by James Hunt
The factory was flooded with officers now, and a pair of them relieved Mocks of the suspect and whisked him outside. Mocks walked over and helped Grant walk out, him leaning against her like a crutch. She was surprisingly sturdy for her size.
“You were working that distraction pretty hard,” Mocks said.
“Wanted to make sure you had enough time,” Grant replied, the pain lessening the more he moved. “You could have given me a heads-up beforehand though.”
“I figured you’d catch on eventually,” Mocks said.
Outside, the police force had increased tenfold, and helicopters hummed overhead. Mocks helped Grant over to one of the medics to get him checked, but after a few more practice steps on his own, the pain in his leg disappeared, and the paramedic couldn’t find anything else wrong with him.
Another drizzle started, and Grant and Mocks returned to their car to avoid the wet. The windows fogged, and a biting cold caused Mocks to disappear into her jacket.
“So, that wasn’t Mallory Givens,” Mocks said, zipping the jacket all the way up to her chin. “Guess that means our date with Mr. and Mrs. Faith is still on.”
Grant massaged his left hip with his knuckles and grunted a “mm-hmm.” “We need to trace the tip that led us to this guy. See if there was anything unusual about it.”
“Unusual how?” Mocks asked.
“In the decade-plus I’ve been with Seattle PD, I have never seen an instance where a tip came in the middle of an Amber Alert for a kid that looks exactly like the missing person, and then that individual ends up being the victim of another abduction. Have you?”
Mocks stayed quiet for a moment, and she reached for her lighter, flicking it on as she answered, “No.”
“I don’t think that has ever happened in the history of the Seattle PD,” Grant said.
“So what now?”
“I’ll drop you off at the station so you can interview the youth pastor and the fiancée. While you’re doing that, I’ll head over to Mallory’s neighborhood and see what I can find from the neighbors. If she left on her own accord, then there may have been someone that had seen her.” Grant drew in a breath, checking the timer on his watch. “I’ll call the mother and let her know what’s going on before the news spins any information that sends her into a speculation nosedive.” And considering the girl was most likely in a similar situation as the girl they just rescued, that speculation was probably very accurate.
***
When Mocks stepped out of the vehicle at the precinct, she was immediately swarmed by the flock of reporters that had roosted outside, jamming microphones and cameras in her face, asking about the car chase.
“We apprehended the suspect, and we’re discovering more information as we go along. Thank you.” Questions still buzzed about her ears and followed Mocks all the way to the door, which she could barely open from the cluster of reporters engulfing her, then she squeezed inside, glad to be rid of them. Like Grant, she had no desire to speak with them. Ever.
Mocks weaved through the precinct and back to her desk, where she was forced to prepare the paperwork for discharging her firearm. She hated paperwork. It was so monotonous and tedious. If she had known that most of her detective career would be spent filling out forms, she might have changed career paths.
But despite the piles of paper, she still loved the job. And she was lucky enough to have a partner that felt the same way. She and Grant shared a deep-rooted connection in that regard. They shared a past that was soiled and fertilized in despair. Though she understood his pain differed from hers.
One of the first things Mocks learned about Grant before she even met him was the series of events that led to his ‘voluntary’ leave of absence. But when she found out they were to be partners, she ignored the rumors and gossip and went straight to the source. She was surprised at the truth and even more heartbroken. How Grant had pulled himself out of that hole was more than she could understand. But as an addict, she could empathize when it came to making the wrong decision.
“Detective?” The voice was high-pitched and echoed more of an adolescent than the grown man standing in front of her.
“Mr. Paley,” Mocks said, looking up from and setting aside the paperwork. “Thanks for coming in.” She looked behind him. “Is your fiancée joining us?”
“She’s parking the car. It’s a bit of a madhouse out there.”
“Abductions are hot news topics,” Mocks said, leaning back in her chair, folding her arms on her stomach. “Really spikes the ratings.”
