The Driver

by Mark Dawson

– Ambrose Bierce, San Francisco journalist, poet, and novelist

  #2

  MEGAN MELISSA GABERT

  MEG GABBERT had always wanted to act. She was a born performer, that was what she would tell anyone who cared to ask her about her ambitions, and, as far as she was concerned, she was going to make it. She hadn’t decided exactly what her talents best suited––acting or singing, she could do both––but there was no question about it in her mind: she was going to be famous. It wasn’t in doubt.

  When she was in seventh grade, she had taken to the stage in her school’s production of Bugsy Malone. She had hoped to play Tallulah, Fat Sam’s moll and Bugsy’s old flame, but that role had been assigned to a rival. She ended up playing Blousey Brown, a sassy dame who had designs on Hollywood and, once she had gotten over her disappointment, she decided that this was the better role, one that was more suited to her. She had a great voice and everyone said that she was brilliant on opening night. The local paper exclaimed that she stole the show. It was something she would never forget: the excitement she felt while she was standing there in the single spotlight, belting out the numbers to a roomful of parents and friends. If she had needed any confirmation about the course she had chosen for herself, this was it. From that point forwards, performing would be the only thing she was interested in doing.

  Getting to the stage where she could make enough money to support herself through her acting was going to take some time and, until that happened, she had paid her way with a little hooking. It had started with webcams but then she had realised there was more to be made by going a little further. She had posted an ad on the Fresno/Adult Services page of Craigslist a year after she graduated from high school. She had a killer photo from a session she did for her acting portfolio and the replies had been instantaneous. She was hanging out with a guy in those days, this dude called Clay, nothing serious, just messing around, and she had persuaded him to come along and keep an eye on her. He drove her from job to job. They worked out a routine to keep her safe: he called her cell ten minutes after she went inside and if there was no answer then he would know that she was in trouble. If she answered, everything was fine. She charged a hundred bucks an hour and gave him twenty.

  It was going okay but she was always a little nervous that she’d bump into a john again when she was off the clock. She knew, too, that there was better money to be made in a bigger city. She thought of Los Angeles but the idea of being closer to Hollywood and her dream frightened her; she wasn’t ready for that yet. San Francisco seemed like a good compromise.

  The difference in the city was stark. It was full of johns, and they were of a much higher class than the bums and stiffs she was used to in Fresno. There were plenty of out-of-towners, away from home and bored and looking for a little fun. She would take her laptop to a hotel room, post an ad and wait for the calls. She could get through four or five appointments and clear a thousand bucks every night, easy. The men were a real mixture: some were old and wanted to daddy her; others were young and trim and good-looking. The money was amazing. She took rooms in the nicest hotels with views of the Golden Gate and ate in the best restaurants. She never had any problems with what she was doing. It was another performance, in a way. The johns were prepared to pay to spend time with her. She could play any number of parts for them: schoolgirl, vamp, prim secretary. Their adulation was instant and obvious. For as long as she was with them she was desired: full of potential, the centre of attention, loved, rich. And what was wrong with that?

  SHE HEARD THE CADILLAC before she saw it. It backfired loudly from a couple of blocks away, the noise carrying down the street and around the corner to where she was waiting at 6th and Irving. The engine sounded throaty and unhealthy, as if it was about to expire, and she had been nonplussed as it pulled over to stop at the edge of the sidewalk opposite her. The man she had spoken to on the phone had said that he was an executive from a company that dealt in cattle all the way across the south-west. He certainly had the accent for it, a mild southern burr that leant his voice a musical quality. She hadn’t expected him to be driving a beat-up car like this but, as she crossed the sidewalk to the open window, she chided herself for jumping to conclusions.

  A bum begging for change next to the entrance to JC Penney watched as the door was opened for her. He watched as she carefully slid into the car, her hands pressing down her skirt as she lowered herself into the seat. The man didn’t think twice about it and she hardly registered; he was hungry, and more interested in adding to the couple of bucks in change that had been tossed in to the cap on the sidewalk before his folded legs. If he had paid attention, perhaps he would have noticed the look of confusion on the girl’s face as she looked, for the first time, at the man who had picked her up. He might have remembered more if he had known that he would be the last person to see the girl alive.

  18

  MILTON LEANT BACK and traced his fingers against the rough vinyl surface of the table. It had been marked by years of graffiti: gang tags, racial epithets and unflattering remarks about the police, some of them quite imaginative. There was a dirty glass of water, an ashtray that hadn’t been emptied for days and, set against the wall, a tape recorder. He crossed his arms and looked up at police officers who were sitting opposite him. The first was a middle-aged man with several days of growth on his chin, an aquiline face and a lazy left eye. The second was a little older, a little more senior, and, from the way the two of them had behaved so far, Milton could see that he was going to keep quiet while his partner conducted the interview.

