by Kit Frazier
I wasn’t sure how to start, so I decided to start with Faith. Clearing my throat, I pulled out the stack of pictures, less the photo of Tiffany.
“A girl named Faith Puckett has been missing for twenty-four hours,” I said. “She told me she worked here. I think she might be in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” the brunette asked, her voice edged with suspicion.
“I’m guessing you know about the trouble with her brother, Wylie Puckett,” I said, and they all nodded. I took a deep breath. “Her trailer burned down tonight, and Tiffany Parker was hurt in the fire.”
A collective gasp went up in the smoke-laden air.
“Is she okay? Her face?” a thin, silver-haired girl said, and I shook my head. A hush fell over the room.
“Have any of you seen Faith or know where she might be a friend or relative she might be staying with? A man she might have met here?”
The girls were silent, the air thick with shock.
“I have photos of people who turned out to search for her, and I was hoping y’all could take a look, see if there’s anybody you recognize…”
I had their attention now, and a tall, slender black woman with large eyes and a wide mouth accepted the stack of photos, stepping over a black feather boa in a pair of five-inch metallic heels that could have been registered as lethal weapons. She cleared a spot on her makeup table and laid the photos out. The other girls crowded around her.
They whispered together as they studied the shots.
“Look, Baby, it’s Josh!” a small girl with short, pink-streaked hair said, showing the black woman a photo of the farm boy.
“Her boyfriend, right?” I said.
The women flashed looks around to each other.
“We don’t want him in any trouble,” Baby said, and I shook my head.
“Nobody’s in trouble yet. I just want to find out where she is, make sure she’s okay.”
More nodding in the group, and Baby said, “Yeah. Josh. He doesn’t like her working here. He wants to marry her and get her away from all this glamour.”
A nervous giggle bubbled up from the group like Seven and Seven on the rocks. “He loves her,” Pink said. “He came in here one night all juiced on Jack Black, marched right up on the stage, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her out of here.”
A simultaneous sigh sifted through the circle. Apparently, knights in shining armor are hard to come by, even when you’re not wearing clothes.
I said, “You think he’s capable of kidnapping her?”
Pink looked at the photo sadly. “Not if she didn’t want to be. See, he’s takin’ over the family farm. Wants Faith to settle down, help plow fields and make babies.”
I nodded. “And that doesn’t sound like the high life to Faith?” She shrugged her bare shoulders. “Faith wants to sing.”
Baby shook her head. “No, darlin’. Faith wants to fly.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Pink said, looking carefully at the photos. “This guy,” she said, pointing into the crowd of searchers.
She narrowed her eyes. “The Beaver Retriever. Comes in here all the time,” Pink said.
“He’s the worst,” Baby agreed. “He thinks he got it goin” on. Thinks we do this shit “cause it’s just oh-so-much fun. Thinks he’s here to get a date.”
Pink nodded. “We got a strict no-touchin’ policy here, and he just grabs what he wants like he’s checkin’ produce down at the Super S.”
“Don’t tip for shit, either,” Baby said.
I looked down at the Beaver Retriever and into the face of Junior Hollis.
County sheriff, chief perv. A real renaissance man.
I thanked the girls and promised I’d let them know what I found out about Faith and Tiffany, and then I hurried through the staging area to get outside, where I could call Cantu and tell him what I’d found. Deke was walking me to the door when a familiar voice near the back stage called out.
I turned and was stunned to see Tres Ainsworth sitting in a booth with a dark-haired woman who appeared to be naked. He was nodding his head. His man-bob hair didn’t move.
Marlowe growled low in his throat.
“Excuse me,” I said to Deke. “I need to talk to this guy.”
“Uh-huh,” Deke said, like he’d seen something in my eyes, and he escorted me over and stood, legs braced, arms crossed, as I spoke with Tres.
“Well, if it isn’t Lois Lane! Come, sit, have a drink,” Tres said. Jovial. Just folks. Out having a big ol’ time with Daddy’s money and the company card.
