by Stacy Green
“Did you remember something else?”
“No.” Chris rubbed the scruff on his face and stared blankly past me. I’d gotten used to this habit over the last few months. As if some kind of veil descended over him, Chris’s attention slipped away from the present. I imagined his locked memories bludgeoning his head in their attempt to escape. He blinked and focused on me. “But there are things you don’t know about me, Lucy.”
“There’s plenty you don’t know about me too.”
“Possibly. But this is,” he blew out a nervous breath, “worse than you might imagine.”
“So why are you telling me?” Part of me wasn’t comfortable with Chris’s sudden need to share. It strengthened our bond, and I didn’t like that.
“First call of my shift was to a house in Chestnut Hill. Nicest ten-year-old on the block had beaten the shit out of the neighbor boy. Guess the neighbor kid was a bully and had it coming, but this ten-year-old took it too far. He broke the kid’s jaw.”
If he expected me to be surprised, he’d be sorely disappointed. “Kids of all social status have anger issues. And often the middle and upper class are all kinds of screwed up. Skeletons in those walk-in closets.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. “Believe me, I know. This boy has one of my favorite diagnoses: ADHD. Everywhere you look doctors are slapping on that label and drugging up kids.” He paused, looking straight at me. The air suddenly swelled with tension. Claustrophobia nagged at me. “He doesn’t have an uncle who’s an assistant district attorney to get him out of trouble.”
Realization sunk in. I was about to hear something very bad, and I couldn’t say no. “What did you do?”
“I was about eight,” Chris said. “No one in the area knew who I was–my uncle kept it secret. But this kid at school-his dad was a social worker-was an eavesdropper. He confronted me in front of all the other kids, and I lost it.” Chris picked at his cuticles. “It was like a movie scene. Me and Kyle in a circle. He kept calling my dad a murderer, my mom a bad mother. I just started beating on him.”
I wanted to close my eyes, but I kept contact. “How bad was it?”
“I broke his nose and gave him two black eyes. Broke his ribs, and he ended up with a punctured lung. Kid almost died because of me.” He wiped moisture from his forehead. “He was in the hospital a long time. And my uncle made it all go away. We moved to another part of town and started over. And I got counseling.”
“Did it help?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I was so afraid I’d end up like my dad.” He laughed bitterly. “Turns out I should have been worried about dear old Mom.”
“You didn’t know.” I repeated the same words I’d be saying for weeks. “I know it doesn’t make you feel any better, but you were just a kid who’d been through a lot. We know now, and we will find her.”
“I know.” He relaxed into the couch. “Seeing those kids tonight was like being back in that schoolyard. And I just needed to tell you about it.” Uncharacteristic pink dotted his cheekbones.
“I’m glad you did.” I felt hot all over, down to the roots of my hair.
“So I’m not so innocent after all,” he said.
“Believe me, I never thought you were.” I attempted a grin, and he laughed.
“You know me better than I thought.” He stretched out his legs. So when Todd presses you on the alibi, we’ve got our story. Hopefully it sticks. In the meantime—Sarah. What’s the story?”
I told Chris about my conversation with Todd. “Until I saw the crime scene photos, my first instinct was Preacher. But this was an up close and personal killing. I’m not sure Preacher would be that involved.”
“Unless he had something on the side with her. And when she told him about you, he felt betrayed and lost it.” Chris played with a loose string on the hem of his shirt. “He’s a pimp, after all. I’m sure he gets violent. How bad were the pictures?”
“Bad. Blood everywhere. She was stabbed.”
Wincing, Chris shuddered. “I don’t know what kind of monster can kill a person like that. It’s too…”
“Personal,” I finished. I certainly couldn’t do it. The act of slicing through skin and muscle to reach a vital organ was callous. Cold. Brutal. I couldn’t allow myself to go there.
“What about Preacher?” He asked. “All you’ve got on him is that you followed him into North Philly. That’s a big area.”