  The young one pressed a button on the tape recorder and it began to spool.

  “Just to go through things like we mentioned to you, we’re gonna do a taped interview with you.”

  “That’s fine,” Milton said.

  “There’s my ID. And there’s my partner’s.”

  “Okay.”

  “So I’m Inspector Richard Cotton. My colleague is Chief of Detectives Stewart Webster.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Now, first of all, can you please state your name for me?”

  “John Smith.”

  “And that’s S-M-I-T-H.”

  “Correct.”

  “Your date of birth, sir?”

  “Thirty-first of October, 1973.”

  “That makes you forty, right?”

  “It does.”

  “And your address at home?”

  “259 Sixth Street.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A hotel.”

  “An SRO?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Which one?”

  “The El Capitan.”

  “How are you finding that? Bit of a dive, right?”

  “It’s alright.”

  “You say so. Phone number?”

  He gave them the number of his cellphone.

  “Are you alright for water?”

  “Yes.”

  He tossed a packet of cigarettes on the table. “Feel free to light up. We know this can be stressful.”

  Milton had to stifle a long sigh of impatience. “It would be stressful if I had something to hide. But I don’t, so I’ll pass, but thanks anyway. Now, please––can we get started? There’s already been too much waiting around. Ask me whatever you like. I want to help.”

  Cotton squinted: one eye, a little spooky. “Alright, then. John Smith––that’s your real name, right?”

  “It is.”

  “And you’re English, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve been to England. Holiday. Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, all that history––one hell of a place.”

  Milton rolled his eyes. Was he serious? “Just ask me about Madison.”

  “In a minute, John,” the man said with exaggerated patience. “We just want to know a little bit about you first. So how come you ended up here?”

  “I’ve been travelling. I was in South America for six months and then I came north.�
�

  “Through Mexico?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How long you been here?”

  “Nine months. I was here once before, years ago. I liked it. I thought I’d come back and stay a while.”

  “How have you been getting by?”

  “I’ve been working.”

  Cotton’s good eye twitched. “You got a visa for that?”

  “Dual citizenship.”

  “How’s that?”

  “My mother was American.” It was a lie but it was what his passport said. Dual citizenship saved unnecessary nonsense that would have made it more difficult for him to work. Being able to claim some connection to the United States had also proven to be useful as he worked his way north up the continent.

  “Alright, John. Let’s change the subject––you want to talk about Madison, let’s talk about Madison. You know we’ve dug up two bodies now, right?”

  “I’ve seen the news.”

  “And you know none of them are her?”

  That was news to him. “No. I didn’t know that.”

  “That’s right––none of them. See, Madison had a metal pin in her hip. Fell off her bike when she was a girl, messed it up pretty good. They had to put one in to fix it all together. The remains in the morgue are all whole, more or less, and none of them have anything like that.”

  Milton felt a moment of relief but immediately tempered it: it was still surely just a matter of time.

  “That doesn’t mean we won’t find her,” Cotton went on. “If you’ve been watching the news, you’ll know that we’re still searching the beach and we’re very concerned that we’re gonna find more. So, with all that being said, let’s get down to meat and potatoes, shall we?”

  “Please.”

  “Why’d you do it, John?”

  Milton wasn’t surprised. “Seriously?”

  “What did you do with her body?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding, John.”

  “No, you’ve got to be. It’s nothing to do with me.”

  “Answer the question, please.”

  He looked dead straight at the cop. “I just answered it. I didn’t do it. I have absolutely no idea where she is.”

  “So you say. But on your own account you were the last person to see her alive.”

  He clenched his fists in sudden frustration. “No––that’s not what I said.”

  “You got a temper, John?”

  “I don’t know that she’s dead. I hope she isn’t. I said that I was one of the last people to see her before she disappeared. That’s different.”

  “We know the two girls we’ve got in the morgue were all hookers. Madison was hooking when she disappeared. It’s not hard to join the dots, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t. But it has nothing to do with me.”

  “Alright, then. Let’s change tack.” He took a cigarette from the packet and lit it, taking his time about it. He looked down at his notes. “Okay. The night after she disappeared––this is the Friday––we’ve got a statement from Victor Leonard that says you went back to Pine Shore. He said he saw you coming out of the garden of the house where the party was the night before. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “We checked the security camera, Mr. Smith. There’s one on the gate. We looked and there you are, climbing over the wall. Why’d you do something like that?”

  Milton gritted his teeth. The camera must have run off rechargeable batteries that would cut in when the power went out. “The gate was locked,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you buzz to get in?”

  “Because someone had changed the code to the gate after Madison disappeared. Rather than wasting your time with me, I’d be asking why that was. A girl goes missing and the next day the code to the gate is changed? Why would they want to keep people out? Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious?”

  “We’ll be sure to bear that in mind. What were you looking around for?”

