Nancy paused, then said, “I want you to know that you can trust me.”
“What do you mean?” the girl asked.
“I think I know your name. Is it Rachel?”
There was a sharp intake of breath. “How’d you know?”
Nancy told Rachel about Tony’s hunch and how they had checked out Billie’s apartment. She didn’t tell her what Detective Hawkins suspected about the Nighthawks and Kip DiFranco.
“We’re worried about you,” Nancy added. “You’re running away from something, and we’d like to help.”
Suddenly Rachel burst into tears. “You’re right. I am running away. But you can’t help. No one can,” she sobbed into the phone. “Because I know who murdered Paul Remer!”
Nancy hitched in her breath. “Rachel, if you witnessed the murder, the killer could be after you. Rachel—” Nancy pleaded.
But then she heard a click, followed by the humming of the dial tone.
Chapter
Six
I DON’T BELIEVE IT!” Nancy exclaimed, banging down the receiver. “I lost her again!”
“Did she say where she was?” George asked. She and Tony were watching Nancy closely.
“No. But we were right. She says she knows who murdered Paul.” Nancy picked up the phone again. “I’d better call B.D.” She dialed and was soon put through to the detective. Nancy told him all about Rachel’s call.
“I’m going to get a court order to have the phone company trace all the hotline calls. We should be able to do it by this afternoon,” B.D. told Nancy. “That way, if Rachel calls again, at least we’ll be able to figure out where she’s calling from. We know she hasn’t gone back to the apartment because I have an officer keeping an eye on it. Mrs. Thackett was interviewed, but she said she hasn’t seen Rachel in almost two weeks. And we still haven’t found Billie.”
Nancy talked to the detective for a few more minutes while George and Tony listened intently to Nancy’s end of the conversation.
“Well?” Tony prompted as soon as Nancy hung up.
“He’s worried, too. The police can’t find either Billie or Rachel. They did talk to Mrs. Thackett, Rachel’s mom. She said that Rachel left home almost two weeks ago after an argument, and she hasn’t seen her since. The police are going to ask the phone company to trace all incoming calls to the hotline.”
Tony frowned. “Wait a minute. I don’t like the sound of that. If our callers find out, they’ll quit calling.”
“The police are only interested in Rachel’s call,” Nancy explained. “They won’t be listening in to all hotline calls, just getting a report from the phone company that pinpoints where the calls were made from. If Rachel’s the key to cracking Paul’s murder, the police need to get her in protective custody.”
“Well, when you put it like that, it makes sense,” Tony said.
“But what’s really worrying B.D.,” Nancy said, “is that the police can’t find Kip DiFranco. It’s as if he just vanished. And the other gang members aren’t cooperating either.”
Tony frowned. “Do the police think Kip’s after Rachel?”
“I don’t know.” Nancy sighed.
Just then both phones rang, and for the next hour, George and Nancy were kept busy with callers. It was almost noon when Bess and Kyle came into the office. Tony had left at ten to run a therapy group.
“Ready for lunch?” Bess asked. Her arm was linked with Kyle’s. She was wearing a beret that matched the beige turtleneck sweater she had on under her coat. Nancy could tell she’d spent a lot of time on her hair and makeup.
“I don’t know if we’re dressed for it,” Nancy said, glancing down at her jeans.
Bess waved away her protest. “We’re just going to the Riverside. It’s casual dress for lunch.”
Nancy was telling Bess and Kyle everything that had happened that morning when Tony walked in carrying a clipboard. “Hey, Bess. Did you say something about joining my self-defense class?”
“Yes.” Bess’s face brightened.
Tony handed her the clipboard. “It starts this evening at seven. I’ve got three more slots.”
“Then sign me up, too,” Kyle said quickly. “Otherwise, I’ll never see you, Bess,” he added.
“Oh, good. It should be fun,” Bess said, signing her name to the list. Smiling, she handed the clipboard to Kyle.
“Hey, kids,” B.D. said, striding into the office. His hair was tousled, dark shadows circled his eyes, and he obviously hadn’t shaved.
