Light of Day (7 page)

“True. But I trust his eye.”

“He didn't take pictures of them, did he?” I asked, hopeful.

“No. If only it were that easy.”

“So what do you think is happening?”

“You know her, Gabby. I don't. Why do
you
think she'd be hanging around with a pimp?”

I fumbled for an explanation. “Bree might not know he's a pimp. Or—” I bit my lip, not wanting to say it. “She might be with him against her will. Maybe she was drugged.”

I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes, and hurried on. “Bree's from a good family. I just can't picture her running off with some pimp. It doesn't add up.”

“You saw her page. All those posts about love. Could be she's fallen for Milo. It's too soon to call this one, Gabby. We'll find her, but we have to do it right. Take it slow.”

“Slow?” It was the last thing I wanted to hear. “If it's actually her . . . she could be going through hell right now. He could be forcing her to turn tricks. Maybe if you could get a picture of this Milo guy, the press would circulate it.”

X shook his head. “It wouldn't help. Pimps are very mobile. We know for a fact that Milo has connections all over the country. If he smells the cops, he'll skip town. He could send Bree off to another city or trade her with another pimp. We'd probably never see her again.”

Send Bree away? Trade her off? My head was spinning. I reminded myself that we didn't know for sure that it was her. We didn't know anything for sure.

His expression was gentle. “You gotta keep it in perspective, Gabby. Bree is probably alive. If my guy hadn't spotted her with that pimp, we'd have no reason to believe that. More likely she'd be lying in an unmarked grave.”

I hoped X was right that she was alive—even if it meant she was with a pimp. But we needed to get her away from him as fast as possible. “What if this Milo decides to kill her because of all the press she's getting?”

“Milo won't kill her. She's worth too much to him, and
money's his bottom line. That's how pimps operate. Swans like her can pull in thousands a week for him.”

“Swans?”

“White girls. Especially the blondes. They're valuable. Milo will do everything he can to hold on to her.”

X took out his keys. But instead of moving, he looked me in the eye. “I heard you talk about Bree on your show. Heard what people are saying about her on the news. Everybody's painting a picture of this perfect little sweetheart. But nobody's really like that. Tell me something else about her. Something that isn't so sweet.”

It was a strange thing to ask. I thought about it. “A couple of weeks ago, her friends deliberately bumped my table in the cafeteria—they were just being idiots. When they were walking away, Bree looked back and mouthed that she was sorry. She's a nice girl, but she can be . . . kind of a sheep. She goes along with the crowd.”

I hated criticizing Bree. I even felt guilty that I'd been upset with her over the table-bumping incident. It wasn't her fault that Ellie and Karina had gone all
Mean Girls
on me.

X nodded and thanked me, as if what I said was actually helpful.

Before he could turn away, I caught his arm. “I want to help you find her. I could talk to her. No matter what situation she's in . . . I could help.”

He seemed to consider this. “Got a decent fake ID?”

I hesitated, reminding myself that he was a cop. But I was sure my fake ID was the last of his concerns. “Yeah, I've got one.”

“Good. You'll hear from me soon.”

“I BET ZOMBIES GOT BREE
O'CONNOR,”
Rory said the following Tuesday. “She could be huddled in an alley munching on some roadkill.”

The rest of us looked at one another in disgust. Zombie club or not, it wasn't acceptable to talk about Bree that way. As seriously as we pretended to take the zombie thing, it was mostly a joke. And Bree's disappearance was anything but.

I was about to tell Rory to shut it, but Alistair did it first. “Bree's off-limits.”

“But—”

“Off. Limits.”

Rory sighed. “Fine.”

“I think poor Bree was kidnapped,” Adriana said. “Somebody could've dragged her into a car and . . .” She didn't dare
fill in the blank. “Afterward, he could've dumped her somewhere. You hear about cases like that.”

I'd hoped, selfishly maybe, that the zombie club wouldn't talk about Bree today. I couldn't sit in class or walk through the hallway without hearing her name. Then my thoughts would go spinning out of control. Had she been lured in by that pimp? Was he keeping her by force? Was she suffering at this moment?

Everyone at school was upset, but I could tell that JC was especially shaken up. His usual laughter was gone, replaced by a sullen sadness. He'd grown up a block away from Bree, and they'd known each other since kindergarten. He drove past her house every day, and often crossed paths with her parents. Despite the way JC had treated me, I couldn't help but feel bad for him.

“I'm not so sure she was kidnapped,” Caro said. “My mom and I joined the search this weekend. There had to be two hundred of us out there. No one found anything. Not one little thing. If somebody grabbed her off the street, you'd think she might've dropped something.”

Rory snorted. “Yeah, and it's hard to picture her being grabbed off the street anywhere near Jeff's house. Coral Gables isn't exactly crime central.”

“A lot of people who get kidnapped go with the assailant willingly,” Alistair pointed out. “They accept a ride from a
stranger, get into a cab—or what they
think
is a cab.”

“We could do a séance,” Adriana said. “In case she's . . .” Once again, she wouldn't finish the sentence.

Nobody said anything.

