No Escape

by Mary Burton

  “Oh, hey, you are the coolest, Jo. Really. But let’s face it, you’re not cutting-edge fashion for clothes.”

  “Professional trumps fashion,” Jo countered.

  “Oh, the boss and clients love the schoolteacher look. Dr. Anderson likes the fact that you’re kinda stuffy. Gives you an air of authority. But at the wedding. Not so much. Sex it up a notch, Miss Marple.”

  Jo considered her white blouse and pencil skirt. “Miss Marple? That’s going a bit far.”

  Sammy’s gaze reflected honest enthusiasm. “Jo, kick it up a notch.”

  Kick it up a notch. She had no idea what that meant. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Go to Zoe’s. They’ll take care of you.”

  Jo thought about the dress shop yesterday, running into Dayton and before him the tense saleslady. The thought of trying on dresses made the muscles in her back tighten.

  In her car, she called Zoe’s, discovered they were open until eight and opted to sneak in a quick workout at the gym before she braved the store. She’d not worked out since early Saturday morning, and her muscles were tight.

  She clicked on the radio to NPR and remembered Sammy’s comment about Miss Marple. She switched stations to the local pop channel, managed two songs before switching back to NPR. Jo doubted she was hip even when she was young.

  When she reached the stoplight a pickup came up right behind hers, stopping just short of hitting her bumper. Frowning into the rearview mirror she nudged her car forward. The other car followed.

  “Get off my tail, pal.” She glared into the rearview mirror, trying to get a look at the driver but found thick glasses and a hat made it impossible to recognize him.

  The plates were Texas, but a splash of mud covered up half the numbers.

  When the light turned green she drove toward the gym, knowing it would be packed at this time of day. She’d rounded the corner into the gym lot when her cell phone rang. She jumped, and quickly fished it out of her purse as she made the last turn.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “I’m calling for Louis Williams. This is Mortgage Financial in Houston, and he’s applied for a loan. I was hoping to get a reference.”

  She rolled her eyes, willing a thundering heart to slow. “Wrong number.”

  “You sure?” The man rattled off the number.

  “The number is correct, but the contact is not. I don’t know Louis Williams.”

  A moment’s silence followed. “We’ll take you off our call list.”

  “Great.” She hung up and luckily found a close parking spot. Another peek in her mirror showed the truck veering off to a side street, the driver staring straight ahead as if he’d never seen her.

  A breath shuddered from her lungs. She was being paranoid. A near bumper-tap, a wrong number and chance encounter with Dayton yesterday had rattled her. This wasn’t like her. She was rock solid. Practical. So why suddenly was she so unsettled, as if the ground had shifted under her feet?

  With Hanna’s name in hand, Brody had been able to pull an arrest record and fingerprints. He’d delivered both to the medical examiner who had made a positive identification. Tracking next of kin had taken more time, and it was past eight by the time Brody got Hanna’s uncle on the phone. From the uncle, Brody had learned that Hanna had run away six months ago. “Always figured she’d get herself killed sooner or later. She wasn’t so smart. Didn’t know when she was in over her head.”

  Brody sat back at his desk and stared at the notebook he’d retrieved from Hanna’s apartment. A forensic team had gone over the place, but there’d been no other telling discoveries. The book was his one clue to who might have killed her.

  Thumbing through the pages, he studied the detailed lists she’d kept of her johns. Each had a name, though he doubted many were real. She’d listed the date they’d hooked up and the money collected. The small notebook was full of single-spaced entries.

  Santos knocked on Brody’s office door. “I hear you identified the second victim.”

  Brody’s chair creaked as he leaned back in his chair and gave Santos a rundown. “When I searched her place earlier I found a notebook that the kid kept. She listed her johns but not all the names strike me as real. She gave many nicknames.”

  “Her pimp would know more about who her customers were,” Santos said. “And he shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  “Shouldn’t be. I’ve got his name.”

  “Let’s pay him a visit.”

