If I'm Found

by Terri Blackstock

  If I weren’t following Keegan or Rollins, I could look into some of the other cops who were around at the time of Casey’s father’s supposed suicide. Maybe some of them quit or retired. I could find them, see what they could tell me about Andy Cox. The ideas come to me even as I’m sitting here with him. Maybe I don’t need more coffee after all.

  “You know, that sounds like a great idea. I could use a little help. You feel like doing some PI work?”

  “Long as I don’t have to chase anybody on foot. Sign me up.”

  After I give Dex as much info as he needs to follow Keegan and record his activities, I buy a couple boxes of donuts and bring them to the personnel office at the police department. The sergeant at the desk, who probably wouldn’t have given me the time of day before, suddenly has respect for me. It’s funny how manipulative food can be. “Hey,” I say. “Thought you guys could use some breakfast.” I open one of the boxes and hand it to him.

  “Whoa,” he says. “There goes my low-carb diet. Don’t tell my wife.” As he takes one and bites into it, I introduce myself.

  “I’m Dylan Roberts. I’m a PI, working with some of the detectives upstairs on a local homicide case.”

  “Yeah?” the man asks, chewing.

  “I was wondering if you could help me. I’m looking to hire a few retired cops for my PI business. Do you happen to have a list of people who’ve retired or just quit the force in the last fifteen years or so? I’m mostly looking to hire former cops or ex-military.”

  The sergeant shrugs. “I could probably pull up a list of retirees. You got an email address?”

  I give it to him. I wish I’d come up with a better story so I could get a list of the deceased officers too. That might give me insight about other cops who were targeted by Keegan and his henchmen. I don’t think I can ask this sergeant for it without looking suspicious. I call Dex and ask him to meet me. I need him to make a phone call.

  A half hour later, I sit with him as he calls the public relations department of the Shreveport PD. He gives them his real name, tells them he’s writing an article for North Louisiana Magazine. “I’m working on an article about fallen heroes,” he says. “I wondered if I could get a list of all the cops from the department who’ve died in the last twenty years. I’d like to talk to some of their families, maybe feature some of them.”

  I can hear the PR guy’s voice in the background. I recognize it from TV interviews on the news. “Are you asking for those who’ve died in the line of duty?”

  “No, just any cause of death. I’ll locate their families, see if they have good stories to tell. Might get a few articles out of it.”

  “Yeah, I can get you that list, no problem.”

  Dex gives him his email address, then hangs up and high-fives me.

  “Give the man an Oscar,” I say. “You’re good at this.”

  7

  CASEY

  To give the wig store time to get the wigs to Pedro’s Place, I get off at a bus stop along the way and spend the night in another dive. Then I get a bus that’ll take me all the way to Durant. I spend another night there before going to the restaurant.

  Pedro’s Place hasn’t changed that much since I was here a few months ago. I go in and stand at the cash register, looking around. There are twenty or so diners. I shouldn’t have come at lunchtime.

  One of the waitresses comes over to me. “How many?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Actually, I need to speak to the manager.”

  “My father’s in the back,” she says. “What’s this about?”

  “I’d like to apply for a job,” I say.

  “We’re not hiring, but I can get you an application in case something opens.”

  I sigh as she goes away, waits on one of her tables, then disappears into the back. If she comes back with an application, I don’t know what I’m going to do. What name will I use to fill it out? I guess I can make something up. If I just sit around here long enough to fill it out, maybe Pedro will come out.

  It occurs to me as I sit here that the people who work here all know what Pedro does in the back room. I study the face of the other girl who waits the tables. She could be family. She does look a little like him.

  I’m relieved when he comes back with the waitress who went for him, holding an application in his hand. He glances at me without seeing, then does a double take.

  “Hi,” I say. “I liked it so much here I thought I’d give it an encore.” I don’t know if he will understand the term “encore.” He seems like he’s Mexican and, though he speaks English, his accent is heavy. “I’m trying to find myself again.” The code words I used the first time change his expression, and it dawns on him who I am and what I’m doing. He clears his throat. “Come back to my office,” he says.

  His daughter heads off to take care of her customers, and I follow Pedro back to the room where I had my picture made before.

  When we’re back there, he turns to me. “What you doing here?” he asks, his voice accusatory.

  “I need another ID,” I tell him. “I have to change my identity again.”

  He steps back into the doorway, looks into the dining room. I imagine he’s searching the faces of all the customers, making sure ICE or the FBI aren’t sitting there waiting to pounce.

  “I promise I’m alone,” I say. “No one’s following me. I took a couple of buses and got off when we stopped in Durant to gas up. I don’t think they’ll trace me here.”

  He stares at me as if wondering what he’s gotten himself into.

  “Please,” I say. “I can’t use the one you gave me anymore, and it’s not because I did anything wrong. It’s just that my cover was blown. I have money.”

  “You told no one?”

  “No, I promise. Did anyone come talk to you?”

  “No.”

  “They would have if they’d known.” I look around the room, and my eye settles on the FedEx box on the floor next to his desk. “That box. Have you opened it?”

  He frowns. “The wigs.”

