by Hunt, James
“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.
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 ne
xt 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, slack 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.”
Michelle blushed, and did a poor job of hiding it. Not that she could have. The woman had skin like snow. But it was like fresh snow when the sunlight hit it in the morning. “Going on a date with a man who still wears his wedding ring seems to be a bit of a red flag for me.”
Grant deflated. “I understand.” But at least now he knew. “I’m sorry to have stopped you in the rain like this. Please, let me help you get back to your car.” He offered his arm, and she took it.
She wasn’t parked far, and luckily the rain hadn’t picked up any worse. Grant opened her door for her, and she climbed inside. “Thank you again, Detective. And I apologize for what happened earlier.”
“It’s okay,” Grant said. “Drive safe.”
She shut the door, and drove off.
It was probably for the best. If he still wore the ring, that meant he wasn’t ready to let go. And that wouldn’t be fair to anyone he chose to be with right now. Grant swallowed his pride and returned to canvassing the neighborhood.
A convenience store with bars on the window sat on the street corner. It sat across from a park, which was nothing more than a patch of grass with a bench and swings.
An electronic bell chimed when Grant stepped inside the store, and the cashier behind the counter didn’t even bother looking up from the magazine he was reading. Grant had to actually knock on the counter to get the man’s attention.
“What?” The cashier had a scraggly beard and saggy bags under his bloodshot eyes. He was high as a kite, something he immediately tried to hide the moment Grant flashed his badge.
“Did you work last night?” Grant asked.
Baggy Eyes cleared his throat and straightened up. “Y-yeah, I did.”
Grant fished the picture of Mallory he’d copied from the one Ms. Givens gave him out of his pocket and held it up to the man’s face. “Did you see a girl walk by here?”
The cashier squinted, feigning an attempt to actually look at the picture. “No.” He shook his head adamantly and then added with a stutter, “B-but I wasn’t really paying attention last night. We’re open twenty-four hours, and I’m more concerned about the people who actually come in the store. Lot of crazies around this neighborhood, you know?”
Grant tucked the picture back in his pocket. “Anyone in particular that gives this place problems?”
“Drug addicts mostly.” The cashier gestured over to the park, which could barely be seen through the iron bars on the window. “There are a lot of homeless people hopped on some kind of shi—stuff.” He swallowed hard after catching himself. “And they can get violent sometimes.”
Grant pointed to the park. “A lot of them hang out there?”
“Yeah,” the cashier answered.
“Thanks.” Grant left the store, and the rain had picked up even more. His head, pants, and shoes were soaked. It was like ice smacking him in the face, and he was two seconds away from giving up and returning to the warm, dry car when a pink flash caught his peripheral to the left.
Grant turned in time to see a man with a backpack dart behind a bush in the park and out of sight. Living in Seattle, and pretty much anywhere on the West Coast really, you’re bound to see a lot of strange sights and a lot of people making some questionable fashion choices, but he had a feeling the backpack he just s
aw wasn’t one of them.
He broke out into a jog, the rain viciously pelting his face as he easily caught up to the man with the pack who’d tucked himself under a structure made of crates and boxes. He gave Grant a wild look. “What the fuck do you want?”
Grant flashed his badge and reached for the handle of his pistol. “Sir, I need you to step out of there, right now.”
The homeless man had a scraggly beard, and black holes appeared where teeth should have been. His clothes were torn and tattered, and the structure he called home had more holes than actual cover. Eventually, the homeless man submitted, and when he did he revealed the cache of hidden gems that he kept in his shambled home.
Grant reached for his cuffs and then grabbed the soggy sleeve of the homeless man, who gave slight resistance to the arrest. The rain refused to let up and so did the stubbornness of the vagrant, no matter how many times Grant repeated his questions.
“Where did you get that backpack?” Water dripped from every point on Grant’s body, and despite the long shower the rain provided his suspect, the man still stank. It was hard to wash away years on the street, no matter how hard you scrubbed.
“If you’re not gonna charge me, just let me go!” The vagrant sat cross-legged on the ground, rocking back and forth. The never-ending twitches told the story of withdrawals. He wanted another fix. And Grant’s presence was the only thing stopping him.
“I’m deciding,” Grant said. “Possession. Resisting arrest. Maybe kidnapping.”
The vagrant erupted. “What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t take no kid!”
Grant crouched to eye level with the Seattle trash. “Where did you get the backpack? I know you didn’t pick it up at the mall. And that color doesn’t seem to go with the rest of your apparel. Start talking now or you’ll spend what’s left of your life in an eight-by-eight box.”
The vagrant scowled and rocked back and forth. He kept his lips closed tight, and for a moment Grant didn’t think that the man would talk. Finally, the dam burst. “I stole the pack, okay?”
