Molly Brown (12 page)

Not so clever now.

Chapter Thirteen

“You did what?”

Connell leaned against the alley wall, phone pressed against one ear, watching from a safe distance as the fire department cleared up his mess. “I kind of blew up the car ...”

“Tommy, what did I tell you? You gotta get out of there before you run out of chances. You’re not a cat, you haven’t got nine lives.”

“Chill out, Marty, I wasn’t in it at the time.” He turned away, avoiding the accusing glare of the fire chief who hadn’t quite understood that the mess in the alley was a pretty good trade-off for a still standing apartment building.

“Have you broken the news to Gerry yet?”

Connell allowed a sly grin. “No, thought I’d save that for later.” He checked his watch; time was getting on and he still needed to pick up Molly. “I need to borrow your car, buddy.”

“No way. G
et a rental. You think I’d trust you with my car?”

“Marty, I’m the most trustworthy guy you know. Today has just been
... unlucky. And you know it started on such a high. I’ll meet you at the warehouse at seven-thirty and we’ll have ourselves a sniff around see if we can’t catch us a lowlife with a loose tongue.”

“And what are you going to be doing in the meantime?”

Connell smiled. “I’m going to see if I can catch me a kid who doesn’t say much at all.”

*  *  *

The library was almost closing when Connell slipped in, unseen by the librarian and the cat. Making his way to the basement, he didn’t expect to find Molly there, not yet anyway. He checked her lair, left a newly-purchased Happy Meal next to her stash of drawings, and settled himself in a nest of his own making, in a spot where he could keep watch without being seen by janitors or wary ten year olds.

When he’d finished his own Big Mac, he washed it down with coffee so strong it was guaran
teed to keep him awake and pulled out his notebook, scattering the contents on the floor where he sat. Reaching out, he picked up the nearest bookmark and carefully smoothed out the folded newspaper. It had been torn from one of the dailies and detailed a number of advertisements from what looked like a down market lonely hearts column.

He began to read about Mitzy who was looking for a well hung ma
le to make her dreams come true and realized with mild frustration that Mitzy’s vital statistics and box number had been left behind when the bookmark had been torn from the newspaper. No matter, he shrugged with a wry smile, he was more than happy to keep his assets solely for Lizzie. He checked his watch, wondered how long he’d have to wait before he could make her dreams come true and turned the paper over distractedly.

The headline on the reverse read
‘Traffic Officer Slain’ and beneath it lay an account of Officer Sheldon’s horrific demise. The guy had pulled over to write out a ticket and wham, no more Officer Sheldon. As it was the third killing with the same M.O., the hacks were having a field day with all manner of ideas discussed as to the killer’s identity. A good deal of criticism was being leveled at the Police Department for not getting their act together and the word ‘incompetence’ stood out with regard to the investigation and the press office releases. It seemed the Department was, quite naturally, reticent about discussing their impotence. The article took up a column and a half, and the bookmark had been carefully clipped so as not to miss a word.

Connell ignored the unease creeping over him as he reached out for another newspaper cutting. It was a coincidence, nothing more
, and he was seeing strangeness again where there was none. Molly had simply run out of card and used the next best thing. The fact that her nest was lined with cannibalized newspaper meant nothing.

The second one showed a segment of
an A-list celebrity. He recognized the Hollywood smile but the remainder of the photogenic features had obviously been left in the newspaper or on the cutting room floor. He turned the scrap of paper over slowly, knowing he would find another headline but hoping he wouldn’t.

Top of the column was a picture of Musgrave. It was a face Connell knew well, a smug expres
sion that affected him even now with a twisting gut. Musgrave had almost caused the deaths of Lizzie and Joe, and if he hadn’t already been gutted and left out for the crows, Connell would have been tempted to do the job himself. Even so, the account of his death made for a chilling read. The guy was discovered slumped in an empty stall, head against the pan, entrails smeared across the men’s room floor. The guards meant to be watching his every move maintained he had been out of their sight for less than five minutes. Connell doubted that and also reckoned some journalistic license had been applied to the article to make up for the lack of facts being offered by the press office. He knew how these things worked. Graphic details pertaining to the murder, and witness statements that might prejudice the case, would be unlikely to be offered up on a plate to the media. Yet that was exactly what sold newspapers.

Even more disturbing to Connell than the murders or
the media hype surrounding them, was the fact that this macabre collection of bookmarks was being amassed by a ten year old child.

He knew without looking that the other cuttings would confirm his suspicion, but he checked all the same. There were ten in all. The only one missing was Scott. His hand strayed to his chest and the burn hidden beneath his shirt. He wondered how many
columns he would have generated, might still generate, if he didn’t keep his wits about him.