It was my turn to grin. “Kelly got a lead, and Kenny and I followed it today. Preacher hangs out in Strawberry Mansion.”
He jerked to a sitting position. “You went to the ghetto with only the wonderful Kenny G for protection?”
“You’ve never met Kenny. How do you know he’s not good protection?”
“Because all you talk about is how fun and happy Kenny is. What is it you call him? Your light in the dark?” He rolled his eyes. “Not exactly a bodyguard.”
“We were surrounded by people.” I shrugged, pretending I hadn’t been every bit as scared as Kenny. “Nothing was going to happen. He knows the streets.”
Chris scowled. “I’m sure. Once again, I can’t believe you’d be so stupid. And so much for Kenny having a brain in his head.”
“Enough,” I snapped. “You can insult me all you want. Leave Kenny out of it.”
The sheer coldness in his glare caused a rash of gooseflesh on my arms. “So you know Preacher’s home base is in the worst area of Philadelphia,” he said. “But Sarah’s dead, and she was your best shot at bringing this ring down. Isn’t it time to move on?”
“Are you kidding me?” I nearly slid out of the chair. “I’ve got a lead to Preacher. He’s the one who can get us closer to the big boss. That’s who we need to find.”
Chris’s head jerked back and forth. “You understand you’re walking into something bigger than you imagined right? Preacher and his boss and who knows who else are willing to kill to keep their secret.”
“I don’t care. I’ve got to make someone pay for this.” I couldn’t take the words back. After witnessing Brian Harrison dying at my own hands, I thought I’d never take another life. But the knowledge of children being trafficked for sex right under my own nose brought out the vengeance monster. And how many other kids had been forced to pose naked for the camera just like Aron?
Chris regarded me in silence. Sometimes his face was so easy to read. Other times, like now, he wore a silent mask. I could continue my investigation without him, but I didn’t want to.
He sighed. “I wish I could make you forget that video.”
“Aron wasn’t the only one we saw.” A lump swelled in my throat, followed by the crest of guilt. “He was the only one I could get to.”
Chris reached for my hand. I stilled at his touch, unsure of how to react. “I’m sorry you can’t let this go, but I don’t think you should keep looking into Preacher. I’m afraid you’re going to get hurt.”
“I promise I’ll be careful.”
“Right.” He released my hand and relaxed back into the couch again. He didn’t believe me any more than I believed myself. “So what’s your next move?”
“I need to talk with Preacher about his offer of employment.”
15
I lied to Chris.
I left a message for Preacher, and Chris thought I still waited for his call back. He’d find out the truth eventually, and he’d be upset, and I’d apologize. Then we’d dance again. Sometimes I wondered if I lied to play the game–to see what the consequences would be. There’s no fun if I can’t stay one step ahead and in control.
Shaking in the dark cold, I pulled my scarf tighter around my face and stuffed my hands into my pockets in an effort not to scratch my head. The blond wig and glasses were back, and I stood in front of Ward 8, an honest-to-goodness speakeasy in West Philadelphia. Preacher insisted on buying me dinner, and this place was his suggestion, instantly putting the owners of Ward 8 on my radar.
Decidedly
plain, the only sign of popularity surrounding the old, brick building was the line waiting outside of it. I checked my watch. Preacher was unsurprisingly late. A show of authority to which I’d have to make sure I deferred.
A yellow cab stopped. Preacher exited, clad in the same trench coat. His dress shoes tonight looked to be name brand, and the suit pants peeking out from beneath the coat were high quality fabric. He smiled in greeting, and I saw a flash of the boy he still was.
Intellectually, I knew my reaction should be fear. Or at least caution. But my breathing increased as if I were on the treadmill. I suddenly tasted the basil and oregano smell of authentic Italian wafting from Ward 8. Preacher’s trench coat almost glowed against the snow. I steadied myself against the adrenaline, channeling it into the part it was time to play. Twirling a lock of my wig, I shyly smiled back. Preacher approached with confidence, jerking his head at the doorman.
