enough room to drive past. He waited a full minute, then turned out of the lot in the same direction as Craig, and kept a safe distance behind him. Technically, the man wasn’t doing anything illegal, but he followed him anyway.
He’d been so distracted, he suddenly realized Craig had circled the block twice.
“Shit.”
Craig had figured out he was being followed.
Logan’s cell phone chirped, revealing his informant’s number on the screen. The hard part wouldn’t be meeting the informant. Dealing with a snitch was easier than following through on the snitch’s information. Which, if true to form, would likely involve dead bodies.
…
“Holy crap, not again,” Keely said, glancing at the file on her office desk.
“Afraid so,” Nevaeh said, tapping the top page. “Three kids allegedly living in a condemned house with known drug dealers. Anderson is the last name. Girl is ten, two boys ages four and two.”
Citizens sometimes hated social workers—saw them as people who “took” their children. And now they’d be heading out again to “take” some children away from the only place they knew as home. This sort of attitude—coupled with the frustrating interactions with negligent parents—confirmed her hopelessness. Would there ever be an end to it? Could one person make a difference in a system like this?
“I’ll drive. My car’s bigger,” Nevaeh said. “Seth and Dennis will meet us there, and they’ll be in uniform.”
Five minutes later, along with the officers, they sat outside a boarded-up brick row house with long brown grass in the front yard. The plywood that covered the door had been removed and tossed to the side, but the windows remained covered with graffiti-tagged rotting plywood. Someone had painted “Keep Out” in red paint. Keely wished she could.
“No electricity or running water, I’m betting.” Dennis tapped his flashlight in the palm of his hand.
“How many people do you think are living here?” Keely asked.
“One way to find out.”
Seth rapped on the door. “Baltimore Police. Child Protective Services. Open up.” The unlatched door opened.
Some stirring noises inside, but nobody answered.
“Police,” Seth said, sweeping the entry with his weapon.
The two uniforms turned on their flashlights and stepped inside. Keely and Nevaeh followed behind with flashlights, too.
The stench of rotting trash, urine, and unwashed bodies hit Keely’s nostrils. She swallowed the bile, kicking a wider path in the debris-covered floor. In spite of the sun, the interior rooms were as dark as night.
The officers’ lights beamed to the corner of the small living room. A woman with greasy blond hair covered her eyes with her skinny arm.
“Hands up,” Dennis shouted.
The woman attempted to raise her arms, but didn’t look like she had the energy to move them very high.
“Mrs. Anderson?” Keely stepped forward and her boot crunched something. Uh-uh. Not going to even look. A needle, cockroach…or worse.
The pale woman cringed, tucked her legs closer to her body, and dropped her arm in front of her face. She shook her head and moaned.
“Do you know where Mrs. Anderson is?”
Someone moved in the next room.
“Police! Freeze!” Seth shouted, aiming his flashlight at the figure.
A thin black man sat on an old sofa with the stuffing poking out of it. He blinked against the harsh light, but his sunken cheekbones made him look weak, not a threat. A quick scan with the flashlight revealed a dilapidated set of stairs that had caved in long ago.
“Anderson? Anyone named Anderson?” Keely asked, moving closer.
The man pointed to another sofa. Seth shined his light on it. A wide-eyed, skinny redheaded woman stared back at them, and a thin, balding man was passed out on the opposite side, head lolling against the back of the sofa. Between them sat a pile of clothes and trash.
“We’re looking for the Anderson children,” Keely said, stepping closer.
Both cops kept their weapons ready, and swept their lights around the room.
“Mrs. Anderson? Do you speak English?” Keely’s information noted that the family was from New Orleans, but not whether or not they spoke English. “Can you tell me where Bubba, Calvin, and Lettie are?”
“Lettie?” The woman sat up with wide eyes, then buried her hands in her face. “Sorry…so sorry,” she sobbed.
“Ma’am, where are the children?”
A muffled cry came from the corner of the room, and one cop shined his light toward the sound. The woman cried in her hands.
“Freeze!” the male cop said, aiming his gun.
A dog crate. Keely’s stomach lurched and she tasted bile in her throat. “Oh my God. Are the kids in there?” she asked, stepping closer to the wire enclosure.
The woman looked up, her sunken eyes full of tears.
Nevaeh came forward, and she and Keely untwisted the clasp that locked the crate. Two redheaded, scrawny boys, lethargic and smelling of urine and feces, huddled together inside. Their ages were listed as two and four on the paperwork Keely held, but both of them looked younger. Malnourishment. And judging from their lack of responsiveness, they could have been drugged.
One of the boys’ eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving.
“Check that one for a pulse,” Keely said, pointing to the boy while helping the other one climb out of the enclosure.
With her lips pressed together, Nevaeh laid two fingers on the side of the younger boy’s neck. After a moment, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah, he’s got a pulse, but it’s weak.”
“Call an ambulance, ” Keely said to Seth, then turned back to the incoherent woman. “Ma’am, where’s your daughter? Can you understand me?” She moved closer to the woman who reeked of body odor. “Where’s Lettie?”
“So sorry,” the woman said in English, thickened by a hint of a New Orleans accent. She sobbed into her hands again.
Sorry for what? Fear crawled up Keely’s spine.
“When did you see her last?” she demanded. She wanted to pick the
young boys up, hold them, rock them, but she dared not move them any more than they had to. Instead, she laid her charge on the floor, kneeling next to him for a minute, wishing she had a clean blanket to cover his little body with.
She moved closer to the man who was passed out, mouth open, on the other end of the sofa. “Sir,” she said, shaking his bony shoulder. “Mr. Anderson? Do you know where your daughter is?”
He moaned and shifted.
“What’s this?” Dennis asked, shining his light at the man. A hypodermic needle dangled from his forearm, still stuck in the skin, the vein long since closed off. Dennis moved the light, where it illuminated the man’s stomach where his shirt rode up. A large clear bag, almost completely filled with a gray, powdery substance, was taped to him. “Shit. That has to be over two thousand dollars worth of heroin.”
He shined the light on the man’s face, and Keely gasped.
She knew that man.
…
Keely sat in Detective Dunnigan’s office and passed the printed-out photo back across his desk to him. “That’s definitely him.”
The man from the crack house sofa was the same man Margaret had captured in her video, the man who’d been handing an envelope to Chayce, the kid who had ended up shooting her.
“I’d have to agree with you,” Dunnigan said. “And the fact that he had two thousand dollars worth of drugs on him would lead us to think that was a drug deal Mrs. Beyer witnessed.”
Even in a coma, Margaret was solving crimes.
Finally, they had a clue. But what did it mean? How on earth was Margaret’s shooting linked to Keely’s quest for the missing Anderson girl, Lettie?
“Where would a guy like that get money to buy that much heroin?” Keely asked, not liking the direction her mind was taking her in.
Dunnigan shrugged. “He’s in a holding cell. Not an overdose, just a big high. If he makes any sense at all when he comes down, we’ll question him.”
“Does this have anything to do with my dad’s attack?”
“Could be a strong lead since the guy is connected to the two kids who shot Mrs. Beyer. Could also be that Mrs. Beyer witnessed a drug deal and the dealers didn’t like her interfering. In that case, it probably doesn’t have anything to do with what happened with your dad. Unless…”
