See Them Run (Lucy Kendall Thriller Series #2): A Lucy Kendall Mystery Thriller (The Lucy Kendall Series)

by Stacy Green

  She answered right away as always. “Please tell me you have an alibi for Sarah’s murder.”

  I didn’t answer right away. The pink streaks in her raven-colored hair distracted me. “Wow.” Each streak was carefully blended into her natural color. “Did you do that yourself?”

  Kelly beamed. “Nope. Went to the salon this morning.”

  “That’s amazing.” Kelly had been going out more and more on her own, but this venture was her biggest yet. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks.” She blushed and looked down. “You like it?”

  “I love it. It’s a great look for a new beginning.”

  Her smile accentuated her delicate, birdlike features, making her even more beautiful. “If you’re hungry, I’ve got some pizza left over. Help yourself.”

  I grabbed a slice of sausage and green olives and then followed her into her work area. Two large monitors came to life, along with the quiet buzz of her computer. “First, what does Todd have on you?”

  “Nothing.” My voice sounded harsher than I intended. I took a deep breath. “Employees knew we argued. A red hair that’s probably mine was found near the body, but that’s a joke. My desk was right there, and he’ll never get that to stand up in court. Someone at Maisy’s saw us arguing. But,” my nervous stomach rolled, “as long as Chris cooperates, I’ve got an alibi.”

  Kelly twirled a pink-tipped lock of hair. “You think he’ll lie for you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “His building has cameras.”

  My shoulders lifted and then fell limply. “I’ll think of something. And I didn’t kill Sarah, so he’s not going to pin it on me.”

  “The suspicion might be enough to get the Harrison brothers re-opened.”

  “Let’s worry about that if it happens.” I pointed to her now glowing monitor. “What did you find out?”

  She curled her legs beneath her in a way that looked miserable. “Since we really didn’t want to call the number and ask for information, I had to go old school,” Kelly said. “I searched the white pages, and then two different search engines, and then an invisible web search. That’s basically a search engine that goes a lot deeper. I also went on Facebook. The number doesn’t come up in any public databases, which means it’s a cellphone like we thought.”

  “How can you trace a mobile number back to its owner?”

  “There’s a reverse call lookup, but you’ve got to pay, and we don’t want to put in any identifying information.”

  “What about cell phone pinging?” I asked. “You said you were going to look into that skip tracing company that helps private investigators ping.”

  “I didn’t want to use it unless I had to,” Kelly said. “Even if it’s not illegal, it’s unethical. You’d lose your license if you were caught.”

  “So would half the PIs operating in this country.”

  Kelly nodded. “Anyway, since it’s winter, I decided to go with the weather alert. Remember how pinging works?”

  I rubbed my temples. “You send out an alert to a mobile number. It pops up on the phone and continues to pop up. Then it asks the user if it wants to opt out of receiving alerts. When they do that, their location is sent to you.”

  “As long as the cell user has their location services turned on–which most people do so they can use GPS–then yes.” Kelly made technology sound so simple. I wish I understood it half as well as she did. “It goes to the server owned by the skip tracing company and they’ll process it for us.”

  “And they got a hit.”

  Kelly tapped her keyboard, bringing up a Google map. “You’re going to love this. 2021 Lehigh Ave. In Strawberry Mansion.”

  “You’re kidding me.” I sagged down into the straight-backed chair. “Preacher is operating out of the most dangerous area of Philadelphia?”

  “He’s a sex trafficker,” Kelly said. “Are you really surprised?”

  “He’s making some serious money,” I said. “His clothes were nice. Expensive suit and shoes–business dress. Not the kind of thing you’d see in that area. I can’t see him strutting around looking like that without getting his ass kicked at the very least.”

  “Maybe he changes before he gets home. His subway stop was away from Strawberry Mansion, right?”

  “It was. But what’s keeping him there?” I tapped my chin. The sociology of poverty-stricken areas is complicated. Preacher was likely loyal to some sort of family, perhaps supporting many family members with his earnings.

