“Roxanne, this is great.” He pulled out his wallet, placed bills in her hand.
“My first paying job,” she said. Then her eyes narrowed. “But this isn’t just a job for you, is it? It’s personal.”
“Right.”
“Well, I meant it about testifying in court. And I’ve got all your numbers. If the guy shows at the coffee shop again, I’ll try to keep him there and call you.”
“You don’t want to take that risk. Look at him.” He gestured at the sketch.
“Yeah, I know. He’s dangerous. I’ll watch myself.” She stood, held out her hand to Craig, said, “Good luck.”
And then she was gone, leaving him with the image of a man he’d never seen in his life. Time to put it out there and find someone who knew who the hell he was.
ADAH JOSLYN
That dry-cleaning odor was in her nostrils again. She moved, and a sudden spark of pain brought a moan out of her. She realized then that she was unbound and lying on a soft surface that might have been a feather bed. She smelled foul, her head ached, her muscles throbbed.
Darkness all around. Night, or a room without windows? A persistent creaking came from somewhere, but she couldn’t pinpoint its source. A dripping sound too. The air was dank and stuffy.
She was still under the drug’s influence. But she was alive—for now.
What time was it? What day? It had been morning, she assumed, when she’d been injected again in the garage storage unit on Tenth Avenue. They’d moved her, but to where and how long ago? And why was she no longer bound?
She pushed up, wincing and stretching out her long, cramped limbs. Turned around and walked straight into a wall. When she’d recovered from the shock, she felt its surface. Paneling. When she rapped on it a slight clanging told her the paneling covered metal. Another storage unit? No. The space was larger than that.
She put out her arms and, taking what as a kid she’d called baby steps, began to measure the size of the enclosure. Maybe six by eight feet, and no windows. A door, closed, and the knob didn’t turn; it was on a snap lock and also secured by a dead bolt. But here on the opposite wall was an open door.
She felt her way through, ran her hands over the walls just inside. No light switch. She moved forward, banging her knee on something hard and unyielding. Ran her hands over it. A toilet.
She was in a bathroom. Blindly she felt around, found a sink, and then a tiny shower enclosure. And between them, a light switch.
She flipped it, and a dim bulb above the sink came on. There was no mirror. And it was just as well there wasn’t. She didn’t want to see what she looked like. After she used the toilet and drank some metallic-tasting water from the tap—allowing herself only a small sip at a time—she considered a shower in the stall that had been stripped of its glass door, but quickly discarded the idea; if her captors were close by, she didn’t want to confront them naked. She cleaned up as best she could at the sink, using her shirt as a towel. Then she began hunting for a means of escape.
Toilet paper roll—plastic and of no use. P-trap under sink—corroded and unmovable without tools. Toilet guts—old and looked as if they might snap under pressure. Light fixture—nothing but a bare bulb, and she needed it to be functional.
Frustrated, she returned to the other room and rattled the doorknob. Listened for sounds outside, but all she heard was the creaking and steady dripping. It didn’t come from any of the bathroom fixtures but from somewhere above.
Finally she flopped down on what the dim light from the door revealed to be an air mattress covered by a dirty comforter. The space contained nothing else. She drew up her knees, cradled her head on them.
Craig.
By now he’d be seriously alarmed. But, knowing her man as she did, he’d kept his head and been in contact with all his sources. The others at the agency and Hy would have too. They’d probably called in the cops and the FBI. All she had to do was hang on.
So how did you do that? She’d been in a kidnap situation before, but at least that time she’d known her captor and his motivations. It was the current lack of knowledge about what was going on here that frustrated her.
Her eyes felt moist as she thought of home: the spacious apartment in a Spanish-style building in the Marina. Their tortoiseshell cats, One and Other—they’d never gotten around to properly naming them—who ran eagerly to the door each time she returned. The rituals that had bonded Craig and her as a couple: FBI Fridays, when they watched DVDs of the old TV show and laughed at its largely false depiction of the Bureau; elaborate Sunday-morning brunches on the deck; silly voice and text messages that provided a lift during their busy days.
And then she thought of her folks. Had Craig told them she was missing yet?
Barbara and Rupert Joslyn. A mixed marriage: she, a college-educated, idealistic Jew; he, a working-class, pragmatic black. Still hale and hearty, still living in the old house on Powhattan in Bernal Heights. Disillusioned with communism, retired from radical rabble-rousing, but active in any number of liberal causes. Dad liked to tend his year-round vegetable garden and do intricate crossword puzzles. Mom liked to quilt and cook. She and Craig were supposed to go there for dinner on Sunday—
She felt a tightening in her chest.
Concentrate. Stay off the personal.
In reality she was much better off than Shar had been in that locked-in state last year. She had been unable to move or speak; for a time it had seemed certain she’d die. But there was always the possibility Adah could identify or even overpower her captors when they returned to do whatever they had planned for her. Or else try to bargain her way out of the situation, not that she had much to bargain with.
Or did she? They’d imprisoned her for a reason. Once they’d told her what they wanted and made their demands, she could comply with them or manipulate things in her favor. She just had to keep her wits about her.