Paley stood there quiet and uncomfortable until Barbie showed up at the reception desk. Despite the rain and deplorably mucky weather, the woman still looked like she was ready for a night out dancing. Not that Mocks suspected she was the type of woman who danced. There was an anal retentiveness behind that mask of makeup.
Mocks led them into one of the interrogation rooms, and once everyone was settled, Mocks went to work. “How long have you known Mallory Givens?”
Mr. Paley flexed his grip over his girlfriend’s hand and cleared his throat. “Um, the first event she came to was in November of last year. She came alone, said she saw one of the flyers I posted at a restaurant downtown.” He looked anywhere but Mocks’s face.
“What’s an event on Wednesday nights like?” Mocks said, reaching for the lighter in her pocket. It helped keep her mind calm and working. It always received odd stares, but when it came to interviews, she wanted to throw people off their game.
“I’m sorry, shouldn’t you be writing all of this down?” Stacy asked, both eyebrows arched. “We came here to make a statement and to help, but you’re not writing anything down.”
Mocks flicked the lighter on, the flame wiggling. “We have a recorder in the room. Takes down everything we say. I can play it back later if I need to.” But she wouldn’t need to. It was her go-to response whenever she was asked that question. It was easier than explaining how her memory worked. And the answer satisfied Stacy’s inquiry, which let Mr. Paley continue.
“It’s mostly fun stuff.” He gave a half-smile. “I try to keep the preaching to a minimum and only at the end. Tweens can only take so much of that, and most of them go to church on Sundays anyway, so…” He shrugged, as if his half-explanation was enough.
“What’s the age range of children you deal with?”
“Middle school through high school, so anywhere between eleven and seventeen.”
“What happens when the kid turns eighteen and they’re still in high school?”
“They shift over to the young-adult groups that we have at the church.”
Mocks leaned forward, her left hand still playing with the lighter. She examined the youth pastor’s movements, looking for nervous ticks, microexpressions of the mouth and eyes, anything and everything to form a well-rounded opinion. “And you’re the only adult at these youth events?”
“No,” Stacy said, cutting in. “I’m there as well.” She smiled and leaned over for a kiss. “It’s how we met.”
It could have been the overload of soon-to-be marital bliss, or the fact that both seemed more absorbed by their own self-interest than finding a little girl who had gone missing, but Mocks decided it was time to make both of them uncomfortable.
“And both of you adhere strictly to the sanctions of marriage?” Mocks asked.
“What do you mean?” Mr. Paley asked.
Mocks rocked her head side to side, enjoying the cryptic confusion on each of their faces. “You know? Waiting until the big night for the holy union?” She bounced both brows. “Going toes to Jesus?”
Stacy held up her hand. “I understand the question.” She lifted her chin and threw her shoulders back. “Both of us have remained pure for one another and will consummate our marriage on our wedding night the way God intended us to.”
Mocks flicked the lighter. “That sucks.” She let her thumb off the igniter and consumed the Bic in her fist. “If I don’t get any for a week I start to get antsy, and you
guys are what, twenty-four? Twenty-five? Talk about some pent-up aggression.” She turned to Stacy and lowered her voice. “If I can give you a piece of advice for the night of? Make sure you have plenty of tissues for cleanup.”
The expression that slowly spread over Stacy’s face could have been described as apoplectic, and there was a solid ten seconds where Mocks was one hundred percent certain the woman was going to punch her in the face.
“This is incredibly inappropriate,” Stacy said, her face now as red as Mr. Paley’s. “I demand to speak to your supervisor.”
Mocks ignored the request and turned her attention back to Mr. Paley. “Were you aware that Mallory Givens’s mother had no idea she attended your church group?”
Mr. Paley’s mouth hung loose by the hinge of his jaw, and he stuttered out a few phrases that sounded like another language until he finally managed to form coherent sentences. “She told me she never had a relationship with her father and that her mother worked a lot, but I was unaware Mallory was there without her parents’ permission.”