  Kelly seemed to read my mind. “I know there’s all sorts of murder and violence there, but it’s sort of one side of the neighborhood against the other, isn’t it? It’s about being poor and drugs and vendettas. I can’t see something like trafficking being tolerated.”

  I decided to address the elephant in the room. “Riley is white. But the latest research into human trafficking shows that 40% of victims are African Americans. And black children make up 55% of the prostitution arrests in this country.”

  “So in an area like Strawberry Mansion where a lot of kids are unsupervised, Preacher’s got options.”

  Adrenaline pumped through me. “You need to dig into the statistics in the area over the last few years. How many kids have been reported missing and not found?”

  “How many do you think were actually reported?”

  “Depends on why the kid went missing. If the mother didn’t suspect anyone in the neighborhood, she’d call the police. You got any contacts at that precinct?”

  Kelly worked as an independent contractor for the Philadelphia Police Department. “That’s Central District, Precinct 22. I might know a woman in records, if she’s still there. I can see what I can find out.”

  “Do that.” I thought of Riley standing on the street corner on Kensington Avenue, recruiting. Had she been ordered to look for desperate young girls who needed a savior? She’d known exactly whom to choose. Kensington Avenue wasn’t all that close to Strawberry Mansion. “My gut tells me Preacher isn’t going to poop where he eats, but there might be kids in the area who’ve been propositioned who have some idea what’s going on.”

  “And you think you’re going to waltz in and chat with them?”

  “Not by myself. First things first, I’ve got to find out if Preacher’s in the area. Get a lay of the land.”

  “Chris is working, right? You’ll have to wait.”

  I didn’t want to wait. The urge to act surrounded me. I wasn’t good at sitting around and waiting. I wasn’t powerful or in control. Waiting put me at someone else’s mercy.

  “Lucy, please.” Kelly didn’t waste much energy on her plea. She knew me too well. “I wish you had a firearm.”

  “Chris and I discussed that,” I said. “I’m considering it.” But guns made it so easy to kill, and they were easier for the police to trace. Could I stick to my methods if I owned a gun?

  “I’ll call Kenny,” I finally decided. “He can’t resist giving in to me.”

  13

  I’m a brave woman. I’ve traipsed through some nasty areas of Philadelphia alone, my pepper spray and self-defense moves at the ready. But even I wasn’t dumb enough to go into the Strawberry Mansion area of North Philadelphia alone. After some nagging, Kenny finally relented. Now we drove down Lehigh Avenue in his battered pickup, doors locked and our white skin making us stand out in a decidedly bad way.

  Strawberry Mansion reminded me of the images of Third World countries that charity organizations use for fundraising. Drugs and violence ran the neighborhood, and it was nothing to see someone scrounging through overflowing trash for their next fix or meal, or both. The sidewalks flowed with garbage no one seemed to care about.

  “This all started in 2003 with the murder of a teenager,” Kenny said as we eased down the street. “Since then, gunfighting has hurt a bunch of bystanders. Witnesses are too scared to come forward, and the streets just get more and more dangerous. The young men living out here are from a generation of anger, and they’ve j
ust made things worse.”

  I peered out the window. A young black female bolted inside her house. “But the drug situation here is very real.”

  “Sure it is,” Kenny agreed. “But it’s not making the money it used to. All the shootings have sent customers away and brought in the cops. And it’s the same old story with an impoverished area: image is everything. These boys gotta earn their place and the respect of the alpha group to survive. So they’re doing what it takes. And they tell themselves this stuff is more important than money.”

  We crawled past a crumbling brick row house. “Number 2021.” The numerals were barely visible on the cracked glass above the door. “This is part of the Philadelphia Housing Authority.”

  Kenny snorted. “They’re doing a great job with the place, aren’t they?”

  I shrugged. “There’s only so much money allocated to them, and the housing authority does the best they can. It’s the nature of poverty that really amazes me.”

