Birthday Girl

by Matthew Iden

  So when Dave’s phone rang he snatched at it, convinced it was Fracasso with something to tell him. “Cargill.”

  “Dave.” The voice on the other end was scratchy and thick. “It’s Elliott.”

  Horns blared behind him as he nearly drove his car off the road. “Elliott? What are you doing? Where are you? Half of the Metro area is looking for you and Amy Scowcroft.”

  “Is Jay Kelly . . .” Elliott paused. “How is he?”

  “He had a seizure, but they got it under control. The parents are out for blood, naturally, wanting to know how two complete strangers managed to get in to see their kid and attack him.”

  “Attack him? All we did was talk to him for ten minutes.”

  “This might come as a surprise to you, but they’re a little touchy about their kid right now. What were you thinking, going in there?”

  “We were thinking we had to find Lacey Scowcroft. And Jay Kelly had the information we needed.”

  Baffled, Dave asked, “What could he possibly know about the girl?”

  “Amy and I saw the news report about Jay on TV. In it, the reporter hinted that, before Jay disappeared, his parents had a rough divorce. When we looked him up in Amy’s notes, we found that Jay had been in foster care, which said to me that things might’ve gotten so bad that there was a child endangerment hearing.”

  “You think his parents had something to do with his disappearance?”

  “No, that’s not it. They may be lousy parents, but they didn’t put their kid on the street. I want to know what court the Kelly hearing was in.”

  “The court?” he asked, confused. “Why does that matter?”

  “We played a hunch, Dave. And we were right. Amy was right. Jay Kelly wasn’t a runaway, and he wasn’t living on the streets. He was kidnapped.”

  “What? He told you that?”

  “Yes. And he wasn’t the only one, there were four other kids being held with him, kidnapped by someone he called ‘Sister.’”

  “These kids . . . what? Just disappeared?”

  “More or less. In each case, the kid ran away, was a throwaway, or simply vanished. Then one or two or three years later, they turn up dead somewhere in the greater Metro or Baltimore area, probably of an overdose of a street drug or exposure.”

  “Come on, Elliott. A rash of murdered kids? We would’ve caught some kind of whiff of that.”

  “How much time do you spend on a runaway or a kid that isn’t reported missing for a month? Especially one that’s found dead of an overdose? Fifteen minutes? Half an hour?”

  Dave was silent.

  “Look,” Elliott said, “I know this is a lot to swallow, but think about it. Each abduction was separated by months or even years. Same with the murders. There’s almost no pattern if you aren’t looking for it. But the pattern is there. And before Jay had his seizure, he confirmed it.”

  “Even if I believe you, how does this get back to the courts?”

  “The one connection all of these kids have is that they came from dysfunctional, broken homes—runaways, throwaways, the whole gamut. Almost all of them ended up in foster care. Even when they didn’t, I’m guessing every one of them brushed up against CPS at some point, then went missing not long after.”

  “You think someone in CPS is targeting these kids once they see them?”

  “CPS or the court system at large. A social worker, a guard, an admin,” Elliott said. “Maybe even one of the ad litem attorneys or a judge who sees the kid at a CHINS hearing. Somewhere in the chain, from the point where the CPS officer visits the house to the final review that sends a kid to foster care, there’s someone who sees a vulnerable kid—maybe especially one no one will miss—and takes them.”

  Dave laughed without humor. “You want me to brace a DC judge on multiple charges of child kidnapping?”

  “I was just throwing out possibilities. I don’t know if it’s a judge. There must be fifty different people who see those kids before they land in foster care. The important thing is to narrow it down, which is why we need you to check those records. If we can find out which court these particular kids had their review in, we might be able to find the kidnapper.”

  “Because the court records will have a list of all the parties present,” Dave said slowly, piecing it together. “The CPS officer who did the investigation, the judge that made the decision, the ad litem attorneys who represented both sides.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you don’t have access to the records.”