Caro chewed her bottom lip. “I wish I'd known about this when I saw Miss Lisa.”

“Is she that psychic you were talking about?” Rory asked. “Sounds like the name of a kindergarten teacher.”

Caro ignored him. “I figure if Miss Lisa knows something, she'll contact the police. She's helped with investigations before.”

“By looking into her crystal ball?” Rory said, crossing his eyes like an idiot.

Adriana turned on him. “I don't get you. You believe in zombies, but you don't believe in psychics? That makes no sense.”

Rory put up his hands. “Don't shoot the messenger, baby. The zombie phenomenon is scientific fact. Just google ‘zombie virus' and you'll see.”

As they argued, something inside me stilled. I remembered the words Miss Lisa had said to me as I walked out.
Somebody needs your help.
I'd assumed that person was Maria. But now I realized it must have been Bree. It made perfect sense, and it explained the intensity of Miss Lisa's message.
If
she was legit. The jury was still out on that one.

Adriana was looking at me. “Did you research telecommunications during a zombie apocalypse?”

“Sorry, I didn't get to it. Should we head?”

We tossed our lunch bags and went up two floors to our lockers. My locker, formerly right next to JC's in the cool part of the grad hallway, was now next to Rory's. A cheerleader named Meagan had gladly switched with me in the first week of school. It was a win-win for her; she'd landed a locker in the cool section, and had spared herself from the funky odor emanating from Rory's locker.

We turned a corner and stopped in our tracks. Three cops, one principal, and a German shepherd. A row of lockers was wide open, and the dog was sticking his nose in each one before moving to the next.

The lockers belonged to JC and his friends.

A crowd of students had assembled, watching the spectacle. Liam grinned like it was all a joke.

A drug raid. Although the school admin threatened raids all the time, I'd never seen it happen until now. The timing probably wasn't a coincidence. The cops must know by now that people had been doing Blings at the party where Bree was last seen. Blings, from what I'd gathered, were a psychedelic drug, kind of like acid, that gave a wicked high, not to mention the occasional wild hallucination.

JC went pale when the dog barked in front of his locker.
We watched as the cops took everything out of it—every book, pencil, item of clothing. Then a cop unceremoniously dumped the contents of JC's backpack on the floor. JC's expression turned to disgust as the dog's wet nose burrowed in his stuff.

“Told you they're all drug fiends now,” Adriana murmured.

“They won't get caught,” Alistair said dismally. “They might be stupid enough to use, but they're not stupid enough to keep anything incriminating in their lockers.”

The dog gave a final sniff of JC's belongings, then bypassed the next locker. Three lockers down, he paused again to nose through Liam's stuff, his tail wagging madly.

Liam just laughed. When the dog finally moved on from his locker, he gave an exaggerated “Phewf!” and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“What a shame,” Alistair muttered.

Thursday afternoon, Olive and I were in the mailroom at WKTU. Unlike the fashionable lobby or lounge, the room was musty and crammed with old flyers and stacks of mail. The presence of mousetraps in every corner (thankfully empty, at the moment) didn't help.

Olive looked like a living doll in a white doily sundress and ballet flats. “I can't believe people still send letters. They're
such a pain to reply to.” Olive used a letter opener to pry one open. She scanned it. “Some old man doesn't want Caballero using the word
pissed
. Talk about having too much time on your hands.”

I frowned. “What's an old guy doing listening to WKTU, anyway?”

“Damned if I know. Some people need a cause.” She shrugged, her glossy side pigtails bouncing. “Should we recycle it?”

I was tempted, but I shook my head. “Put it in my pile. I'll answer it.”

My phone vibrated.

I glanced down, my heart skipping a beat. It was X.

If you still want to help me find Bree, meet me tonight at 9. Wear casual street clothes. I'll text you later with the location. No pressure to do this.

My pulse sped up. I answered:
I'm in.

Olive had a knowing look in her eyes.
“Somebody has a date,”
she sang.

“I wish.” I couldn't deny the thrill of receiving a text from X, but this was far from a date. “You know, I don't think I've ever been on a real date. With my ex, we never really dated. We just, sort of, got together.” I pondered that. “Maybe if
there'd been some sort of trial period, I'd have realized sooner that we were better off as friends.”

“Hindsight's great like that, isn't it?” Olive said wryly. “You're so right—most people don't even date anymore. It's hook up, hang out, then break up. What a shame. I like to make a guy work for it. Andrew takes me on a date once a week. I'm talking dinner and a movie, the whole shebang. And I make him pay.”

“Hey, with my cash flow, if a guy wants to pay, no argument here.”

“What can I say?” She grinned. “I'm an old-fashioned girl.”

At eight thirty that night, I stood in my bedroom, pulling on jeans, old sneakers, and a gray hoodie. I took a deep breath, staring into the mirror.

We're gonna find her.

We have to find her.

Downstairs, I zipped up my hoodie. “Going to a movie with Adriana and Caro,” I said to my parents on my way out. “Later.”

