I scrambled from my van, deciding to take my chances. There were several other cars in the parking lot, so I wouldn’t be at the park alone with Broken Arrow. And the woods would offer a good cover for me. I just had to see who he was meeting. I had to know what was going on.
I bypassed the path leading directly to the park and ducked into the woods instead. I stayed far enough away from the trail that I wouldn’t be seen. When I got closer to the park, I slowed my steps. I ducked behind a massive oak tree and peered around it, hoping to get a glimpse of Broken Arrow. My flip flops made it hard to navigate the uneven terrain, but I did the best I could.
Where was he? I craned my neck, trying to spot him. Instead, I saw families with young children bundled in their winter coats, a lone, die-hard fisherman, an underdressed, competitive biker. No Broken Arrow though.
What if he’d decided to take the path around the lake? I hesitated to leave the safety of the park crowd. But if I stayed concealed in the woods, I could still be in the clear. I could discover the answers I sought and then quietly slip away before anyone ever saw me.
I looked in every direction, waiting to see if anyone had spotted me. I didn’t see a soul. I had to be careful, though. The woods, though there were some evergreens, were sparse in their winter coats. In the summer, the area was thick with underbrush and vines and greenery. Right now, the trees stood like skeletons.
I swallowed, trying not to think about the possibilities of snakes or other creatures that might be living out here. I guess I’d deal with that when it happened.
I moved down the length of the lake trail, being careful not to step on any branches and make myself known. If a career in forensics didn’t work out, maybe I could apply for the CIA. My spy skills were quite impressive today, even if I did say so myself.
I paused behind another large tree as a picnic shelter came into view. Something—or someone—was there. I squinted, trying to get a better look. What was that? A person, hunched over? A trash bag? I couldn’t tell.
I sucked in a breath and decided I’d get a little closer. Not too close.
I took my first step when a hand wrapped around my mouth. I tried to scream, but couldn’t. Someone pinned my arms and lifted me off my feet.
Maybe I shouldn’t think about being a spy after all.
Chapter Eighteen
“Why are you following me, Gabby St. Claire?”
I recognized the voice, the cadence of the man’s speech. Broken Arrow.
Of course, I couldn’t answer him because his hand was over my mouth. That didn’t stop me from mumbling into his hand. I could annoy him if nothing else.
“Easy does it, Gabby. I’m going to move my hand, but if you scream, I’ll have to take alternative actions. Got it?”
I nodded. Alternate actions? Was that as threatening as he could sound?
Slowly, he lowered his hand from my mouth. His grip around my midsection loosened, and I turned around. I stared up at Broken Arrow, realizing that the man was a good foot taller than me, had muscles the size of machine guns, and could probably snap my neck in one, quick, easy motion.
“What are you doing here, Gabby?” he asked.
“I saw you meeting with Lydia. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.”
“Some things are not for you to know, Gabby St. Claire.”
He said my full name an awful lot. “There are some things I need to know, Broken Arrow. My friend is in danger.”
“I’m afraid you are too.”
My throat felt suddenly dry. “Why? What’s going on?”
“You have to figure that out. Though I’d prefer that you didn’t.”
“Are you involved?”
A shadow passed over his eyes. “There are things of which I cannot speak.”
“Says who? Who says you can’t speak of them?”
“Gabby St. Claire, be glad I found you today instead of someone else. Someone else may have hurt you and left you here for dead. I only warn you.”
“But—”
“Go. Go now, Gabby, before we both end up dead.”
I stared at him a moment. What did that mean? What was I missing?
I knew one thing. This was more than a case of murder. This was more than a serial killer or a string of robberies. Was it a gang? Drugs? A prostitution ring? Public corruption?
Broken Arrow still stared at me, and I knew I wouldn’t get any more information from him. I nodded. “I’m leaving.”
“Watch your back. Always. You’re going to wish you hadn’t gotten involved in this, Gabby St. Claire.”
I tromped back through the woods until I found the trail. I went back to my van, feeling like I blew everything. The mystery was only deepening, and I was getting no answers. Sierra could die if the wrong person or people found her, and I was helpless to intervene. I threw my head back into the seat, feeling a headache coming on.
That’s when I spotted another piece of paper on my windshield. What now? I grabbed it and unfolded the creases.
As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another. If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned. Your efforts are impressive, however. I only hope you’re fire—and iron—proof.
Chapter Nineteen
I had to find my friend. That was all there was to it.
And I had to get the FBI off my speed dial. Enough was enough.
Although being nosy had already gotten me into a heap of trouble today, I decided things couldn’t get much worse so I kept investigating. My next stop was Sierra’s place of employment. I would question her coworkers, request to see her desk, eavesdrop. I mean sure, the FBI had probably already done that. But you never knew what you might find that someone else might overlook.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the outdated building where her office was housed. Inside, I asked the receptionist if I could speak with the office manager and, a moment later, a chubby, balding man with a fringe of dark hair, a wide nose, and big, deep set brown eyes emerged.