  “They don’t often grant access to DC court records down at the shelter, no,” Elliott said drily. “But a cop who works for Youth and Family Services, on the other hand . . .”

  “Jesus, you don’t ask for much, do you?”

  “Lacey Scowcroft’s life is on the line. I’ll do whatever I have to get her back.”

  “You bought in all the way, huh?” Dave asked gently.

  “With everything I got,” Elliott said. “So, can you help us?”

  “That depends. What are you going to do in the meantime?”

  “Amy and I are trying to lay low,” Elliott said evasively. “We’ll hole up until we hear from you.”

  “Speaking of which,” Dave said, “you really are on the wire, my man. Assault and battery, endangering a minor, probably ten other things. I’m breaking all kinds of rules just talking to you.”

  “I know. But we’re close. We need to see this through.”

  Dave sighed, grumbled. “Look, let me pick you up and bring you in. It’ll give you a chance to explain everything you’ve told me. I’ll vouch for you, and we can clear this thing up and really get down to finding Lacey.”

  “I’m sorry, Dave. There’s no guarantee they’ll see our side of things. Even if they do, you know as well as I do it’ll take a week before we’re done talking to everyone who wants a piece of us. Lacey’s running out of time.”

  “I sort of hoped you trusted me more.”

  “It’s the system that I don’t trust, not you. Please. Can you get us what we need to know or not?”

  Dave groaned. “Elliott, getting you some files from the archive is one thing. Scouring court records so you can chase down a CPS officer or a judge and do what? Make a citizen’s arrest? I just don’t know.”

  “I know it’s a huge ask.”

  “Huge doesn’t begin to cover it.”

  Elliott took a deep breath. “Dave, I’ve never really called in a favor like this since Cee Cee’s death—”

  “God, Elliott—”

  “Please, Dave. This is it. This is why I spent eight years on the streets. This is my chance to do some good in the world again, to make just being here worthwhile. But I need your help to do it.”

  Dave let the line fall silent for a full minute. Finally, “No promises. But I’ll look, okay? Keep the phone handy, and don’t break into any more hospital rooms.”

  “I promise. Thanks, Dave.”

  They hung up and he tossed his phone in the cup holder.

  Jay Kelly.

  The boy he’d saved in Trinidad. From just another near casualty in the opioid war to the long-lost scion of a wealthy family to maybe the goddamn missing link to finding Lacey Scowcroft.

  Jay Kelly.

  An image flashed in his mind: the pale, almost greenish face. The strange, poorly fitting clothes. The ridiculous cowboy shirt the boy had been wearing. The robin’s egg blue plaid. The white stitching, looping and swirled. Now, in his mind, a picture of it worn not by Jay, not thin and patched and too short by inches, but newly bought, appeared strong and clear in his memory. So strong, in fact, that I know what that shirt smells like, he realized in shock. I know what it feels like.

  Horns blared again. He’d taken his foot off the gas and coasted to under twenty-five on the Beltway, a capital crime to commuters in the District. But this time he didn’t care, letting the angry drivers swarm around him, swearing and shouting as they passed. Tears began to stream down his face as a tumult of emotions f
looded him.

  How? How do I know this?

  His sister would know, he thought. She was older than he was, if only by a bit, and had forced herself to remember so many of the things he’d made himself forget. The keeper of the family secrets, he’d called her jokingly one time, but now he’d be grateful if she could put a name to this image in his head.

  He picked his phone up from the cup holder and punched in her office number. She was gone for the day, but he could leave a message. Suggest they get together for another lunch.

  Elliott

  “He’s going to help us?” Amy asked.

  Elliott rolled his head on the seat to look at her. “Yes. Your first intuition about him was right. Dave’s a good guy.”

  “Won’t it take time for him to find that information?”

  “No doubt.”

  “Elliott, Lacey’s running out of time,” Amy said, her voice rising. “We can’t just hide until he gets back in touch.”

  “We’re not.”