  Finding Hanna’s pimp turned out to be easier than expected. Keri had said he hung out at a coffee shop on Sixth Street. During the day he spent his time online pimping out his girls for dates and in the evening he put them on the street.

  Daddy, as Keri had called him, sat in the back corner of the coffee shop. He had a large mug to the right of what looked like a brand-new computer. Midsized but muscular, Daddy wasn’t more than thirty but his mocha skin was scarred and pitted. As Keri had described, he wore a large, gold cross around his neck and the favored white jumpsuits.

  When the Rangers entered the café the conversation stopped and Daddy looked up. He sat straighter in his chair, leaning an arm back against his booth while keeping the other under the table.

  Brody’s hand slid to his gun as he approached the table. “Do me a big favor and put your other hand on the table.”

  Daddy grinned and draped his other hand over the back of the booth. “Don’t want no trouble with the Rangers.”

  “What’s your real name, Daddy?”

  He tipped back his baseball cap. “Juan Johnson. Why the Rangers calling on me? I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

  Johnson had likely broken more laws than Brody could count, but he wasn’t after Johnson tonight. “When is the last time you saw Hanna Metcalf?”

  Johnson’s easy grin hardened. “She’s gone AWOL. Ain’t seen her in two days. You know where she is?”

  “I know where she is.”

  “Yeah?” Annoyance flashed in his dark eyes. “What’s she saying about me?” So Keri hadn’t told Daddy about Hanna.

  Brody propped his boot on the edge of the booth and leaned in as Santos stood behind him. “What do you think she’s saying about you?”

  “The girl ain’t right in the head. A little slow and can run her mouth long after no one wants to hear her yammer.” He shook his head. “Dusty said the girl was in trouble, but I knew she was lying. Lazy bitch is out there lying low and stirring up trouble for Daddy.”

  Brody ignored the pimp’s tirade. “What does she talk about?”

  “You seen her, so you should know.”

  “I want to hear what you have to say.”

  “She is always giving me lip and attitude. And Daddy don’t appreciate lip.”

  Brody pulled out the tattered notebook and thumbed through it. “She gave this to me. Says it’s a list of her johns.”

  Daddy’s hands dropped to the table on either side of his computer. “What the fuck did you say?”

  “She’s been keeping a list. Any reason why she’d do that?”

  He shrugged, pretending as if he didn’t care. “I don’t know what makes a crazy bitch do what she does.”

  “Daddy, I’m not after you right now. I’m after a killer, and I think Hanna might be able to help me.”

  Daddy didn’t hide his shock. “What do you mean ‘a killer’? I don’t know nothing about a killer.”

  “Hanna did.”

  “Did?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Daddy sat back, shaking his head. “Shit.” He held up a bejeweled index finger. “I don’t know nothing.”

  Brody grinned. “I bet you know the number of breaths that girl took in a day. I bet you know when she sneezed and when she took a leak.”

  Daddy was silent for a moment. “What do you want from me?”

  “Always the dealmaker, Juan. I like that.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to take a look at this book, and I want you to tell
me if you recognize any of the names.”

  “How the hell would I know the names that Hanna kept?”

  Brody leaned closer, keeping his voice low and even. “I can shut you down in two seconds, Juan. You won’t see daylight for years, and your girls will scatter like honey bees.”

  Daddy’s face paled a fraction. “I don’t know you, Ranger.”

  Brody smiled. “I’m new in town.”

  “You ain’t got nothing on me.”

  Brody moved so quickly that Daddy didn’t have time to react. He grabbed the pimp, jerked him out of the booth and twisted his arm behind his back. Before Daddy could squeal, Brody had clamped cuffs on his slim wrists.

  Santos reached for his phone and called Austin police. “They’re sending a car for Daddy.”

  Daddy grimaced and tried to get free but the more he struggled, the harder Brody twisted. “Hey, you don’t have to be so rough.”

  Brody hauled the pimp outside. When Daddy tried to jerk free, Brody shoved him against the café wall, pushing hard enough so the pimp’s face scraped the brick exterior. “Try it again, Daddy. Please.”