“Your sister’s missing,” I said.
“What do you mean, missing?” he said, his usual bravado faltering. “Missing as in gone? You sure she’s not off with her boyfriend?”
“The one you smacked around at the Pier?”
Something cold flashed in his eyes, but it passed quickly. “You gotta look out for family, right? I’m all she’s got left.”
“Except her mother,” I noted.
Tres snorted. “You met her mother?”
I let the comment go. “Developing talent?” I said, looking at the girl.
“What?” he said, the vodka clouding his minimal brain. I stared at him.
“Oh, talent. For Incubus. Sure,” he said. “Lena here has a set of pipes you wouldn’t believe.”
She giggled. It was one of those high-pitched, nasally giggles that sounded like nails on chalkboard. Probably had a singing voice like a drilling rig.
“You know her trailer caught fire tonight?”
“Faith’s trailer?” he said, and there was so much vodka on his breath he could have fueled a flamethrower. “You’re kidding,” he said, setting his drink on table.
“If that’s kidding, then I’m not very good at it.” I pulled the pictures from my purse and laid them out on the table. He jerked back like he’d gotten a whiff of bad fish. Lena’s face crumbled beneath her makeup.
“And this,” I laid the picture of Tiffany on top of the pile, despite what Deke had said, “was Faith’s friend. She worked here and was caught in the fire.”
Tres’s breath came harder. Lena made a gagging sound and held her mouth. She jumped up from the table, breasts bouncing, and made a hasty exit.
Tres looked hard at the photo, his face unreadable, and something inside me wondered if he had the capacity to feel bad to feel the full force of how horrible this crime was.
I couldn’t believe he let his family live in that trailer and work in this club. Surely a brother even a stepbrother of means could at least lend a hand, if not a safety net. He stared at the photos. Too bad they haven’t invented scratch and sniff photography.
He shoved the photos away and took another hard drink.
I said, “There are searchers out looking for her tonight. By tomorrow morning, we’ll have more news crews out there and the foot searchers will be out in full force. Tonight, I’m trying to find out as much as I can so we can figure out where to search or if we should search at all.”
He was quiet. Deke stood at my side, big arms crossed, listening.
I gathered the pictures back into a stack.
“I didn’t know,” Tres said. “What do we do?” His pupils dilated to the size of manhole covers, and he seemed unsteady.
I shook my head. “I’m making a list of places she might go, people she might turn to. You think of anything, let me know.”
He nodded, his eyes tearing. “She’s had a hard life,” he said. “I…I’ve tried to help her. Set her up with a record deal, bought her mama a house where she could live…’
“You want to help, now’s your chance,” I said, turning to leave.
“I didn’t know,” Tres called after us. “I didn’t know!”
Lena was gone, and he sat there, alone, lights strobing off his skin in the dark.
“You think he knew?” Deke said, and I shrugged.
We walked back up the steps and out of the den of iniquity, past the receptionist and out into the moonlight.
I sucked in a breath of fresh air and turned to Deke. “How’d you know I write obituaries?”
Deke grinned. “Man came by earlier. Said to keep an eye out for you.”
“Would this man be a tall, dark FBI agent?” I said.
“Wasn’t that dark.”
I smiled as he walked Marlowe and me to the Jeep.
When we got to the Jeep, my heart slammed into my throat.
One of my kitchen knives was jammed into the driver’s seat, impaling a piece of paper.
In one deft motion, Deke whipped a snub-nose pistol out of the back of his jeans and scanned the parking lot.
I stared at the small square of paper. It was a Polaroid of me getting arrested at Faith’s. The knife was stabbed through the center of my heart.
Chapter Nineteen
Deke escorted me back into the club, where we called the police. When we went back to check my Jeep, Logan was leaning against a burned-out light pole in the dark parking lot. I expected Marlowe to do his usual overjoyed routine, but he joined Logan, searching the Jeep in a search pattern, serious as a heart attack.