“The tracer will be in place after two o’clock,” B.D. told the group. “The phone company will record the numbers of all hotline callers and when they called. On this end, the volunteers will have to note the exact time that Rachel calls again so we can match the time to the number. Then we’ll get an address from the phone company computer. Tony, you can be responsible for informing the other volunteers what they need to do.”
“Gotcha,” Tony said.
“Nancy,” B.D. said, motioning for her to follow him into the hall, “can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure,” Nancy said. Once they were in the hallway, she asked, “What’s up?”
“How’d you like to stick around and help me out?” he asked. “The precinct couldn’t spare another uniformed cop, and I need to interview as many kids as I can at the teen center, to find out who knew Paul Remer.”
Nancy nodded her head vigorously. “I’d love to. Just let me tell the guys I can’t join them for lunch.”
Twenty minutes later Nancy was standing in the doorway of the teen center’s recreation room. For a moment she studied the place. The room took up one side of the building’s first floor. In the middle, two boys played pool on a brand-new pool table with a brass plaque that read Donated by Henry Haroldson, Sr.
Beyond the pool table two girls played a video game, and along the right side of the room were a new TV, VCR, two sofas, chairs, and a pay phone. Several teens were watching a soap opera. Above one sofa, Mr. A had hung artwork done by kids from the center. Near the door where Nancy stood was a bulletin board filled with job listings and ads.
On the wall across from Nancy, three ceiling-high windows let the sunlight stream in. The whole effect was bright, cheery, and comfortable. Obviously, Mr. A had worked hard to make the center welcoming.
Nancy introduced herself to the two boys playing pool, while B.D. went over to interview the kids watching TV. They looked about twelve years old, and she wondered why they weren’t in school.
“No, man, we didn’t know Remer. We just saw him around,” the taller of the two said. He was shaking his head and frowning seriously. “The dude was always too busy to talk.”
Nancy had written down their names in her notebook. The taller one was called Mike.
Danny, the shorter, younger-looking one frowned, too, trying to look just as tough as his friend. “Remer wasn’t like Mr. A. That Mr. A, he’s cool. Always stops and asks us how we’re doing.”
Nancy raised one brow. “Do either of you know any members of the Nighthawks?”
Mike and Danny shot each other a furtive glance.
“Uh, no, man. We don’t,” Mike spoke for the two of them.
Nancy wasn’t sure they were telling the truth, but still she wrote down everything they said. Next, she went over to interview the girls.
“Nope, we didn’t know either him or his girlfriend.” Carisse, the blond one, shook her head until a slicked-back lock of hair fell over her forehead, partially covering one eye.
“Who was his girlfriend?” Nancy prodded.
“Some red-haired girl,” Tanya, the flashier of the two, replied. “Looked kind of snotty.” Leaning closer to Nancy, she lowered her voice. “But I do remember one thing; Remer and his girlfriend had a big fight yesterday morning.”
“A fight?”
“Yeah,” Tanya went on. “She must’ve been in his room on the third floor. I saw them coming down the stairs. She looked like she’d been crying, and he looked mad.”
“Nighthawks?” she whispered when the group went outside.
B.D. shook his head. “Motorcycle nuts.”
The two went back into the rec room, grabbed some crackers and soda from the vending machines, then sat down on the sofa farthest from the TV and compared notes.
When they were finished, B.D. rested his head on the back of the sofa. “Not much to go on.”
“Except you have to wonder what Paul and Rachel were arguing about the morning before he was murdered.” Suddenly Nancy snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute. Tanya said Rachel came down from Paul’s room. Maybe that’s where she’s hiding!”
“We already searched the place early this morning,” B.D. mumbled in a sleepy voice. “No one there.”
Nancy stood up. “Then you won’t mind if I look for myself, right?”
He opened one eye. “You never give up, do you, Drew?” Groaning, he stood up. “Let me check with Mr. Rosensteel.”
Nancy followed him into the hall. A few minutes later, Mr. A was leading the two of them up the flight of steps. Arnold Rosensteel was a short, thin middle-aged man. His glasses were perched on the top of his bald head, and he was wearily rubbing his eyes.