  “I don’t follow,” Kenny said.

  “Kids from areas like this try to get out, and their family or peers resent them.” I’d witnessed the same scenario time after time during my years with CPS. It was one of many harsh realities I learned to face. “They’ll call them out for leaving their people, for turning their back, that sort of thing. The support of your immediate circle–or the lack of it–is a powerful thing. Most of the time, the achiever will give up and go back to his roots.”

  “Exactly why things will never change.” Kenny made a U-turn and headed back down Lehigh Street. “Why are we here again?”

  “Because I’m investigating a man who goes by the name of Preacher. He’s involved in child sex trafficking, and I think he’s Riley’s pimp. Kelly traced the number he gave me back to this place.” I stared at the building’s grimy windows. “I honestly thought it wouldn’t have an address. But maybe Preacher isn’t as smart as I gave him credit for.”

  “He might live with family,” Kenny said, “and figured it was safe enough to use the number.”

  “Probably.” I didn’t add that Preacher had to be making enough money from trafficking to afford a better place than this. But for whatever reason, he’d chosen to remain.

  “What exactly are you hoping to find out?”

  “Preferably, his real name. But somehow I doubt you or I will get that information.”

  “I expect not. So what else? Please tell me you’re not going to knock on doors.”

  “I’m not stupid enough to do anything besides drive around. I’m hoping to see Riley or another girl her age who looks like she doesn’t belong. Or even better, Preacher himself. That will at least confirm Kelly’s information.” I glanced at Kenny, who looked nervous. We’d stopped at a red light where three young men had taken up residence. The tallest one had his back to us, and another young man hung over his shoulder. But the shorter man–or more correctly, barely legal teenager–watched us with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Have you heard anything from your sources?”

  Not taking his eyes off the men, Kenny hit the gas. “No. But I’m still waiting on a couple of people.”

  “Hopefully something pans out.” We drove around the block to the back of the building. It looked even worse from this angle.

  “I heard on the news the owner of Exhale Salon was found dead yesterday. The woman you were after.” Kenny’s tone had changed. His voice was tight, as if something were caught in his throat.

  “I heard that too. I wondered when she didn’t show up for our meeting.” I filled Kenny in on my plan to milk Sarah for information. “But she didn’t answer the door for Preacher, and I didn’t try to get into the salon.”

  “Jesus,” he snapped. Evidently whatever worry he’d had about my involvement in Sarah’s murder had eased. “What if you’d been there when the killer showed up?”

  “Then it would have been two against one,” I said. I didn’t add that I would have been prepared. I’d have brought something a lot more threatening than cyanide. That thought gave me the perfect topic diversion. “I’m learning how to shoot.”

  Kenny twisted to stare at me. “As in, a gun? I figured you already knew.”

  “Why?”

  His cheeks reddened. “Well, you know how to take care of yourself. And you aren’t afraid of much. So I just figured…” his voice trailed off and he looked sheepish.

  “I’ve shot my stepfather’s Sig Saur a few times,” I conceded. “And it wasn’t pretty.”

  “So what brought this decision on?”

  “Chris thought it was a good idea, given some of my more dangerous jobs.”

  “Chris Hale?” Kenny’s red face turned the color of storm clouds. “The one whose mother turned out to be the real killer of those girls, and who got her other son labeled a sex offender and stuck in prison for most of his childhood?”

  “The very same.”

  He drove down the street. I wondered when he would find a place to park. Parking probably wasn’t a good idea, but the locals were going to get sick of us driving around gawking at them like tourists. “I don’t know about that guy.”

  “Seems like a hard decision since you’ve never met him.”

  “He comes from a really dark place, Goose.”

  “So do you. So do I. So what?”

  “I don’t like how he just popped up in your life all of a sudden.”

