by Mike Omer
“What… the… hell…” he said.
“Lionel, you’ll freeze your ass off, running naked in this weather,” Hannah said, pulling him up.
“Let me go!”
“How… How…” Clint still struggled with words.
“Lionel is the fastest streaker in the United States,” Hannah said. “He once ran a nude six-hundred-yard dash in one minute and sixteen seconds.”
“One minute and fifteen point two seconds,” Lionel said, looking hurt.
“Right, sorry. Anyway, as I said, you really shouldn’t spook him, he’s very skittish.”
“Let me go!” Lionel said again.
“Come on,” Hannah dragged Lionel back toward his house. “You’ll freeze to death if you stay out here naked, and you can’t have my coat.”
She dragged Lionel behind her as he hurled curses at her and Clint. The agent followed, looking a bit sheepish, which made the whole thing worthwhile.
Finally, they got Lionel back home. Hannah dragged him inside, and the agent came in as well and closed the door.
“Get dressed,” Clint said.
Lionel pointedly ignored him.
“I don’t think he has clothes,” Hannah said.
The house was depressingly sparse and dirty. There was one sofa in the living room in front of an old TV set. Hannah dragged Lionel there and sat him down. Then she took one of the sofa pillows and put it in Lionel’s lap, hiding his penis.
“There,” she said. “So you don’t embarrass Agent Ward. He’s very sensitive.”
“Yeah, sensitive my ass,” Lionel muttered, but he left the pillow on.
“Lionel, yesterday evening a little girl went missing in a park nearby,” Hannah said. “Your name came up in the investigation, because of your record.”
“I don' take little guhls,” Lionel said, looking at the floor.
“It would be helpful if anyone saw you yesterday evening,” Hannah said.
“Yeah?”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you run past Tony’s Cafe again?” Hannah asked. She glanced at Clint, who looked at her, his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah.”
“At what time?”
“About half past eight, I think,” Lionel mumbled.
“Okay, we’ll check that, Lionel. Stay out of trouble, okay?”
Lionel raised his eyes. “You’re not arresting me?” he asked.
Hannah grinned. “No harm done,” she said. She helped him up and removed the handcuffs, then left the house.
Clint followed her quietly, and they got in his car.
“So this guy is a regular streaker?” Clint asked.
“Yup.”
“So we can check if anyone complained about a naked man running by… Tony’s Cafe,” Clint said. “And then—”
“There will be no complaint,” Hannah said. “Lionel and Tony’s cafe are symbiotic.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The food at Tony’s is crap; the coffee is even worse. People go there because they know there’s a good chance they’ll see Lionel running past.”
Clint stared at her. “Seriously?”
Hannah nodded. “Hang on,” she said. She pulled out her phone and located Tony’s Cafe’s number, then dialed.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Detective Shor from the Glenmore Park Police Department. Is this Tony’s?”
“Yeah. What do you need, Detective?”
“Just a short question. Did Lionel Cole run past the cafe last night?”
There was a moment of silence.
Hannah rolled her eyes. “I’m not arresting him,” she said. “I just want to establish his alibi for a different case.”
“Oh, okay. Sure, he was here. Dashed past our front window, faster than the damn Road Runner, his dick bouncing all over the place. I seriously don’t know why it doesn’t fall off from the cold. It was practically purple. I mean… It’s freezing outside. Guy’s insane.”
“Good. At what time did you see him?”
“Well… can’t be sure… Oh, hang on. I was just using the cash register. It was a really funny order, four different people all ordering the spaghetti carbonara.”
“Oh, good, can you check?”
“Sure, I’ll check. It’s weird, you know? Four people, all ordering the carbonara? I mean… sometimes the entire table orders chocolate cake for dessert. That I can understand. But four people, all ordering carbonara? Don’t you think that’s weird?”
Hannah drummed on the dashboard with her fingers. “It’s very weird,” she said. “So when was—”
“Yeah, here, found it. They paid the tab at eight thirty-seven, and just then Cole came running past. Man, were they happy. Cheering and clapping like he was some kind of movie star.”
“I’m sure they were. Thank you.”
“No problem. Tell Cole I said hi.”
She hung up. “Okay,” she said to Clint. “Lionel Cole’s alibi holds up. Who do you think we should check out next?”
Clint grinned, exposing his perfect teeth again. “Tell you what,” he said. “I think we should buy some early lunch, and while we eat, you can go over the list and tell me who we should check out next.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Hannah said.
Chapter Six
Hannah and Clint drove to Red’s Pizza, not far from the police department. The waitress led them to a small, square table by the window. Hannah sat down, taking the menu from the waitress and setting it aside. She knew most of it by heart.
“What’s good to eat here?” Clint asked, scanning the menu.
“They make good pizza,” Hannah said, shrugging. “I’ve never tried the pasta. They have nice muffins, too, but I don’t know if that’s lunch material.”
“Hmmm. I’ll just have a pepperoni pizza.”
“Let’s order a large one,” she suggested. “It’s big enough for both of us.”
“Sounds great,” he said, putting down the menu.
“Wonderful. Can I have your pervert list, please?”