“Paul worked for his room. Plus I used donation money to pay for his classes at the college. And I lent him some money to buy an old car,” Mr. A said as they walked up to the third floor. “The deal worked out well for both of us. For years I’d been the only full-time employee at the center, and it was getting too much for me. Paul was a hard worker, and he kept his eye on the place.”
When they reached the third floor, Mr. A opened a door, then stood back. “His digs weren’t the Taj Mahal, but from what he told me, it was the first place he ever had that he could call his own. He had been living in an abandoned building.”
“That sounds right,” B.D. said. “Remer’s mother said she hadn’t seen her son in years.”
Nancy stepped through the doorway first. The third-floor room was about the size of the downstairs rec room. To the right of the doorway, in a corner with finished walls, was a cot, a bedside table, and a reading lamp. An open entryway led to a bathroom. The walls of the rest of the large room had been stripped to the framing and brick. There were stacks of lumber and plasterboard, and sawdust sprinkled the floor.
A quick search told Nancy that B.D. was right. There was no place for someone to hide.
“The bathroom is finished,” Mr. A pointed out. “The rest will take longer to complete because, well, funds have sort of dried up.”
B.D. walked over to the bedside table and leafed through several books. “Paul was studying accounting?”
“He decided to take business courses,” Mr. A said. “Paul had a good head for numbers.”
“So this is going to be the dorm,” Nancy said as she walked slowly past the bed.
Mr. A’s face broke into a bright smile. “Yes. Too many kids run away from home with no idea where they’re going or how rough it is on the streets. I hope the center will soon be a safe stop for them.”
With a frown of concentration, Nancy continued to study the room. Just then she spied scrape marks in the sawdust on the floor under the eaves. When she bent down and looked closer, she could just make out a partial footprint.
“B.D., did you stomp all over this place when you searched it?” Nancy asked.
“Not where you are. Why?” B.D. set down the book and walked over to where Nancy was crouching.
“Oh, it’s probably nothing, except it seems like an odd place to find a footprint.”
Mr. A came up beside B.D. “Not if Paul was working over here.”
Nancy ran her gaze up the wall that stopped where the eaves began. One brick sticking out about two feet up caught her eye. There were fresh scratches on the edges, and when she ran her fingers along the front, she realized the brick was loose.
“Hey, B.D.,” Nancy said over her shoulder, “hand me a screwdriver or something so I can pry this brick out of the wall.”
“What did you find?” he asked. Stooping next to her, he passed her a screwdriver.
“I don’t know, but from the scrape marks on this brick, I’d say someone worked pretty hard to get it out of the wall.” Nancy dug the end of the screwdriver into the loosest side, then used it like a lever until the brick moved enough so that she could pull it out.
Nancy peered into the hole left behind. An envelope had been pushed into it.
“Well, what do you know,” B.D. said. After putting on latex gloves, he reached inside and grabbed the envelope. Mr. A stepped closer, trying to get a better look. Nancy held her breath while B.D. lifted out the envelope and opened the unsealed flap.
His eyes grew wide as he looked inside. Slowly, he reached in with two fingers and withdrew a stack of money. On the top was a hundred-dollar bill.
Quickly, B.D. counted through the stack. “Whew. There are fifty hundred-dollar bills in here.” With raised brows, he looked over at Nancy, then up at Mr. A. “And I think when we figure out where this five thousand dollars came from, we may just find our murderer!”
Chapter
Seven
FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS!” Nancy repeated, her mind spinning.
Still holding the envelope, B.D. stood up and looked at Mr. Rosensteel. “Do you have any idea where it came from?”
The director shook his head.
After replacing the brick, Nancy stood up. She took one last glance around the room, then followed Mr. Rosensteel and B.D. toward the door. The detective had taken a plastic evidence bag from his jacket pocket. After slipping the envelope inside, he sealed the bag and labeled it.