“I’m Bernard,” he said slowly. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Sierra Nakamura’s best friend, Gabby St. Claire.”
His face darkened. “I’m saddened to hear about everything that’s happened with her. It gives us a bad name. We’re a peaceful group, you know.”
“I know. And I know Sierra isn’t guilty of everything she’s been accused of.”
“She’s bright and intelligent, so I’d hope not.” St. Bernard, as I’d already affectionately begun to think of him, shifted his weight. “What can I help you with?”
“I’d like to see her work station.”
“What good would that serve?”
“I’m trying to find her, and I thought her work area might give me a clue as to where she’d gone.” I resisted the urge to look for dew claws.
“The FBI has already been in here.”
“I know. I’m different because I’m her friend.”
He remained silent a moment before nodding. “Fine. You’ve got fifteen minutes. Try not to disrupt everyone, please.”
I’d only been to Sierra’s office twice before and mostly when I’d been there, I’d looked for ways to poke fun at the animal-loving freaks. Now, I needed to turn from my ways in order to find out the information I so desperately needed.
St. Bernard pointed to her desk and then tapped at his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
I nodded and plopped in her chair, swiveling around as I did so. Was there something here that would help me find my friend?
I opened her calendar and didn’t see anything that set my senses on high alert. I flipped through a few files. I looked in her trashcan. Nothing.
“You’re Sierra’s best friend, aren’t you? That crime-scene cleaner?”
I looked up and saw a girl who looked similar to Sierra, only Nordic. Whereas Sierra had shiny, dark hair that fell to her shoulders, this girl had shiny blonde hair that fell to her chin. Sierra had skin the color of almonds. This girl’s skin was pasty white. Sierr
a wore black, plastic-framed glasses; this girl wore blue.
I extended my hand. “Gabby St. Claire.”
The girl grinned. “I’m Helena. Sierra was always talking about you.”
“She was?” I propelled the chair back some.
Helena nodded briskly. “We’d always ask her to tell us some more crazy Gabby stories.”
Well, I guess that served me right. I’d made fun of them, and they’d made fun of me.
Helena sobered. “I could tell that you two were tight. I’m sorry she’s disappeared.”
And here I thought the only time Sierra showed any emotion was when it came to animals. Had she really made it clear that we were best friends?
“She’s not guilty, you know.” How many times would I have to repeat that?
“I know. We all know that.” Helena nodded emphatically.
I leaned closer and lowered my voice so that none of her animal-loving coworkers would hear me. “Any idea what happened? Any theories flying around the office?”
Helena looked around a moment and, after her apparent threat assessment was complete, she squatted beside me and spoke just above a whisper. “Sierra didn’t seem like herself last week. I wasn’t sure what was going on. I tried to ask her once, but all she said was that she’d stumbled onto something that had her disturbed. I assumed it was a puppy mill or one of those horrible fast food restaurant horror stories.”
“Logical assumption.”
Helena leaned closer. “But I did overhear a conversation she was having on her cell phone while in the bathroom. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. I really wasn’t. But she was in the next stall and didn’t know I was there, so what was I going to do?”
“Totally understandable.” And a little too much information, for that matter. “What did she say?”
“She said she had to meet someone and that she was trying to find out more information. This was the weird part, though. She said she had the goods they needed.”
I leaned back in the chair so hard that it nearly toppled over. The goods? The bomb making goods?
“One other strange thing that I thought I might mention. She kept complaining last week about this heating vent that’s right over her desk,” Helena pointed upward to the massive slats above her. “So she moved her work station over to that empty desk in the corner.”
“Can you show me where?”
“Sure, follow me.”
I stood and wove my way between desks until I reached a secluded little work space. “Did you tell the FBI any of this?”
She shrugged. “They didn’t ask. And I thought it might make her seem guilty. I couldn’t do that.”
I nodded toward the desk. “Do you think it’s okay if I have a minute here?”
“Let me go ask Bernard a question. It will buy you some more time, but make it quick. Bernard is way better at dealing with animals than people. And he hates bad PR. Really hates it.”
“Got it.” As soon as she walked away I began pulling out drawers and folders. Everything was empty. I dumped the pencil holder, but only found paper clips and three dull number twos. I bit my lip and sat back for a moment. Where else could I look? Was I missing anything? And what in the world were those “goods” that Sierra had mentioned?
I glanced at the desk calendar in front of me. Blank, of course, since this was a spare desk. I lowered my head and looked for any imprints. I squinted when something caught my eye. Could it be?
I pulled out one of those pencils and gently rubbed it over the area where I saw the indentions. Reading those Nancy Drew novels growing up had finally paid off as I’d just used one of the oldest detective tricks in the book.
Before me was an address. I looked up and saw St. Bernard approaching. I quickly ripped off the sheet and shoved it into my pocket. Just as quickly, I stood and offered a polite smile.
“It looks like you’re overstaying your welcome here,” he growled. “And you did the very two things I precisely asked you not to do.”