“It’ll be just a minute, sir.” The doorman spoke directly to Preacher. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Thank you.” Preacher stood at my elbow. “You look very nice, Lily. That blue scarf is pretty with your skin.”
The shock of being addressed as my sister was brief. “Thank you.” I flitted my eyes at him. “You too.”
He seemed to enjoy my apparent shyness. “I bet you didn’t even know this place was here.” He spoke slowly, making sure his words were polished and without any trace of today’s youth.
“I didn’t.” I played up my shock and his ego. “It must take connections to get a reservation.”
Preacher adjusted his purple tie. “It does.”
The doorman motioned for us to follow him. Preacher took my elbow and led me through the door. A hostess wearing an emerald flapper dress with intricate beadwork observed us with what I assumed was faux suspicion. The mix of beads and sequins were a darker green, and they glittered in the soft light. A layer of fringe outlined her collarbone, and I wanted to reach out and touch the material to see if it was as silky as it looked. Her wide, black headband matched her dark, bobbed hair, and she’d mastered the art of smoky eyes, with black eyeliner setting off the bright blue. “Do you have a password?”
“Augury,” Preacher said. I raised my eyebrows. Fancy language for a place named after a popular prohibition-era drink of gangsters. She nodded, and another staff member dressed in plus fours and a matching vest with a tie led us through a corridor with only vintage gas lamps. The narrow, dark corridor made me feel trapped, and I wished Preacher hadn’t pretended to be a gentleman and ushered me in front of him. I focused instead on the slim shoulders of the host as we descended down a felt wallpaper-covered stairwell. We emerged into a tiny, dimly lit bar with mostly full tables. The staff was dressed in 1920s-era clothing, the women’s sequins and beads shining, with the men wearing suspenders and newsboy hats. A gilded chandelier hovered over red leather booths, a golden arch proudly showed off the bar, and the entire room was bathed in vintage wallpaper that was loud enough to warrant an aspirin.
We sat down in a booth, the leather pliable and warm. A candle burned in the center of the table, the candlelight making Preacher resemble a hungry jackal as he watched me take off my coat. To play the part of poor working girl, I’d worn a nice, fitted blue dress that wasn’t especially expensive but still looked good.
“Order whatever you like,” Preacher said as I sat down. “It’s all on me.”
My wig tickled. I ignored it and smiled. “I suppose it’s all a tax write-off for you.”
He burst into a deep chortling, covering his mouth and glancing through the restaurant as if he and the walls shared a private joke. “Sure is.”
I imagined what it would be like to stab him in the eye with my fork and then focused on the menu. “Do you recommend anything?”
“The filet mignon is excellent,” he said.
“And really expensive.” I played with the thin gold chain around my neck, the only jewelry I’d worn tonight.
“Don’t worry about it.” He folded his menu and leaned across the table. “You look like you could use a good meal, anyway.”
This time, my flush was natural. After hearing my mother hint I’d been gaining weight, Preacher’s compliment, whether sincere or not, felt good. We ordered steaks and salads, and I made a show of being afraid to drink wine but finally agreeing to a nice red. After our Jay Gatsby-styled waiter left our wine, I took a careful sip.
The red slid down like velvet, warming my stomach. Instead of praising the taste, I wrinkled my nose and shuddered. “Strong. I’m not used to that.”
“It’s an acquired taste.” Preacher’s grin widened. He clearly enjoyed showing this older, culturally challenged woman a fancy time. Like most, his transparency made him easier to manipulate.
I adjusted my awkward glasses, put my elbow on the table, and then giggled before removing it. “Oops. I’m not used to eating in places like this, either.”
“No worries.” Preacher laid a long arm across the back of the leather. The speakeasy’s dim lighting hit his face at just the right angle, exposing the youth in his caramel skin. His hazel eyes were very enticing. It was easy to imagine him as the gallant knight saving the mistreated and vulnerable girl from the street and then methodically warping her brain until she belonged to him.