“I’ll get the envelope checked for fingerprints,” the detective said. “Paul was arrested once and put on probation, so we have a record of his prints. His might not be the only prints on the envelope, but one way or another, we’re going to find out how he got hold of this much money.”
Mr. Rosensteel ran his hand over his bald head. “I can’t imagine he was doing anything illegal,” he said. “He really wanted to make something of himself.”
Suddenly the squeak of old wood flooring made Nancy whirl toward the door to the hall. Another squeak told her someone was coming up the steps.
Putting his finger to his lips, B.D. motioned Nancy and Mr. A over to the corner by the bathroom. He dropped the evidence bag on the bed and then flattened himself against the wall by the door.
From her hiding place in the corner, Nancy could hear footsteps moving slowly up the stairs, then across the creaking floorboards of the hallway. Suddenly B.D. twirled from his position against the wall and landed in the doorway face-to-face with a woman.
When she saw him, she raised both hands in the air and screamed shrilly. “Don’t hurt me! I’ll give you everything I have!”
“Hey, relax.” B.D. quickly pulled his police shield from his pocket. “River Heights Homicide Squad. Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Nancy stepped from the corner with Mr. A right behind her. The woman, who appeared to be in her late forties, was wearing a calf-length camel hair coat and carrying an alligator purse that matched her high heels. Leather gloves and a silk scarf completed her outfit. She was attractive, except for the angry expression on her face.
“The police!” The woman dropped her hands. “Do you mean to say my taxes pay for this kind of rude treatment?”
“Lady,” B.D. said in a stern voice, “please tell me who you are and what you are doing here.”
“My name is Helen Tremain Thackett, and I am looking for my daughter, Rachel.”
Mr. Rosensteel hurried forward, his hand extended. “I’m so sorry Detective Hawkins frightened you, Mrs. Thackett,” he apologized, his face bright red. “We weren’t expecting anyone up here.”
“B.D.,” Nancy whispered, coming to the detective’s side.
“I thought you interviewed Rachel’s mom.”
“Two other cops did,” he whispered back. Then he turned his attention to the older woman. “I apologize, too, but as you know there’s been a murder, so we’re being extra cautious. As Mr. Rosensteel said, we weren’t expecting anyone up here.”
“Hmmph.” Mrs. Thackett slid off her gloves and put them into her purse. “I looked for whoever is in charge downstairs, but there was only a mob of teenagers in dirty clothes who directed me up here. I figured if the police couldn’t find Rachel, then I had better do it.”
This time it was B.D.’s turn to bristle. “We’re doing everything we possibly can.”
“That’s true, Mrs. Thackett.” Holding out her hand, Nancy introduced herself, then added, “I’m the hotline volunteer who talked to Rachel.”
Mrs. Thackett’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she clasped Nancy’s hand in her own. “Oh, if only she hadn’t left home. If only she hadn’t come—here.” She shuddered as she looked around the room.
Abruptly, she dropped Nancy’s hand, and her eyes snapped angrily. “This is where that Paul stayed, isn’t it?” she asked Mr. Rosensteel.
He nodded. “Yes. He was—”
Stepping forward, she shook her finger in the director’s face. “I told Rachel that guy was no good,” she interrupted. “I told her if she lived down here, something terrible would happen. If people like you wouldn’t encourage kids to stay away from their homes, none of this would happen!”
Mr. A’s face reddened with anger. “Your daughter never lived here, Mrs. Thackett. Paul did.”
“Mrs. Thackett,” B.D. said in a calm voice before the woman could respond to Mr. A. The woman turned her icy gaze to the detective. “I thought you told the officers that you hadn’t seen or talked to your daughter since she left. If that’s true, then when did you warn her about Paul?”
Good question, Nancy thought. And from the flush creeping up Mrs. Thackett’s face, Nancy knew the woman realized she’d made a big mistake.
“Uh, um,” Mrs. Thackett stammered. She reached into her purse, pulled out a tissue, and dabbed at her cheeks and forehead. “I did talk to her once on the phone. I guess I forgot to tell the officers.”
Hotline to Danger Page 4