  “We’re not?” She blinked when he shook his head. “We’re not going to Old Town?”

  “Oh, we’re going to Old Town. We need the break. But then we’re heading to DC.”

  She looked at him, baffled, then said, “Susan Cranston.”

  He nodded. “We need Dave’s info, but there’s no reason to sit still while he gets it. Cranston is the one name we have in hand, the judge who presided over your hearing. While Dave digs up those court records, we can start poking around. We might get lucky or we might turn up exactly nothing, but at least we won’t be wasting the one thing we don’t have. Time.”

  36

  Charlotte

  The trips back and forth to the bathroom took forever. Not for herself, but to wash the blood from the rags. There was also a spot on the sheets that she had to clean, which she did by shuttling her single washcloth back and forth from the sink. With five of them vying for the bathroom, it was easiest just to wait until everyone was done and had headed downstairs for breakfast. She was risking Sister’s anger, but it was better than the alternative.

  The stain on the sheets was incredibly stubborn. She tried to blot it, then scrub it, but nothing had an effect. She pulled the corner of the sheet up and reached her hand under in an attempt to get at it from both sides, rubbing frantically, stymied at how the blood could still be present in a piece of fabric so old and so thin she could see her hand through the other side.

  “What are you doing?”

  Charlotte whipped around. Sister stood in the doorway, seeming to fill the entire space.

  “I was . . . I was just . . .” Charlotte groped for a plausible explanation. “Maggie wet the bed, Sister. I was trying to clean it up before breakfast.”

  “Oh, really? Let’s see,” Sister said with a raised eyebrow, coming into the room and revealing Maggie standing behind her, her face tear streaked and red. Charlotte’s heart sank.

  Charlotte stood in front of the bed. “I’m just finishing—”

  “Move.”

  “It’s not her fault, Sister,” Charlotte said, her voice breaking, but she gasped as Sister grabbed her by the arm and yanked her away from the bed, sending her crashing into the small dresser she and Maggie shared.

  Sister looked down at the sheets and the large blotch of damp fabric, the darker stain in the middle, scarlet when she’d started, now dun colored. Sister stared at the sheets for a long minute.

  “How long?” Sister asked without turning around, her voice like a whip.

  “I’m sorry, Sister. I should’ve told you—”

  “How long?”

  Charlotte swallowed. “Two months.”

  “I see.”

  Her pulse pounded in her ears. “I was going to tell you, Sister, but I didn’t want to alarm you.”

  The older woman turned and looked at her, but the face was slack and flat, strangely unreadable for a woman who let almost every emotion show. It was an expression of distance and separation, and Charlotte had the distinct feeling she was in a different category of thing now. A prickling sensation ran from her scalp to the backs of her legs.

  “It doesn’t alarm me,” Sister said, her voice preternaturally calm. “You’re becoming a woman. It’s a special occasion. We should celebrate.”

  Charlotte confused, shook her head. “What?”

  “Your birthday is almost here, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said in a whisper.

  “Oh, it is,” Sister said, looking at her with her inert face, her vacant eyes. “Which means we should plan on a party, don’t you think?”

  Without another word, she turned and left the room, her low heels clacking on the hardwood floor. She brushed past Maggie, who looked at Charlotte with dread. She took two short steps into the room.

  “Why, Maggie?” she asked, her heart breaking at the betrayal. “Why did you tell her?”

  “I’m sorry, Charlotte,” the little girl said, her lower lip trembling. “I didn’t want you to go. You said you were going to leave us and I thought if Sister . . . if Sister . . . punished you, you’d stay.”

  The last few words came out as a wail. Maggie turned and ran down the hall to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Charlotte let her go, then sat down at the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands. It didn’t matter what Maggie told Sister or the others—that she’d schemed to escape, that she’d hoped to get help for them all, that she knew the ultimate fate of all of the children brought to the house—because none of it mattered. It was only a matter of days or weeks before, like Charlie, she had her party, fell asleep, then was dragged down the steps and into the night.