Tres was gone, the searchers at Faith’s were calling in the second shift, and the crime geeks had taken photos and dusted for prints in and around my Jeep.
Deke had taken the lead cop into the club to look around.
I hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in a week, and it was beginning to catch up with me. The call of clean sheets was more than I could stand. “Anybody know where Hollis is?” I asked Logan as he flipped his cell shut.
He shook his head and reached down to scratch Marlowe’s ears. “Bugged out after the film crews left. Said he’d be back bright and early.”
“When Miranda and her minions are back?”
Logan nodded. He had something on his mind, but he wasn’t ready to spill.
“You find a link between this mess and El Patron?” I said.
“You mean other than the shooting on the courthouse steps and the trailers of two siblings burning to the ground?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t. Cauley, there’s a lot going on here, and I’m asking you not to go Annie Oakley on this. And as far as we know, Faith pulled a runaway bride.”
“But you don’t think so.”
He blew out some air. “No. I don’t think so.”
We stood, staring at my Jeep. “Come on,” he said. “I’m going to follow you home and check your house.”
The night air was stifling. The stars danced high in the dark sky, and tonight, they seemed far away.
Logan tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. I smiled, but it was a small smile. As much as I wanted him to sweep me in his arms and charge into my house, he would do as he said. Check the house, lock the doors, and get back to work.
This falling for a fed thing isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.
Logan was gone. Again. He’d checked the house, under beds and behind doors, and found nothing to fear but an angry calico.
I wrote a short blurb on the trailer fire and the search mission so the Sentinel would have the inside scoop. I called Tanner and left him a voice mail about what was going on and how I was going to be spending my Saturday.
Then I sent a stripped-down version of the facts to the local stations so the news crews would be there when we continued the search Saturday morning. Let them write their own blurbs.
On autopilot, I fed the cat, gave the dog half my ham sandwich, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and slid into bed, listening to the dry wind howl through the canyon. Muse sat at her usual perch on the headboard, waiting until the commotion died down.
As Marlowe and I had our evening territorial skirmish over the bed and who got more sheets, I wondered about Faith. I wondered where she was and if she was safe. And if she wanted to be found.
It didn’t matter. We would find her, and we’d figure out the rest from there.
The sun came up, announced by an angry pounding at the door. Tying the blue silk kimono Aunt Kat sent me when she tripped around Tokyo writing The Samurai and the Seductress, I swung open the door and found Ethan, cheeks flushed, loaded for bear. Behind him, a young cop who’d been watching my house stood scowling.
“It’s okay,” I said. “He belongs here.”
The cop shrugged and, still scowling, backed down the porch, watching Ethan all the way to his car.
“Why didn’t you call me?” E accused, standing on the front porch, waving a stack of printouts from the news briefs I’d filed only a few hours ago. Then he got a look at the kimono and almost swallowed his tongue.
“Oh, get over it, Ethan,” I said. “They’re just legs.”
The bright sun blazed over the horizon, burning holes into the backs of my retinas. Marlowe pranced around, doing the potty dance.
I growled. “Watch the dog. I’ll put on some tea.”
“I’m on potty patrol? Faith is missing and I’m watching a dog pee?”
“It builds character,” I said, scuffing into the kitchen. With a huff, Ethan stood back as the dog leapt off the porch to go pee on the Bobs’ rosemary bush.
Ethan and the dog bustled back in through the foyer and stood at the kitchen counter, waiting.
I pulled the tea off the stove before it was ready, jumbled some ice into two glasses, handed one to Ethan, and from the other took a good, long gulp. Because I’d been watching too many of Logan’s Westerns, I had to resist the urge to wipe my mouth on the back of my robe sleeve.