  I almost told Kenny that Chris didn’t just pop up, that he’d been watching me for a while, but caught myself. Instead, I gave Kenny a wry smile. “Yeah. He’s kind of a pain in the ass. But he’s a good friend. He helped me find Kailey. Helped me out of trouble with the police too.”

  “I guess.” Kenny looked like he wanted to say more. “I just don’t know if he’s the sort you want to get mixed up with.”

  Something like shame crept into my head. If only Kenny knew what sort I was and that I’d used his information to kill people. He’d be devastated. I’d like to think he’d understand in the end, but deep down, I wasn’t sure. “He’s all right, Kenny G. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  He didn’t laugh at my silly, singsong rhyme. “Lucy, I’m serious. Since you’ve met this guy, you’ve changed. You’re darker somehow. More jaded. Taking more risks, like coming into Strawberry Mansion on a goose chase. The Lucy I know wouldn’t have done that.”

  But I had. I’d done so many more things than Kenny realized. Chris’s presence in my life had only brought my true self into focus.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I think the last few months, seeing what happened to Kailey Richardson and realizing how big the network of filth out there really is, has brought me down.”

  Kenny’s hunched shoulders eased down. “Well, that’s fair. But don’t let the world hurt you. There’s still plenty of good out there even if we don’t always see it.”

  I smiled my first genuine smile of the day. This is why I loved being around Kenny. He was a warm, fuzzy beacon of hope. “You’re right. I promise I’ll do better.”

  We stopped again at the red light. The three men had gone from curious to agitated. The shortest one, wearing a black jacket and a crisp white cap with gleaming white sneakers to match, strode toward us.

  “Shit,” Kenny hissed.

  I didn’t respond. My gaze was locked on the tallest of the three men. Attention on his phone, head down and his cropped hair hidden by a red, wool cap, but it was definitely Preacher. Dressed to fit in with his boys, not stand out.

  I shrank back in the seat. I doubted he’d recognized me, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “That’s Preacher,” I said. “This is definitely his area.”

  The shortest man had crossed the street and was only a few feet away from the truck. He spread his arms wide as if to challenge us.

  Next to Preacher was a younger boy, perhaps around eighteen. Now that the alleged leader had moved, I could see the boy hovered close to Preacher, mirroring his every move. Another protégé, perhaps?

  I didn’t have time to ask. The l
eader was too close, and Kenny hit the gas.

  14

  I didn’t hear from Chris until his shift ended and then only a simple text asking if he could stop by. By that time my nerves were frayed, and I’d nearly worn a path across my hardwood floors. My fat tabby cat Mousecop watched from his perch in the windowsill. Although Chris had dropped me off numerous times over the past few months, he had never been inside my apartment. My place in Northern Liberties wasn’t a dump, but it was lived in. The furniture, comfortable and generic, was unlike Chris’s pristine place in Center City. I reminded myself it didn’t matter. Chris had a trust fund to supplement his paramedic salary, and my chosen field wasn’t exactly full of wealth. Material things weren’t important to me, but the part of my brain that could never completely shed my mother’s judgment fussed about my plain and embarrassing decor.

  The buzzer announced his arrival; I let him in the building and answered the door on the first knock. I don’t really know what I expected. Chris was normally dressed to the nines, wearing designer coats and jeans and sweaters. Appearance was important to him, most likely because he had so many self-esteem issues. After all, some part of him believed he was destined to be a sociopath. Looking good established another layer to hide behind.

  But tonight Chris still wore his navy paramedic uniform, including a heavy fleece coat with the Philadelphia Fire Department’s logo. His short blond hair was mussed, his cheeks pink from the cold. A Band-Aid covered his left middle finger. He’d just come off a twelve-hour shift, and heavy shadows ringed his normally bright eyes. My insides warmed at the sight of him until I saw the expression on his face. Beyond the exhaustion was barely concealed anger.

  “Come in.” I stood aside. He walked past me, bringing his usual scent of musky cologne. Something deep inside me stirred. I squashed the sensation. “I take it you got my message.”