  “They’re for me,” I say. “I had them sent here.”

  His face flushes crimson. “That safe for you, not safe for me! If Immigration watches me, if they know, that would be dead giveaway!”

  I realize now that having the wigs sent here wasn’t such a good idea. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that. I was only trying to figure out my situation.”

  He opens the box and thrusts the wigs at me. “I give customers identities so that they can work, not so they can commit crimes.”

  I don’t point out that giving them identities is committing a crime. But I know what he’s saying. He thinks I’m worse than anyone else he’s dealt with. Maybe I am.

  “I didn’t do what they think I did. I’m just trying to stay alive.”

  I almost expect him to throw me out, but he crosses his arms and stares at me for a moment. “Can you not find someone else to do this?”

  “Probably,” I say. “Look, if you do it for me one more time, I’ll buy two. I have the wigs now. You won’t have to see me again. I can pay cash.”

  He seems to consider it. Finally, he shakes his head, then he goes to a cabinet. He sits down at his desk and pulls up a shelf, revealing a safe tucked under it. He unlocks it. It must be where he keeps the info about the identities. He sifts through it. “How old you are again?”

  “Twenty-five,” I say.

  He pulls one out. “This girl was thirty year old. Two others thirty-five. You don’t look thirty-five, but I don’t have any other young as you. Most are old.”

  “Maybe I can pass,” I say. “I’ll take the two youngest women.”

  He goes into a closet and gets a case, from which he gets his camera and tripod. He sets it up, then unrolls the backdrop he uses. I wait quietly. “Stand there,” he says, pointing to the backdrop.

  I fluff my hair, then stand there, waiting for him to snap my picture. “What did they die of?”

  He stops focusing and drops
his hands. “Why you always ask that? Do you want, or no?”

  “I just want to make sure I’m not stealing a live person’s identity.”

  “I do dead people.” He snaps the picture, looks at it disapprovingly, then snaps it again. “That’ll be twenty-five hundred dollars,” he says.

  It’s a big hunk out of my stash, but I know I’ll be hiding for a long time. Maybe the rest of my life. “Half now, half tomorrow?” I ask.

  He nods his head.

  “And that includes social security cards?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Like last time.”

  I start out the back door, and as I open it, I hear his voice behind me.

  “Car accident,” he says as he breaks down the camera.

  I turn back. “What?”

  “Obituary not always tell how. These two die of car accidents.”

  I’m quiet for a second. I picture the funeral, where their parents must have stood in shock, nodding to the mourners whose words all blurred together. I swallow hard. “Okay,” I say. “Can you give me their names yet?”

  “Miranda Henley . . . Liana Winter . . . ,” he says, pronouncing them slightly wrong.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Seven thirty?”

  “Yes. Don’t be late.”

  I check into the Hampton Inn under the name of Miranda Henley, telling them my usual story—that I have to pay cash because I was robbed of my wallet and don’t have any ID. They take payment in advance for one night.

  When I get to my room, I sleep deeply, and I wake the next morning refreshed. I get up at five thirty, grab some breakfast downstairs, then pack and check out. I walk back to Pedro’s Place a few minutes early and knock on the back door. He doesn’t answer, so I wait, checking my watch. At exactly seven thirty, he opens the door.

  I step inside.

  He doesn’t speak, just hands me an envelope. I check and see my picture on Miranda Henley’s driver’s license, and a counterfeit social security card. Same for Liana Winter, which I hope I won’t need. “Great.” I dig the envelope out of my pocket with the rest of his money in it.

  He holds up his hand, stopping me. “No. I give you money back.” He pulls out the cash I gave him yesterday, rolls it up, and thrusts it at me.

  I don’t take it. “Why? Didn’t you say $2,500?”

  He wipes his thick mustache. “I look you up on Internet,” he says. “Under name I give you before.”

  My heart jolts. “Oh.”

  “I see what you did. Why you have to run. The girl and baby.”

  I just look at him with dread. Now he knows my real name and the story I didn’t want him to know. “I didn’t kill my friend.”

  “On the house. You go now.”

  I suck in a breath. “On the house? No, I couldn’t. Please, let me—”

  He puts his hand over mine, forces me to take the roll of money. “You did right thing,” he says. “I do right thing too.”

  Tears rim my eyes. “Thank you, Pedro.”

  He doesn’t say anything else, just opens the door and lets me out. When I’m back outside, I stand there a moment, considering that kindness. I wipe my eyes and walk back to the hotel. I call a cab and wait, sitting on the curb. Where will I go now?

  When my cab arrives, I still haven’t decided my next destination. Maybe I need to just take a day or two and figure things out. I have the driver take me to another motel across town. I check in under Miranda Henley, paying cash and a big required deposit in case I trash the place or something. Then I try to regroup and make a plan.

  8

  CASEY

  I hate depression. It isn’t a normal state for me, despite the truths that have haunted me for years. My mind tries to shake it off and find something to smile about, but this time the mood latches onto me and holds me hostage. My eyes are raw and I want to stay in bed and sleep until my nightmare ends, but when I try I sink into terrors about finding Brent, and I wake up shivering and damp with sweat, wondering if I cried out in my sleep and if anyone heard me through the wall. Then I lie awake, turning onto my side, my stomach, my back, pulling my knees up, straightening them, working so hard to find some comfort even though my head hurts and my mind races.