Traffic on the expressway was lighter than I expected, and I made it downtown in twenty minutes. I loved downtown Miami at night. The city lights were like glow sticks against the dark sky. It was a place of endless excitement and
possibility, where the party didn't start until half the city was already in bed.

The GPS guided me through a few turns, and before I knew it, I was heading up Flagler Street. It was a student ghetto where dive bars with flashing neon signs advertised two-for-one drinks, ladies' nights, and starving student specials.

Although I was a few minutes early, I figured I'd get out and look around. Across the street, a group of young people was hanging out. They were street kids, the kind with piercings in their cheeks, gauges in their ears, and crude tattoos across their knuckles. Several were sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk playing bongo drums. A street artist in a knit cap was drawing something while others gathered around him.

Pulling up my hood against the breeze, I tapped my feet to the rhythm of the drums. I'd only been standing there a couple of minutes when someone called from across the street. “Hey, Gabby! Over here!”

I scanned the area, then I did a double take. It was X. He was the street artist.

Seriously?

He was standing now, holding the sketch under his arm. In a long, beat-up cargo jacket, baggy jeans, and ratty old boots, he looked every bit the young street artist.

Holy shit. This must be his cover.

I hesitated only a beat before crossing the street to join him. I couldn't believe how at home he looked among the street kids, how he blended in perfectly. X held open his arms and hugged me, pulling me against his chest and whispering, “Just go with it.” As if I'd object. It felt so delicious to have those arms around me. When he released me, his blue eyes were twinkling. “Look what I drew.”

It was a black chalk drawing of a girl in a hoodie standing on a sidewalk. It was me. The picture was incredible, and yet he must've sketched it in two minutes flat.

“Holy, it's good.”

“Good enough for twenty bucks?” X said, and some of the others laughed. “Kidding.” He tucked the sketchbook into his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. “Let's get a drink, okay? There's a McDick's around the corner.”

He slipped an arm around my waist, said bye to the others, and we walked north on Flagler. When we were a short distance away, he said, “I thought you'd have seen me right away.”

“I saw you, but it didn't register. So this is your cover. You're a street artist.”

“Yeah. Best way to keep tabs is to be on the ground.”

“Your talent isn't fake, that's for sure.” I glanced at him. “Are you trained?”

“Self-trained. Does that count?”

“Well, if you ever need a second career . . . talent like that
could make you a shitload of money.”

He turned to me. “Who says art should have a price tag?”

“I do.” I smiled. “My aunt's Sarita Lima, a painter. You might've heard of her. If she didn't sell her paintings, she'd still be working in retail, and
that
would be a crime. She used to talk customers out of buying anything made in China, which was most of the inventory at her store.”

At McDonald's, we were met by the scent of fried food and the beeping of the registers. “Coffee?” he asked.

“Hot chocolate,” I said. “Or else I'll be up all night.”

“Coffee for me. I plan to be.”

We didn't have to wait long. X paid with three scrunched dollar bills, then we sat in an isolated corner.

“You must work crazy hours.” I sipped the hot chocolate.

He shrugged. “Night's when it all goes down.”

I couldn't help but study him, the way he held his cup, the way his blue eyes surveyed the place. X was a chameleon if I'd ever seen one. He looked as much at ease in the role of street artist as he had when I'd first seen him, dressed slick for a nightclub. But he looked younger now, nothing like the jaded cop he was.

“I spotted Bree last night,” X said.

I practically jumped out of my seat. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. And she was with him.”

My stomach dropped.
Him.
Milo. The pimp.

“I followed her until she got into a car. That's why I wanted you here tonight. She could be out again. If we spot her, a familiar face could help.”

“Definitely.” If Bree saw me, I had to believe she'd want to reach out, no matter what kind of situation she was in. But if Milo was with her, finding a way to talk to her could be next to impossible.

At X's cue, we carried our drinks outside. He simply said, “I'll take you to places where I think she could be.”

He knew the neighborhood well, that much was obvious. The places, the people. He said hello to even the shadiest-looking characters we passed, and gave several of them money from his pocket. I wondered if my instinct that he'd had a rough life was true. Maybe it had trained him for this sort of work.

“You're a pro out here,” I said.

“Just being myself, mostly.”

“Are you from Miami?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Coral Gables all the way.”

“Pretty sweet. So how'd you get the radio gig?”

I tried not to show my surprise. For once, he was asking about me. “I've always been interested in radio. Always been a talker. My parents would say I'm a loudmouth.” I glanced over at him, and we both smiled. My heart flipped over, because
how could it not when he looked at me like that?

“So last year, I visited WKTU and offered to help out, do whatever needed doing. Eventually I started recording little segments. I got DJ Caballero to listen to them, and he gave me a chance to go on the air.”

“Were you nervous the first time, knowing thousands of people were listening? Or does that stuff not faze you?”

“I was a freaking mess.” I shuddered at the memory. My stomach had been sick for days before—not that I'd admit to that particular detail. “My biggest fear was freezing up. If you have even a second or two of dead air, your audience is changing the station. I knew that Caballero was going out on a limb to let me go on, and if I screwed up, it was his audience I'd be losing.”