  37

  Elliott

  Amy and Elliott shuffled down King Street, past hotels and tasting rooms, posh restaurants and boutique stores selling finishing oils and French antiques, looking like old soldiers back from the front.

  The trip from Olney to Alexandria, an hour by car, had taken them three days. With almost no money and the constant threat of being picked up by the police hovering over their heads, the journey had been a mishmash of walking, hitchhiking, and hiding. They’d slept under a bridge, in a foreclosed home, and in front of a church. Meals had been dumpster leftovers and whatever they could find along the way.

  On the second day, Dave called, repeating his request that they turn themselves in and let him help them. Elliott refused, asking only if he’d managed to figure out which court Jay Kelly had gone through. Dave told them he was working on it.

  The waste of time and growing sense of urgency had Amy frantic until a kind tourist couple had given them a pair of Metro passes, useless to someone on their way out of town. Despite the cameras and local police in every station, they decided the risk was worth it and took the last leg of the journey by subway, pulling into Old Town Alexandria on an uncommonly sunny Sunday morning.

  Tourists in barn jackets and distressed jeans thronged the sidewalk, taking advantage of the late autumn blush of warm weather. The crowd wanted to be happy, Elliott could see, and a ragamuffin homeless couple weren’t making that easy, so the people on the street walked and looked and laughed past the two as if they didn’t exist.

  It had been a simple fact of his existence for years, but he could see it was a shock to Amy. A week ago she’d walked down this street and been part of the group, accepted and understood. Judged, perhaps, maybe even sneered at, but she’d still been seen.

  He waited for a lull in foot traffic. “Strange feeling, isn’t it?”

  “I’m . . . I’m invisible,” Amy said. “If they weren’t afraid of catching a disease, they’d walk right into me.”

  Elliott stepped around a family of four cooing at a Labrador puppy being walked by two well-scrubbed thirtysomethings. “It’s why some homeless yell or curse people out. They’re not crazy; they just want someone to acknowledge they exist.”

  They continued east down King. Commerce was everywhere, succeeding and failing in waves. A medieval-themed re
staurant had a HELP WANTED sign right below CLOSED PERMANENTLY written in white grease pencil. One door down was an empty storefront promising an Italian eatery, coming soon. Next to that was a skinny blue building no wider than a man with outspread arms. Hanging from curlicued ironwork was an ornate shingle for an art gallery, open by appointment only.

  Three blocks later, they came within sight of a large colonial-looking building that took up the entire block. An American flag snapped from a narrow cupola atop the building. A large courtyard, a fountain in its center, spread before the building, packed with tents and market stalls. Christmas wreaths festooned with red and gold balls hung from lampposts while evergreen garlands decorated the sides of all the tents. Sweating profusely, a man sold roasted chestnuts in the unseasonably hot weather. Hundreds of people milled about the square, lingering in front of the tents, pushing strollers, and getting in each other’s way.

  “A Christmas market?” Amy asked doubtfully.

  “Just wait.”

  Trucks and vans—some held together by duct tape and a wish—lined the street around the square. From the corners, street performers blew on trumpets and trombones, strummed guitars, sang opera, all of them trying to be heard over barking dogs that had been leashed to light posts and parking meters. A large woman in pink Reeboks sat on a camp chair on the King Street sidewalk, twenty feet outside the confines of the market itself but close enough to be in the flow of feet heading toward the tents. Next to her was a stack of local newspapers. As pedestrians passed, she would hold up one or two, hawking them for a buck apiece. Elliott headed straight for her.

  “Hey, Mama,” he said with a tired smile as they walked up.

  The woman’s pumpkin-round face lit up and a smile split her face. “Elliott!”

  He leaned over and gave her a hug. “How’s business?”

  “Terrible. Everyone gets the news on their little black boxes these days.” She squinted over his shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Amy.” Elliott gave a half turn. “Amy, Mama Cass.”