“You never found it odd that she never showed up to church on Sundays? Or the fact that her parents never dropped her off or attempted to reach out to you and see who her daughter was spending time with?”
“If you push a child—”
“No!” Mocks slammed her fists on the table. “You don’t get to make this Mallory’s fault! She went to those events because it made her feel connected and safe. She didn’t feel like she was an outcast, so don’t tell me you didn’t know. Don’t tell me you tried everything you could. Because if you had, she probably wouldn’t be missing in the first place!”
The pair went silent, cowering into a sheepish retreat. Mocks pushed herself out of the chair and stepped out of the room. If she stayed in there any longer she would have leapt across the table and choked both of them, and she had enough paperwork to deal with.
Once she cooled off she returned to the interrogation room, where Little Miss Priss looked to have shoved that stick up her ass just a little bit farther. She struck Mocks as the type of person that would cause a stir if she really wanted, and this wasn’t the kind of publicity that the department needed right now. As much as Mocks hated it, she had to swallow some shit.
“I apologize for my outburst,” Mocks said.
“Well, I think you should be ashamed of yourself.” Stacy glanced back up to the corners and around the room. “And when this tape gets reviewed, I hope you receive the fullest—”
“Stacy, please.” Mr. Paley held up his hand. It was the first sign that showed the youth pastor had any balls. “Look, Detective, we all want the same thing. We all want to do our best and help bring Mallory home. And you were right, I should have looked for more red flags. I minored in social work, so I did have some training in regards to looking for things like that.”
Mocks took a seat. “And did you notice any red flags?”
Paley paused to think about it before he finally responded. “She was very quiet in the beginning. She opened up the more she visited, but there was always a wall. She’d let you peek over to the other side occasionally, but it was rare.”
“Did she ever open up to you?” Mocks asked, noting Paley’s blond hair, tan skin, and come-take-a-swim-in-my-deep-blue-eyes.
“A few times.” Paley smiled. “She was very eager to learn about the Scripture, and she picked up everything so quickly. When she mentioned to me that her father wasn’t around, I told her about the heavenly Father. It seemed to cheer her up.”
“Did she ever mention any contact with her father?” Mocks asked.
Paley took a moment to think it over and then furrowed his brow. “No, not to me. She did talk a lot about how she wasn’t very popular at her school. Said she was teased. I told her to keep her chin up, and that eventually the students would see her the way her friends at youth group did.”
“Was she close with any of the other kids at youth group?”
“Mary Steeves,” Stacy said, butting in. “The two were inseparable on Wednesday nights.”
Despite the pair’s willingness to come to the precinct and give a statement, Mocks was starting to think this was all she was going to get from the two of them. “Well, I appreciate you coming. If I have any more questions I’ll be in touch.”
“Of course,” Paley said. “Anything you need.”
What Mocks needed was a confession from someone or an actual tip that would lead to whoever coaxed Mallory Givens to leave her room in the middle of the night without telling a single soul. But perhaps her friend from youth group knew something she didn’t.
Mocks walked the pair out back where they could avoid the hordes of media waiting to take their statement, and the fiancée shot Mocks one last snarl before disappearing into the same van she’d seen earlier at the church. As they drove off, she hoped that Grant had better luck than she did.
Chapter 7
The rain wouldn’t let up, and neither would Grant’s bad luck. Every door he knocked on either remained shut or its inhabitants knew nothing. After another door slammed in his face, Grant flipped up the collar of his jacket and tucked his hands inside the warm pockets in an attempt to stay dry. But Seattle rain always had a way of creeping inside. Just like everything else.
While his thoughts were always on the case at hand, the meeting with the ambassador tomorrow started to seep through the cracks. It wasn’t the meeting itself that worried him but the inevitable newspaper article and report that would come the next day. With such a high-profile case like this there was bound to be mention of his past, and Grant preferred to keep certain elements buried.