I’d never seen an angry geek before, and it was a sight to behold. Ethan stood at the kitchen counter, rangy arms crossed, foot tapping. His teeth were on edge, and his skinny chest was puffed out, shoulders back, fists clenched. I wondered if he’d been watching Logan’s Westerns, too. E was doing serious today: black tee shirt, black jeans, and black Converse tennis shoes, one of which was untied.
So this was why they called them code warriors.
“What’s with the scratches all over your face?” I said, and his hand rose to his cheek.
“Are you aware that big orange cat is from the pit of hell?” he said, and I smiled, rolling up my sleeve to show him the mark of the feline felon on my forearm.
“I can call Burt Buggess to come get him until Logan gets back,” I offered.
“The pet store guy?” He thought about it but shook his head. “I don’t want Faith to worry about him. That cat is the last link she’s got to her brother.”
I smiled and kissed his cheek. “You’re a good guy, E,” I said, and he turned red right up to his roots.
Grumping at all the morning commotion, Marlowe hopped up on the couch to join Muse, who was fully involved in her pre-morning snit. Nobody believed in beauty sleep more than Muse.
“You could have called me,” Ethan said.
I blew out a breath. “Ethan, there was nothing you could do. It’s an official search and rescue mission, and the Dawes County cops aren’t taking it too well. I was going to call you this morning and get a jump on things see what we could do.”
Ethan looked pointedly at his binary code watch. “It’s been morning for half an hour.”
“Technically,” I said, sucking in some more caffeine.
Ethan paced the length of the living room, with Marlowe watching him, head unmoving, almond eyes shifting.
Ethan turned to me suddenly. “What are we going to do?”
“Who’s we?” I said, but cringed as I heard a four-cylinder engine throw rocks in my driveway. “You called Mia?”
“You bet your sweet ass.”
My sweet ass?
“Ethan,” I said. “Have you been talking to Logan?” His cheeks colored a little. “Subscribed to Netflix.”
The cop in front of the house charged Mia and hustled to the door. “She’s okay,” I called out. He eyed her suspiciously but went back to his car.
I groaned as Mia crashed in through the front door, a woman on a mission. “What’s this I hear about you going
to Boners without me?” Her bright orange capri pants were so tight I was surprised she didn’t succumb to the vapors. Her bright, off-the-shoulder tropical print shirt made her look like she’d escaped from a pack of Skittles. It also made it hard to take her grim expression seriously.
I sighed, my eyes watering I was so tired. “Lapse in judgment,” I said.
Mia tapped the toe of her strappy orange sandal. I sighed again.
“Here’s what I know,” I said, and they both sat at the kitchen table as I told them about both of the trailer fires, Cantu’s call to Team Six, Hollis pulling jurisdiction over the search op, the brief but insightful stop at the strip club, and the creepy stalker photo of me stabbed through the heart.
“So why are we here? Shouldn’t we be on the search site?” Ethan asked.
“There’s a lot more to search and rescue than beating the bushes. We have to get information, and we have to get the word out,” I said.
“So, what do we do now, chica?” Mia said. “We need a list.”
Before I could utter another word, Ethan had his iPad out, entering in his own personal to-do list.
“Showoff,” I said, and went for my pen and little red notepad. “We need recent pictures of Faith, not the cleaned-up choir girl Hollis is showing around.”
Ethan said, “Done.”
Mia and I stared at him.
“What?” he said. “I made stills from the video this morning. It’s not like I’m stalking her or anything.”
“Or anything,” I said, shaking my head.
That said, I checked off “Find recent photo of Faith” off my own list.
“Maybe we should make a website,” Mia said.
“I’ll do it,” Ethan said.
I checked another item from my list. “We need to make flyers and get to the search scene before the News Boys get there,” I said.
“I’ll do that,” Mia said. “And then what?”
I thought about that. Despite my personal opinion of Hollis, he’d been at least partially right. We needed to establish a list of suspects. We also, however, needed to establish a list of connections and a list of people and places Faith may have turned to if she hadn’t met with foul play.