  Daddy struggled to lift his raw, scraped face from the brick but Brody held it in place. “I don’t want trouble, Ranger.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Daddy stilled and shoved out a breath. “Let me have a look at those names. I bet I could help you.”

  “Not sure if you’re worth the trouble anymore. When I round up your girls and tell them you won’t be out of jail for years, they’ll tell me.”

  “You can’t throw me away in jail. This is America.”

  Brody laughed.

  “Let me look at the names!”

  Brody gave him another shove into the bricks before whirling him around as an Austin police cruiser, lights flashing, arrived. “Better talk fast, Daddy.”

  Daddy looked at the open book that Brody held in front of his face. When Daddy shook his head, Brody turned the page. Again nothing.

  The Austin uniforms approached Brody. “Looks like Daddy is causing you some trouble.”

  “Not as helpful as he could be. Mind doing me a favor and dropping him in a cell? I’ll come looking for him sooner or later.”

  “I said I’d help!” Daddy shouted. “You’ve only shown me a couple of pages. Shit. Give me a chance.”

  Brody thought about fifteen-year-old Hanna working the streets for this monster. He wondered how many second chances he’d given her. He flipped another page. “Look real hard, Daddy, because I’m running out of patience.”

  The pimp scanned the page again. “I know one of the names.”

  “Which one?”

  “Earl. He was a regular.”

  “How often did he come by?”

  “Least once a week. Men like Hanna. Young, curvy. She has a lot of regulars.”

  Anger roiled in Brody. “I’m looking for a regular.”

  “I know most of them. I don’t need a notebook for that.”

  “Any ever call her by a nickname?”

  “Like what?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Blondie. Alice in Wonderland. One liked her because she reminded him of his granddaughter.”

  Brody’s jaw tightened and he wanted nothing more than to pummel the shit out of this guy. Instead, he said in a calm voice, “Who else?”

  “One guy had an interest in flowers.”

  Brody’s racing pulse stilled. “What kind of flowers?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. Roses are red, violets are blue, motherfucker.”

  “What did he call Hanna?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Medium-sized. Dark hair. Wore thick glasses. Looked like an accountant.”

  “Did he have a name?”

  “I don’t take roll call, motherfucker. He picked her up in a pickup and did his business.”

  “When was the last time he picked up Hanna?”

  “Few days.”

  “Where did he pick her up?”

  “Near her corner. Right outside.”

  Brody had already sent officers to canvas the shops for security cameras that might have captured Hanna and her last john. He grabbed Daddy by the shoulders and handed him to the Austin cops. “He’s all yours.”

  “What are you doing?” Daddy shouted. “I told you what I know.”

  “I got a notebook full of Hanna’s solicitation appointments. And you just admitted that you recognized the names of two clients you sent her way. Something tells me that’s not legal in Texas.”

  “Bullshit, I did. I was helping you!”

  “Like you helped that fifteen-year-old on the streets.”

  “Hey, man, she came to me. She was hungry and needed to work, and I put her to work. She got paid.”

  Cents on the dollar, he’d bet. “Take him away.”

  Daddy dug in his feet and craned his neck toward Brody as the officers led him to the car. “Hey, man, you need me. I can help you find this guy.”

  “Really, how’s that?”

  “I can ask around. See if the dude gave other girls flower names.”

  The pimp was right. The killer could have lined up other girls. And Daddy might be able to figure out who’d vanished and who they were visiting. “Sure. You can help, Daddy.” He eyed the officers. “If you don’t get information from him in twenty-four hours, he goes to jail.” Brody clamped his hand on Daddy’s shoulder and squeezed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Saturday, April 13, 9:00 A.M.

  Brody rubbed his eyes and reached for his coffee cup. One sip of the cold sludge had him muttering an oath as he set the cup aside and leaned back in his chair. He’d been looking for days at surveillance footage of the area where Hanna worked. He’d cross-checked the images with her journal entries, which detailed four hundred entries over the month of March. Four hundred entries. Shit. A fifteen-year-old kid. Daddy remained free, and he’d asked around and discovered that the red pickup had been sighted many times over the last few weeks. But no one had specifics. As Brody stared at Hanna’s entries he vowed Daddy would go down soon.