That dripping—what was it?
Not rain—it was too regular for that. A slow leak in a pipe or downspout? Maybe.
And the creaking—it had stopped. Or maybe it had only been her imagination.
Adah’s stomach rumbled. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten. Oh, yeah, a deviled egg the morning she’d been snatched—another of Craig’s and her crazy habits. They made a dozen deviled eggs on Sunday, kept them in the fridge for weekday breakfasts. There’d be a lot of eggs left over this week—
Stop that!
Drip, drip, drip…
SHARON McCONE
There’s the address I want,” I said to Chelle.
“It’s dark.”
“Yes. Park down here—there’s a space.”
“Okay.” She sounded anxious. She’d readily agreed to the driving job, and had laughed as she’d clashed gears and lurched and stalled my MG on the trip to the pier for Ted’s Smart car. But I’d felt her tension all the way to the South Bay.
“What now?” she asked as she pulled into the space.
“We wait a while to see if anybody comes or goes. If not, I’ll go down there and check it out.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I told her. “This place belongs to a potential witness.”
“Then why don’t you just go up and knock on the door?”
“I like to size up situations first. Besides, I’m still waiting on that call back from Derek.”
We sat in silence for around five minutes. I could almost hear Chelle’s thoughts: irrational behavior. Why not act straightforwardly? Go and get what you came for. No bullshitting.
She would never understand the subtleties of investigation. But she’d make one hell of a businesswoman.
This was a quiet residential street in Cupertino, a suburb of San Jose, some forty-five miles south of the city. The neighborhood here hadn’t caught up with the rest of Silicon Valley; the homes were small, dating from the seventies or early eighties and set on tiny lots. Windows glowed through poorly hung blinds or, in some
cases, sheets. Television sounds emanated through too thin walls. In the porch lights I could see peeling paint and dead lawns and a few clunker cars up on blocks. Mostly cheap rentals, I guessed, or homes whose values had so decreased in the recession that their owners had ceased to care about keeping them up. It was close to seven o’clock, but only the occasional vehicle passed by; nobody arrived at or left any of the dwellings.
Chelle began tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. “This is boring.”
“A lot of detective work is boring. You wait for information, you wait for people, you wait for something to happen.”
“I don’t think I’d be very good at it. I’m a results-oriented person.”
“Results are the payoff in this business. When you finally get them—”
My cell vibrated. Derek.
“This J. T. Verke,” he said, “owns the house in Cupertino outright. A Selena Verke pays the property taxes, and there’s a document on file for dissolution of marriage in Santa Clara County five years ago. I’m currently running a search for another address for Verke in the Bay Area; it’s not a common name, but there’re likely to be some. Anything you want me to index it to?”
“Try security work—government or private sector.”
“Right.”
I broke the connection and turned to Chelle. “Okay, I’m going up there to the house. You have your cell, I have mine. Call me at any time; I’ll answer. And lock the car doors.”
“Are you sure it isn’t dangerous?”
“Depends on how you feel about ex-wives.”
That made her laugh—a tinny sound edged with relief. Immediately after I got out, the locks clicked.
I wondered if my employing Chelle as my driver was a mistake, even though her parents hadn’t ordered her back when she’d called home to say where we were and why. She was smart, she was tough, but in many ways she was just a kid. I should’ve taken that into account before I hired her. But in the eyes of the state of California, Chelle was an adult, capable of making her own decisions. And she so badly wanted to buy that house she was planning to rehab. A steady job was the only way, and God knows I had plenty of work for her.
I went to the door of the dark house I was seeking, pressed the bell. No sound within—probably the ringer wasn’t working. I knocked, waited. Footsteps sounded, soft and tentative. A young female voice asked, “Who’s there?”
“Sharon McCone. I need to talk with Mr. J. T. Verke.”
“He’s not home.”
“Can you tell me when he’ll be back?”
“I don’t… know.” The voice seemed to be wavering on the edge of tears.
“Are you Mrs. Selena Verke?”
A harsh laugh, older than the years her voice projected. “As if I would wanta be.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Who are you?”
“Sharon McCone, a private investigator who needs to contact Mr. Verke. Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Can I help?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me try.”
“Do you have any ID?”
“Yes. I can slide it under the door to you.”
“Okay.”
I did, and after a long silence the porch light flicked on. I could sense her staring at me through the peephole. Finally a safety chain rattled and the door opened. A dark-haired girl of no more than thirteen looked out at me. She had a black eye turning yellow-green around the edges, several other facial bruises, and a chipped front tooth.
“I’m Gwen Verke,” she said. “J. T.’s my father.”
“May I come in?”
She hesitated.
“It’s cold out here.”
“Okay, I guess.”
In the light she turned on in the entryway, the girl looked even more badly injured; she held her right arm at a stiff angle and winced as she handed my ID back to me with her left, then cradled her elbow.
“Did your father do this to you?” I motioned at her face.
“No.”
“Who did?”
“My mother and her boyfriend.”