  “Anything that might give me an idea what caused Madison to be so upset that she’d run away.”

  “You spoke to Mr. Leonard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Madison went to his house. I wanted to know what she said to him.”

  “He say anything useful?”

  He thought of Brady. “Not really.”

  “And you don’t think all this is something that the police ought to do?”

  “Yes, I do, but Madison’s boyfriend had already reported her missing and he got the cold shoulder. Most crimes are solved in the first few hours after they happen. I didn’t think this could wait.”

  Cotton chain-smoked the cigarette down to the tip. “Know a lot about police work, do you John?”

  “Do you have a sensible question for me?”

  “Got a smart mouth, too.”

  “Sorry about that. Low tolerance level for idiots.”

  “That’s it, John. Keep giving me attitude. We’re the only people here keeping you from a pair of cuffs and nice warm cell.”

  Milton ignored the threat.

  Cotton looked down at his notes. “You said she was frightened?”

  “Out of her mind.”

  “That’s not what security at the party said.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Said you barged in and went after her.”

  “I heard her screaming.”

  “How’d you explain how one of them ended up with concussion and a broken nose?”

  “He got in my way.”

  “So you broke his nose and knocked him out?”

  “I hit him.”

  “It raises the question of that temper of yours again.”

  Milton repeated himself patiently. “I heard Madison screaming.”

  “So?”

  “So I went in to see if she was alright.”

  “And?”

  “I told her I’d take her home.”

  “And?”

  “She got around me and ran.”

  Cotton got up and started to circle the table. “You mentioned Trip Macklemore. We’ve spoken to him. He said you had Madison’s bag in the back of your taxi.”

  “I did. I gave it to him afterwards.”

  “What was it doing in your car?”

  “She left it there.”

  “But you’d already taken her where she needed to go. Why would she have left it?”

  “I said I’d wait for her.”

  “You didn’t have another job to go to?”

  “She was nervous. I didn’t think it was right to leave her there, on her own, with no way to get back to the city.”

  “You were going to charge her for that?”

  “I hadn’t decided. Probably not.”

  “A favour, then? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “It was the right thing to do.”

  “He’s English,” the other man, Webster, offered. “What is it you call it?”

  “Chivalry?”

  “That’s right, chivalry.”

  “Don’t know about that, boss, doesn’t strike me as all that likely. Taxi drivers aren’t known for their charity.”

  “I try and do the right thing,” Milton said.

  He looked down at his notes. “You work for Vasilly Romanov, too, right? Mr. Freeze––the ice guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “We spoke to him. He had to have words with you the afternoon she went missing. That right?”

  “I dropped some ice.”

  “He says you were agitated.”

  “Distracted. I knew something was wrong.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I already have.”

  Cotton slapped both hands on the table. “Where is she?”

  Milton stared at him and spoke calmly and carefully. “I don’t know.”

  He drummed the table. “What did you do with her body?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with m
e.”

  “Is she on the headland?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let me share a secret with you, John. The D.A. thinks you did it. He thinks you’ve got a big guilty sign around your neck. He wants to throw the book at you.”

  “Knock yourself out.” Milton calmly looked from one man to the other. “We can go around the houses on this all day if you want but I’m telling you now: if anything has happened to Madison it has absolutely nothing to do with me, and it doesn’t matter how you phrase your questions, it doesn’t matter if you shout and scream and it doesn’t matter if you threaten me––the answers will always be the same. I didn’t do it. It has nothing to do with me. And I’m not a fool. You can say what you want but I know you don’t think that I did it.”

  “Really? How would you know that, John?”

  “Because you would have arrested me already and this interview would be under caution. Look, I’m not a fool. I understand. I know you need to eliminate me. I know that I’m going to be a suspect. It stands to reason. I’ll do whatever you need me to do so that you can be happy that I’m not the man you want. The car I was driving that night is parked outside. Get forensics to have a look at it. You can do it without a warrant––you don’t need one, you have my authorisation. If you want to search my room, you’ve just got to ask.” He reached into his pocket and deposited his keys on the table. “There. Help yourself.”

  “You’re awfully confident, John.”

  “Because I have nothing to hide.” Webster was fingering the cigarette packet. Milton turned to him. “You’re the ranking officer here, right? I’m not going to tell you your job but you’ve got to put a lead on your friend here and get off this dead end––right now. You’re wasting time you don’t have. If Madison is still alive, every minute we’re doing this makes it less likely she’ll be alive when you find her.”

  Webster cocked an eyebrow. “You like telling us what we should be doing so much, Mr. Smith––what would you be doing?”

  “I’d be looking at the footage from that CCTV camera. Maybe you’ll see what happened. And everyone who went to the party that night will have gone through the gate. You should start looking into them.”

  “The footage has been wiped,” he said.