“So, tell me more about this new position that might be opening up.”
“Hold on,” he raised his hand, needing to direct the conversation just as I’d expected. “I want to hear about you first. It’s Lily Smith, right?”
Kelly chose one of the most generic surnames in the country for a reason. It made creating a scant identity much easier. According to public record, Lily Smith resided with Mr. and Mrs. Warren Smith of Kensington. I’d chosen another lower income area of the city, but far enough away Preacher shouldn’t know any middle-aged, blue-collar workers. The cheap track phone I’d purchased yesterday was easily explained: I was too damned poor to afford a smart phone, and I didn’t want to borrow from Mom and Dad. Living with them was enough.
“Well,” I fidgeted with the napkin before laying it across my lap as Preacher had done. “I live in Kensington with my parents. But you knew that.”
“Right. How old are you?”
He was the only man who’d had the guts to ask me that in recent years, and I nearly laughed. “Twenty-five,” I said, thankful for being blessed with good skin.
“Where’d you go to high school?” The shift in his tone was slight, but I caught it easily.
“Home schooled.” I looked down at my lap and then peeked back up at him. “Paranoid parents.”
Resting his chin on his hands, he nodded. A cagey smile played on his lips. “Guess that means you didn’t get out much?”
“Nope. After high school, I went to Ohio to stay with my aunt and uncle. I thought the change of pace would be good, but they lived on a farm, and I hated it. Nothing but animals and Amish.”
Preacher laughed. “So you came back to Mom and Dad?”
“After a couple of years, yeah. Started dating a guy, but it didn’t work out.”
He ran a manicured fingernail across his bottom lip, looking even more like the starving jackal. “How serious were you?”
“Well,” I chewed the inside of my cheek and thought of one of my more embarrassing moments, hoping for a natural blush. “I thought we would get married. I mean, he was…my parents are religious…so…”
To his credit, Preacher played it mostly cool. Just the quick lick of his lips gave him away. “So you and him–he the only one?”
I knitted my eyebrows together. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”
“Well now,” he made a dissatisfied face, “if you can’t talk about this, I’m not sure you’re right for the job.”
Sliding forward in the booth, I put both elbows on the table. “I really need to get out of my parents’ house. They’re suffocating me.”
“Maybe they just care about you,” he said. “You shouldn’t take that for gra
nted.”
I continued to pout. “They care too much. I’m 25 years old, and I’ve only dated one guy. We broke up because I was too timid.” I brushed some wig wisps off my cheeks. Hoping the emotion carried through, I started waving my hands as I spoke. “I just feel…caged, you know? Like I’ve got this pressure building, and if I don’t change something, I’m going to snap. I need to do something different. Something no one will expect.”
He didn’t respond right away. Hands hiding his face, he stared over his knuckles with curious eyes. I broke eye contact first and looked away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all crazy. I’ve just been feeling especially trapped lately.”
“I get that.” He continued to size me up. My need to control a situation surged through me. I forced it back with a painful swallow of velvety wine and made a show of studying the busboy cleaning up a nearby table. His slicked back hair and thin suspenders over a crisp white shirt perfectly fit with Ward 8’s theme. He caught me staring and winked and then gave a nod of recognition to Preacher.
“You must come here often,” I said. “If the busboy knows you. He looks like a baby.”
“He’s old enough,” Preacher said. “He does good work.”
The dual meaning in his tone slithered through me. I committed the busboy’s face to memory before turning my attention back to Preacher. “Good. Seems like kids his age don’t want to work very hard.”
“Oh, he works,” Preacher said. “Always willing to do what it takes.”
His knowing grin, meant as his own private joke, made my stomach sick. Just in time for our steaks to arrive. I took another large gulp of wine to calm myself. “This looks delicious.”