Clint rummaged in his briefcase. “If I had a dollar for every time a woman said that to me… there we go.” He handed Hannah the folder.
“Let’s see.” Hannah opened the folder. She scanned the list of names, printed on a page whose header read: FBI - Confidential. “Okay. Your number two is a real piece of work, definitely a pedophile, targets girls between the ages of ten and sixteen… but he’s seventy-four years old. I can’t see him chasing and grabbing a twelve-year-old girl in the dark.”
“Can I take your order?”
Hannah lifted her eyes to the waitress, a young girl wearing heavy makeup and sporting a blatant hickey on her neck.
“A large pepperoni pizza,” Clint said. “And soda water for me.”
“A Coke for me, please,” Hannah said, tearing her eyes off the girl’s neck.
The waitress nodded and walked away. Hannah cleared her throat and looked at the list again.
“You’re missing two names here,” she said.
“These are all the registered sex offenders in Glenmore Park who target children,” Clint said.
“Right, except we have two additional sexual offenders who have only been convicted on adult-related crimes, but are known to target young girls as well. Give me a pen.”
He handed her his pen. As she grabbed it, their fingers accidentally brushed. He was warm to the touch, his fingers surprisingly soft. She plucked the pen out of his hand and wrote two more names. Then she numbered the list carefully.
The waitress served them their drinks, and Hannah took a long sip from her cold Coke, relishing the taste of the sugary drink, then focused her attention on the page again. Finally, she put the folder and pen on the table and slid them back toward Clint. He took the folder and opened it, glancing at the contents, frowning.
“What?” Hannah asked.
“Just… trying to read your handwriting.”
“Do you have a problem with my handwriting?”
“Not at all! It’s very… artistic. Here, is this a C or a G?”
“It’s a P.”
“Of course it is. So you think our next stop should be… Mr. Arthur Patton.”
“Yeah. He just got out of jail after two years, he stalked girls online, convicted twice for sexual assault—and he’s in his thirties, so he’d have no problem catching up to a twelve-year-old girl.”
“But would he kidnap her?”
“Not likely,” Hannah said. “But there isn’t anyone here that I think would. We don’t even know that a sex offender kidnapped Abigail Lisman, especially since Gracie told us there were two men. The predators on this list have never given any indication that they like company.”
“Okay,” Clint said, nodding. “But we have to check.”
The waitress served the pizza to their table, and Hannah took a slice and bit into it, nearly burning her tongue. She puckered her mouth into an O-shape to let out the heat. She finally managed to swallow the bite and quickly took another one.
“Slow down, Detective,” Clint said, grinning. “We have a minute or two.”
“I’m starved,” she said, swallowing. “Chasing nude runners always makes me hungry.”
“You were fantastic over there, by the way,” Clint said. “I wouldn’t have thought you could jump over the wall like that.”
“Why not?” Hannah asked, lifting one eyebrow.
“Because uh…” he hesitated, clearly aware of the minefield he’d walked into. He took a bite from his slice, chewing slowly, as Hannah folded her arms and sat back. Finally, he swallowed. “Because of your hair,” he said. “I didn’t know people with brown hair could jump so high.”
Hannah burst out laughing. “Brown hair, huh?” she said. “So it wasn’t because I’m short?”
“Detective Shor, I’m appalled,” Clint said, holding a hand to his chest. “That’s heightism! To me, people of all heights can jump the same. I make no assumptions.”
“Okay, okay.” She shook her head. “You weren’t too bad yourself. You gave Lionel a run for his money, and he’s the United States streaker champion.”
“How does that work, exactly?” Clint asked, leaning forward. “Was there an actual race?”
“That’s what I was told,” Hannah said. “I wasn’t there, but it must’ve been quite a sight.”
“Did he get a medal?”
“I definitely hope so.”
“Is there a world championship?”
“You seem very intrigued with the subject,” Hannah said. “Why? Do you want to participate in the next race? It’s a very demanding sport.”
Clint grinned again. He smiled a lot, more than most people she knew. He had a happy, infectious smile, and it made her relax a bit. She had been tense ever since the day before, when Naamit had called her.
Thinking about Naamit made her feel guilty. Here she was, eating pizza, smiling, laughing, while Naamit went through hell, not knowing what was happening to her daughter. Hannah felt as if she should be doing something, but she could only follow the leads she had, and work as closely as she could with the FBI.
“What’s wrong?” Clint asked. “Your face went all puppy dog sad all of a sudden.”
She shrugged and shook her head. “Just thinking about the case,” she said. “I know the mother, and it’s getting to me.”
“It’s the kidnapping of a twelve-year-old girl,” Clint said softly. “Of course it gets to you.”
“Do you work on a lot of missing children cases?” Hannah asked.
Clint nodded. “Three in the past year. It feels like a lot.”
“I’m sure it does.”
“What about you?” Clint asked. “What do you usually do as a Glenmore Park detective?”
“Well… the Glenmore Park Detective Squad doesn’t have specialized detectives. So… drug dealers, prostitution, murder, theft… pretty much everything.”
“Do you like it? I mean your job, not the… prostitution and murder.”