It was amazing how one night could impact the rest of your life. One event, one second, one moment in time and everything is turned upside down. He knew he’d have to face those questions sooner or later. It was inevitable. He thought by now he’d be ready. He wasn’t.
Grant passed storefronts on his walk, and it was the guitar in the window that made him stop. A Gibson Les Paul. It had a mahogany body with a five-piece walnut neck, rosewood fingerboard, and a pair of Humbucking pickups. It was beautiful, and with a price tag of seven grand, the custom-built axe didn’t come cheap. He wasn’t sure if Mallory Givens played music, but the shopkeeper may have seen something.
The bell chimed when Grant opened the door, and a father with a little girl stepped past him. The girl was smiling, carrying something in a case. A young musician ready to go and find her own voice. Grant remembered that feeling. The first time he picked up a guitar was the first time he felt good. That hardly ever happened anymore.
“Can I help you?” the cashier asked, wiping down the glass case that displayed the latest and greatest digital tools that helped aspiring musicians leave their digital footprint on the world wide web.
Grant flashed the badge and then the picture of Mallory Givens. “Have you seen this girl before?”
The cashier examined the photo and adjusted the small rimmed glasses on his nose, shaking his head as the bell chimed, signaling another customer coming inside. “Nope. She must not be in Mrs. Claret’s class over at Southside Middle. I can tell you the name and instrument of every kid in her class.”
“Ben likes to brag.”
Grant turned around and saw Principal Michelle Tanner with her coat on, her purse clutched with both hands in front of her. Rain droplets covered her shoulders and hair. The tiny bits of water sparkled in the shop’s light. Her heels padded the carpet softly on her way over to the cash register.
“Southside kids have been coming here for thirty years,” Michelle said. “And we’re thankful you’ve helped guide our young musicians.”
Ben smiled wide. “Happy to do it, Principal Tanner.”
Michelle reached into her purse and handed Ben a stack of papers. “Everything should be all set for the spring order. We appreciate your help with everything.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ben said. “It’ll be shipped and arrive in four to six weeks.”
Grant stood, sla
ck jawed as Michelle smiled at him. He was staring. He knew it. She knew it. And he couldn’t do anything about it.
“Any news on the case, Detective?” Michelle asked, breaking the silence.
“No,” Grant said, quickly. “But we’re following up on a few leads.”
“Well, good luck.” Michelle turned to Ben. “Good seeing you again, Ben.”
“You too, Principal Tanner.”
The door chimed on her way out, and when she was gone, Ben let out a whistle. “I will tell you it is rare to find a woman like that coming around a place like this.”
Grant snapped his notepad shut and ran out the door. He skidded on the slick sidewalk on his burst outside, and saw Michelle still walking on his left. “Michelle!” He jogged to catch up, and she turned around, her collar flipped up to shield against the rain, which started to come down more heavily.
“What is it, Detective?”
Grant pulled her under an awning, but the space was small; intimate. “About earlier today, I wanted to explain.”
Michelle shook her head. “It’s all right, Detective. I’m sure I’m not the first woman to have flirted with a married man.”
“I’m not married,” Grant said, looking down to the wedding ring, which he twisted in a fidgety jerk.
Michelle kept her guard up, her arms crossed, and she cleared her throat. “Detective, if this is some sort of game you play with women, I can tell you I’m not interested.”
“It’s not a game,” Grant said. “My wife died. Two years ago. It was a car accident.” He paused. He hadn’t said it out loud in a long time, and the words felt odd on his lips. “I was working one night, and she went to visit her parents down in Portland. I was supposed to meet her down there the next day, but—” He lowered his head. “I just didn’t want you to think I was that kind of person.”
“Well, I’m sorry to have come across as prickly as I did,” Michelle said. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Detective.”
Grant raised his head. In heels they were the same height. It felt good to look someone in the eyes, be on the same playing field, as equals. “I meant what I said though, when I gave you my card. I’d like to see you again.”