  Of Hanna’s four hundred entries, a good thirty percent were repeats. Hanna also used first and sometimes last names for each entry and made notes in the margin. $$. Remind him of granddaughter. Bad breath. Small dick. Hates talking. And the most important, Robbie: Calls me Bluebonnet.

  When he saw the name Robbie listed, his adrenaline snapped. Immediately, he keyed in on those entries. Robbie had visited Hanna ten times during the month. Hanna also noted, Calls me Bluebonnet.

  Taking the surveillance footage from a liquor store located across from Hanna’s corner and a paycheck cashier situated on a diagonal to the site, he watched and searched for guys that showed up on the dates Hanna had cited.

  Hanna always stood on the same street corner under a light. For the most part, she arrived by five and often didn’t leave her corner for the day until five in the morning. On cold nights she’d stand for an hour waiting and calling out to passersby. On milder nights she’d get in and out of a steady stream of cars. The lighting and angle made it hard to see the johns’ faces, so he paid closer attention to the vehicles. On the nights Robbie visited Hanna, a red pickup truck cruised slowly by the corner. The paint was faded, the back tail bumper bent and pockets of rust had eaten into the edges of the car. The front and back plates both splattered with mud were illegible, but he could see a couple of shovels and rope in the pickup’s bed.

  Each time he pulled up, his face remained turned as if he knew the cameras were rolling. It was a precaution he’d learned from Smith who’d done the same when he’d stalked his victims. Smith hadn’t gotten sloppy with surveillance cameras until the end and Brody had been there to nail him.

  In the images, Hanna always smiled as she approached Robbie’s passenger door and leaned in to speak to him. They’d talk for several seconds before she settled into the front cab. Robbie never returned Hanna to the same corne
r because she’d reemerge in the camera an hour or so after the initial pickup. Many times Dusty stepped on screen and the two women chatted. Both kept a close eye on Daddy’s van always parked across the street. Daddy was keeping an eye on his investments.

  In all the times Robbie showed up in the red pickup truck, the plates were muddied and his face turned. But Brody at least had a link to Robbie.

  Brody stared at the frozen screen featuring Hanna leaning into Robbie’s truck.

  “I’m going to catch you, you son of a bitch.”

  An alarm on his cell phone had him straightening and glancing at the message he’d sent himself before work.

  “Wedding,” the display read.

  Brody shut the alarm off and rose, stretching the kinks from his back and shoulders. He’d learned long ago that if he had to be somewhere and he was on a case, he had to set the alarm on his phone as a reminder. Too many times he’d been working and lost all track of time. He’d missed or been late to too many family gatherings or dates. His last girlfriend had grown fed up with his misses and absences. “You don’t need a girlfriend. Work is all the mistress you’ll ever need.”

  He’d regretted the breakup, but it had not derailed him from work or the case. But since then he’d made a point to be where he said he should be or at least call if he couldn’t.

  He rolled down his cuffs and buttoned them before grabbing a red tie he’d brought in this morning. Tying a quick knot, he slid on the blue blazer hanging on the back of his door and reached for his Stetson.

  He’d told Jim he’d be at his wedding and he meant it.

  The weather outside was sunny and bright, a welcome change from winter’s cold temperatures. This was going to be one of those rare perfect days between winter’s blistering cold temperatures and summer’s scorching heat. He’d once heard that rain was an omen of a happy marriage but he’d never bought into it. It had rained the day he and Jo had married and that union had never stood a chance.

  Jo spent far too long on her hair and makeup. She wanted to look good, but no matter how much she combed, curled or twisted her hair, it didn’t look right. By the fourth hairstyle she knew her primping had crossed over into obsession. Exasperated, she let her hair fall, the curled edges brushing the shoulders of the watered silk dress she’d found Wednesday at the last-minute, panicked trip to Zoe’s.