“I would have thought you’d be happy that I was trying to put some closure to this whole fiasco. Instead, you seem aggravated. Any reason why?”
He scowled. “No. No reason other than you’re interrupting our work time, and Sierra has put a stain on our positive reputation. Need I go on?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m leaving. Thanks for your help.”
***
The house at 1942 Vermont St. looked like it had been boarded up for years, although I had to say that the majority of the houses in this neighborhood looked abandoned. Most of them, despite their weathered siding and overgrown yards, did not have boarded up windows, however.
This was the part of town everyone warned you not to go into by yourself or at night. It was known for its crime, street gangs, and drugs. How bad could it really be in the middle of the day, though?
More importantly—why would Sierra have come here? Is this place where she’d disappeared? Would I disappear just like her if I went inside that house?
I leaned back in my seat, not quite ready to exit my van, and asked myself the all-important question of: What now?
Why did I even bother asking myself that question? I already knew the answer. If I left the house now, convincing myself not to go any closer, I would only find myself back here in a couple of hours, investigating anyway.
I knew I didn’t have any choice. I had to find some answers, whatever the cost.
Of course, if I were dead, what good would I be?
I sighed and climbed from my van. I stuffed my hands deep into the pockets of my bulky winter coat, pulled my stocking cap down farther on my head to ward away the tingles of the lingering flurries, and walked up the driveway.
I decided to start at the most obvious place. The front door. What were the odds that it would either be unlocked or that someone would actually answer? Not good. I’d try anyway before moving to plan B, which just so happened to be a plan I hadn’t even considered or begun to develop yet.
The steps to the place were so rickety that I thought I might fall through or a zombie might reach out from beneath the crawl space to grab my ankle.
Zombie? Really, Gabby? Get a grip. What are you going to think when you get inside? That there were ghosts?
Still, I muttered a prayer as I pounded on the door. I waited for a few minutes, noticing a group of young men walking past and checking me out. Of course they were. I was out of place in this neighborhood and they knew it. But just because it was a group of men walking together wearing chains and with their pants hanging halfway down their behinds, didn’t mean they were gang members.
So why did my throat feel so dry?
One of them called to me from the sidewalk. I pretended not to hear.
“You looking for some company?” I could hear the voice getting closer, and I shivered. This wasn’t good. Wasn’t good at all. Even I, with all my dumb courage, knew that gangs were nothing to take lightly.
I had no choice but to turn around and address the man speaking to me. “I’m wondering if anyone lives here.”
He raised his brows and laughed. His compadres joined in. “In that place? That’s even a dump by my standards, pretty lady. But if you’re looking for a place to stay, I think I might be able to help you out. You can come on over to my place.” The way he twitched his head to the side and suggestively shrugged as he looked me over made the invitation clear.
“I’m not looking for a place to stay. I’m looking for my best friend and I heard she might be here.”
The glimmer left his eyes. “No one’s lived there for months. Prolly longer. Years.” He looked over his shoulder at his four friends. “Right boys?”
A round of “yeah,” “that’s right,” “you know it” followed.
My gaze wandered down to the tattoo on his exposed forearm. The Guardians. Any hint of moisture left my throat now. The Guardians—a local street gang—were known for their violence. They had people in Norfolk terrified.
I took a step toward the
door and away from the group around me. How was I going to get out of this one? I should have known better than to come here alone. I should have called someone first. The FBI? Riley at least.
Lord, help me. I know I’m a knucklehead sometimes. I’m stubborn and headstrong and I don’t like to listen to anyone. But just this once? Are you listening?
The gang’s spokesperson—I affectionately thought of him as T-Bone because… well, just because it seemed like a good name for the broad man before me—took his first step onto the porch.
This would be a great time for one of those steps to give way. Or for a zombie to reach through the boards and grab someone’s ankles.
“I ain’t ever seen you around here before.”
“That’s because I’m not from around here.” I held up my hands. “Look, I get it. This is your turf. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m leaving.” I tried to step down the porch, but T-Bone grabbed my arm.
“Not so fast, Buttercup.”
“Buttercup?” Hearing him say buttercup brought an unreasonable amount of hilarity to a totally unhilarious situation. It was the equivalent of me saying fo’shizzle, which I actually had done once. I tamped down any silly impulses to laugh, however.
He swung his head to the side. “You got a problem with that name?”
I shook my head, my impulses immediately sobering as the reality of the situation froze my blood. “No problem.”
He nodded to the door, the sunlight reflecting off of his gold tooth. “We can show you the inside of that crib.”
Fear shimmied up my spine, skyrocketing into my brain so quickly that my hands began to tremble at the impact. “I’m pretty content to simply go home right now.”
“We’re going to party. Why don’t you join us? You can be my guest of honor.”
Every ounce of moisture disappeared from my mouth and throat. How was I going to get out of this situation? Why hadn’t I told someone where I was going?
Organized Grime (Squeaky Clean Mysteries) Page 11