  I try to concentrate on normal tasks—adding up the money I’ve spent and how much I have left, making lists of things I’ll need to buy. But it all feels so useless. I wonder if I’ll ever pull out of this, and if you can die from it.

  Then my thoughts go to the morbid—me dead in my hotel bed, no one looking for me at all until someone forces their way inside to get another day’s payment. Since they don’t know my real name, they wouldn’t be able to notify anyone or give me a proper burial. My family will never know what happened to me.

  I get up, put on my shoes, and go outside for a jog. I’m not particularly fit, since I don’t normally run, but I do it anyway, running way faster than a jogger normally does, focusing on the feel of my feet hitting pavement and my breathing in and out. After several blocks, I stop, out of breath with a stitch in my side, and drop to a curb to catch my wind. Those tears assault me again, and grief pulls at my face until I wish I’d brought my sunglasses. Cars drive by, but no one glances at me.

  I have to talk to somebody, so I go back to my hotel room and use my new phone to get on the Internet. I navigate to the website where my secret email account resides, with the name “NotGoingDown.” I look to see if Dylan has contacted me. He has.

  Let me know when and how we can talk. I have a lot to tell you.

  I want to answer, but I think better of it. I’ve come this far, hidden this long. If I call him, how will I know he isn’t sitting next to Detective Keegan, sharing the call?

  Then I remember his concerned eyes as he helped me out of Dotson’s house, as he pulled me to safety from that terrifying basement, as he let me walk away.

  Maybe I can trust him, at least to some degree. If I’m careful . . .

  I type, Yes, we can talk. Give me a safe number.

  I wait for half an hour or so, refreshing often to see if he’s responded. I force myself to focus on TV, not certain what I’m watching. Finally, two hours later, when I refresh I see a message.

  It’s a phone number, then the words, Please call. It’s safe.

  My throat constricts and I swallow hard, wondering if I’m risking my life by doing this. But a peace falls over me—the first peace I’ve felt in weeks. I pick up my burner phone and punch in the number. My heart races as I wait for it to connect. It rings once, twice . . .

  “Hello?”

  I’m silent for a few seconds, then I say, “Why did you let me go?”

  “Because you’re innocent.”

  Tears push over again, and I can’t say if they’re tears of relief or deeper grief. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been digging, investigating. I believe the things that you sent me—the things that were in Brent’s file. They’re true. I’m going to take down Keegan and Rollins and everyone else involved. But I can’t do it until I have indisputable evidence. I’m building a case. They won’t get away with this.”

  I sniff and wipe the tears on my sleeve. “Are you still looking for me?”

  “Yes,” he says. “I’m trying to find you before they do. You’re not safe from them. Tell me where you are.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I don’t trust you that much.”

  He’s quiet for a few seconds. “Casey, are you all right? Dotson beat you pretty badly. Have you had medical attention?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  “You have amazing courage.”

  I interrupt him, irritated. “No, I don’t. I ran.” I squeeze my eyes shut and pull my knees up to my chest. “I’m a fugitive!”

  “But you were framed.”

  “So what do you want me to do? Come back? Is that your solution?”

  “No. I want you to stay where you are, or go wherever you’ll be safe. Even if I don’t know where it is.”

  I o
pen my eyes again and wipe my face.

  “If I can’t find you, then probably Keegan can’t either. I’m pretty good, actually.”

  I laugh, and it surprises me. “Yeah, you are.”

  “You are too. The average person couldn’t stay off the grid for as long as you have.”

  “It’s kind of important.”

  “Yes, it is.” A soft moment stretches between us. “Casey, I’ve told you I have PTSD. It helps to see someone. If you got a counselor, they would have to keep it confidential.”

  “Not if they think I’ve committed murder.”

  “Then go to a church. You need help. You can’t endure the things you’ve been through and handle it on your own. I know.”

  I look toward the TV, but I only see Dylan’s face, that one time I saw him. “Why do you have it?”

  “PTSD? I was a criminal investigator for the army, and I was deployed three times, once to Iraq and twice to Afghanistan. I wasn’t in combat, but I was caught in mortar attacks a few times. Worst thing that happened was the second time I was in a convoy and we hit an IED. I lost . . . people.”

  I hear the pain in his voice, the way he’s clipping the words.

  “I know I should be happy I survived, but I can’t always control my thoughts.”

  His voice trails off, and I know he won’t say more about that. I don’t know how to respond. Anything I think to say sounds trite and overused.

  “You’ve had trauma, too, more than once,” he goes on. “You were twelve when you found your dad. Did you ever talk to anyone about that?”

  “I talked to some other cops who sounded like they cared, but then they quit and I didn’t hear from them again. And I talked to Brent.” I cover my face again, as though he can see me. “Dylan, if you want to help me, protect my family. Protect Hannah and her husband and baby. Protect my mom . . . She’s not well.”