“I mostly do,” Hannah said after a moment. “It sometimes gets a bit heavy to bear. I thought I’d grow thicker skin, and some days it feels like I did—but then something penetrates, and it stays with me.”
Clint nodded, his face solemn.
“This conversation is getting heavy,” Hannah muttered. “I liked it better when we were talking about the various pedophiles in the neighborhood.”
“Let’s change the subject then,” Clint said brightly. “How did you celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day?”
Hannah blinked in surprise at the topic change. “I don’t celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Because I’m Jewish.”
“Oh,” Clint paused for a moment. “So you did nothing that day?”
Hannah hesitated. “Not really. What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he shrugged. “I wanted to go to the parade; there’s a big one in Boston. But work got in the way. So you’re Jewish?”
“Yes,” she said.
“So you celebrate Jewish holidays like Rosh Hashana, and uh…” he looked lost for a second. “Yom Kippur?”
“Well, technically, you don’t really celebrate in Yom Kippur,” Hannah said. “You fast and pray.”
“Right. So do you?”
“No. I’m not very good with tradition. My dad is, though. He goes to the synagogue, and prays, and everything.” Her father’s beliefs had intensified shortly after divorcing Hannah’s mother, but she didn’t feel like sharing that particular point.
“That’s interesting.”
“Is it?” Hannah asked, her lip quirking upward.
“I think it is.” Clint shrugged.
“Are you religious?”
“No, not really.”
“Is your family religious?”
“Yes. Catholic. But I’m not.”
“Why not?”
“Because my brother died when he was six years old,” Clint said. “I was told God took him. And I called bullshit.”
“Oh,” Hannah said, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“How did he die?”
“An accident. He was riding his bike, and swerved into the road. No one knows why. The driver wasn’t at fault; he was driving within the speed limit. It was just one of those things.” Clint laced his fingers together, almost as if praying, and put his hands on the table. He stared at them. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “I was eight, and I was riding with him.” He raised his eyes and blinked. “I don’t talk about it often. Anyway, it happened long ago.”
Hannah had a sudden urge to grab his hands, squeeze them, tell him again how sorry she was.
“Let’s get going,” she said instead. “We have a pervert to interrogate.”
Bernard stepped into the empty squad room, his head throbbing. He had hardly slept the night before, and had spent the entire morning with an FBI agent who was more talkative than his Aunt Lorena. And it was hard to beat Aunt Lorena when it came to talking. Bernard finally told the agent he had some urgent paperwork to attend to, just to escape the torrent of words gushing against his weary brain. He shut his eyes, breathing in, enjoying the blissful silence of the squad room.
“Detective Gladwin.”
He sighed and turned around to see Agent Mancuso standing in the doorway to the squad room. “Hey, Agent,” he said. “Just came in to grab a”—he looked around at the desks, chairs and computers—“thing.”
“Can we talk for a moment?” she asked.
“Sure.”
She sat down in Mitchell Lonnie’s chair. Bernard sat in his own chair, rolling it closer to her.
“We’ve been questioning the personnel at Abigail Lisman’s school,” Mancuso said, “and we located a suspect.”
“Oh,” Bernard said. “That’s good. One of the teachers?”
“No,” Mancuso said. “I believe you’re acquainted with him. Jurg
en Adler.”
Bernard stared at Mancuso in shock. “There must be some mistake.”
Agent Mancuso raised one of her eyebrows. “Why? Don’t you know Jurgen Adler?”
“Of course I know Jurgen. What I meant was that he can’t be your main suspect.”
“Why not?”
“Because he would never kidnap a little girl.”
“Really?” Agent Mancuso took a beige folder out of her briefcase, opened it, and scanned the first page. “Wasn’t he suspected of bribery and tampering with evidence when you two were partners?”
“He was, but he wasn’t convicted, or even charged.”
“It also says here that there were some complaints against him—”
“They were dropped,” Bernard said. “Look, I know what you’re getting at. Jurgen Adler is far from perfect, but he’s no kidnapper.”
Agent Mancuso sighed and took three printed images out of the folder. She placed them in a row on Mitchell’s desk. Bernard looked at the images, feeling sick. A familiar blue Ford Fiesta appeared in all three of them. In one, Bernard could identify Abigail Lisman walking out of a building in a throng of teenagers. In another image he could see Jurgen Adler holding a camera out the driver’s side window.
“These are all images taken from the CCTV around the school,” Agent Mancuso said. “The pictures were taken on three different dates, all in the past six weeks.”
“Jurgen Adler is a private investigator,” Bernard said. “He mostly works on getting footage of couples cheating on each other. He’s probably following one of the teachers, trying to figure out if he or she is unfaithful.”
“Sounds like a stretch,” Agent Mancuso said.
Bernard shrugged. “I don’t know, stranger things have happened. And Jurgen’s no kidnapper. Look, take him in for questioning, and he’ll resolve it all in five minutes.”
“We are currently following him and tapping his phone,” Mancuso said. “We want to see if he leads us to the girl. If we take him in for questioning, his accomplices may disappear.”
“He doesn’t have any accomplices! You’re barking up the wrong tree, Agent.”