“Are they here?”
“Not anymore.”
“What does that mean?”
Her gaze wavered from mine, then dropped, and she began to cry. Not ordinary tears, but great heaving sobs between frantic gulps for air. I slipped through the door and shut it behind me. When I tried to touch her, she jerked away as if she were afraid of being burned. She backed up against the far wall, slid to the floor, rested her injured arm on her knees, her face in the opposite hand.
After a moment she got her crying under control and said, “I don’t know whether I can trust you or not, lady, but I need help. Do I ever!”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Gwen Verke led me to a door at the back of the house, opened it, and flicked on an overhead light. It revealed a cluttered one-car garage where tools, three lawn mowers, worn furniture, and packing boxes were jumbled together. Just like my family’s garage in the old San Diego house used to be: no room for a car. It had always embarrassed me to have a family that couldn’t get organized enough to dispose of the things that they didn’t want or need anymore—the reason I used to delight in trips to Goodwill or the hospice thrift store.
Gwen stood next to me, silent. Staring down at a rolled and tied tarp near the overhead door. The top rope had been loosened and the canvas pulled back about six inches.
I said, “Is that what you want me to see?”
She nodded. I went over and took a look.
A woman’s face confronted me, eyes open and blank, features stiffened into an expression of surprise.
Jesus! Melinda Knowles—Piper’s supposed aunt.
I put my fingers to the cold neck, felt nothing but the hardness of rigor mortis nearing its peak.
I stood and went back to Gwen. “How did she get here?”
“I don’t know. I came out here half an hour ago for some books that I had packed up. That… thing wasn’t here this morning before I left for school, so I looked, and—” She started to cry again, but not as badly as before. This time when I put my hand on her shoulder she didn’t pull away.
“Do you know who she is?”
“No.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No. I was going to, but… I just couldn’t.”
“Okay. Why don’t you go back inside? I’ll check a couple of things and join you.”
“I’m afraid to be in there alone. I’m afraid of everything nowadays.”
Her battered face and chipped tooth gave her plenty of reason to be afraid. Yet she said she’d been to school. Why hadn’t somebody there contacted Child Welfare?
“You say your mother and her boyfriend hurt you. When?”
“Last Thursday. They’d been here off and on, and he scared me. I had to lock my bedroom door. When I threatened to tell my dad, they beat me up and ran off. I don’t think they’re coming back; they’ve been talking about going to live in Mexico.”
“And your dad?”
“I haven’t seen much of him since the divorce. I used to have a phone number, but it’s been out of service for six months now. What I said to Mom, it was just so that bastard would leave me alone.”
“You tell anybody about your mom and her boyfriend beating you up? A teacher or counselor at school?”
She hung her head. “No. I didn’t go until today, and when they asked, and I said I’d fallen on my face when I was skateboarding.”
“And they believed that?”
“I think they wanted to. They don’t want any trouble, and neither do I.”
What the hell had happened to the people who were supposed to guard our children? Budget cuts and low staff morale were no excuse.
“Your dad—what does he do for a living?”
“He said he couldn’t talk about it. And he wasn’t here much even when he and Mom were married. I liked to think he was a spy, like James Bond
.”
“Does he own a van? An old Econoline?”
“No, that’s Mom’s. She and… that boyfriend went off in his SUV—it’s brand-new. The van was in the driveway on Friday night, but it was gone on Saturday morning. I guess Mom came back for it.”
Or someone else had.
Gwen Verke added, “But she didn’t come back for me.”
My God, was there no end to the cruelty parents inflicted on their children? I slipped my arm around the girl.
“What am I gonna do about this?” she asked, leaning into me. “I can’t just leave that… thing there, but if I call the cops I’m afraid they’ll think I killed her.”
“Why would you kill a perfect stranger and hide her body in a tarp in the garage? How could you do that? You must weigh—what?—ninety pounds. You just tell them what you told me, and it’ll be okay.”
“Not so okay, maybe. Even if they don’t think I killed that woman, they won’t let me stay here alone. And I can’t stay anyway because I don’t have any money, except for ten bucks I borrowed off my best friend today. But they’ll stick me in juvenile hall or foster care. I’ve got friends that had that happen to them. It’s scary—”
“You just let me deal with the police. I can work something out.”
Here you go, McCone—championing yet another bird with a broken wing. Well, that’s all right, you’re broken in your own way.
“Now go inside,” I added. “I’ll be here the whole time. If you need me, all you have to do is call out.”
I waited till the door closed behind her, then went over to the tarp. Snapped on one of the pairs of latex gloves that I keep in my bag and pulled the flaps back. The rigid, surprised expression on the woman’s face and the cracked glasses secured by one earpiece made me look away toward the rest of her body, trying to see how she’d died.
Dried blood on her pink T-shirt. Knife or bullet, straight into the heart. Craig had found a bullet hole in the wall of the second-floor apartment at Piper’s building. The unspoken consensus was that someone had shot Adah there. Now I felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps the man in the apartment had shot Knowles, not Adah.
Coming Back Page 9