Somebody was out there gutting cops for a very good reason. There had to be a connection other than the illegal activities being perpetrated by the victims. The only thread tying them together so far was a disturbed little girl with no friends, and despite everything he’d learned so far, there was
no way he’d buy into some pint-sized near-sighted kid running around with a  Bowie knife. The sooner Gerry came up with the goods on the victims, the better.

H
e checked his phone but it seemed no one was in a hurry to get in touch. He figured that might not be such a bad thing, bearing in mind the likely consequences of his misadventure with the car. He checked his watch, and with a resigned sigh sat back and waited: for Molly to appear, for Gerry to ring, for something to happen that would help him move the case forward.

Despite
being dosed up with coffee, the heat in the basement and the fact he’d had one hell of a day finally finished him off. His eyes drooped and his mind drifted. Falling asleep on the job certainly wasn’t recommended, so he counted himself lucky indeed when he woke with a start to find Molly, and not a knife wielding serial killer, seated before him.

She’d dragged out her coat and was sit
ting cross-legged upon it. She’d been there for some time, the empty Happy Meal box discarded by her side. She watched him unblinking through thick lenses, her hands clenched tightly together in her lap, clutching her latest work of art.

Connell blinked slowly, not sure whether
this was yet another apparition or whether maybe he was still sleeping.

“Hiya Molly,” he said softly, his voice still thick with sleep. He felt the need to clear his throat, but fearing it would startle her
, he swallowed instead. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Molly said nothing
but Connell noticed the slight tremor in her clenched hands. It transferred to the paper, causing the lion drawn upon it to shake its mane. The way she pulled at her bottom lip nervously reminded him of Lizzie.

He gestured to the empty burger carton. “You still hungry?”

She shook her head so slightly he might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching real close. Her face was dirty, as if she’d tried her best without soap or a mirror and she’d left an unmistakable tide-mark. Her hands seemed clean enough but her fingers were stained with marker pen. She clenched them further as he watched.

She was tiny, not much bigger than Joe, d
espite being four years older, undernourished, almost otherworldly in appearance, her skin pale, her hair bravely tangled into rough plaits without the assistance of a brush or indeed a mother’s gentle caress. Behind the shield of her intense scrutiny of him, there was an immense sadness that seemed to emanate from her. He felt it as clearly as if she had held out her hand to him.

He had to get her out,
had to get her someplace safe, where someone who cared could wrap her up and just hold her.  He’d never seen a child who looked quite so lost.

“You
want to get your things together, Molly?” he asked, thankful that his own things, the notebook and the scattered newspaper cuttings, had been gathered and tucked away safely before he’d fallen asleep. He checked his watch - it was almost seven. Damn, he’d have no time to take her to a place of safety and no way was he prepared to leave her behind, not now he’d finally found her, and certainly not after what he’d just read.

She continued to watch him hesitantly and he guessed he was asking a lot. She was a scared child and he’d just invaded the only safe place she had. To expect her to suddenly trust him, some guy she’d never met, was perhaps a step too far.

“You got a cool little place here, Molly,” he said as he gestured to the paraphernalia crammed into the small room. “My son, Joey, would sure like it here.” He reached slowly for his wallet, extracted Joe’s photo and held it out to her. “ ‘Course he’s only a little guy, probably wouldn’t understand how all this stuff works, but he’d think it was cool. You picked a good place to hang out, Molly.” He watched as she flicked her gaze to the photo and Joe’s cheeky toothless grin. His face was also pretty grubby, but that was less about the availability of soap and more about his avoidance of it.

“It’s time to move on now, Molly, to somewhere even better.” He replaced the photo,
pocketed his wallet and waited while she looked at her hands.

“Here
, let me help you.” He squatted in front of her, emptied out the discarded burger wrappers from the carry out carton and held out his hand for her pens. She shifted her gaze between his outstretched palm and his encouraging smile and then, as if she’d suddenly come to a decision, she scooped up her markers, avoided his hand and dropped them into the box.

Connell reached carefully past he
r and gathered up her drawings. Rolling them up one inside the other, he gently placed them into the box and stood.

She remai
ned seated, a tiny figure cross-legged on the floor watching him warily.

“Come on, kiddo,
” he said reaching out his hand, “it’s time to go.” He held his breath and wondered what she would do. He didn’t want to force her and didn’t want to have to carry her out kicking and screaming, but just as he was considering that it might well come to that, she scrambled to her feet, picked up her dusty coat and slipped her arms into the sleeves. The zip was broken, one pocket was ripped and hanging by a thread, and small as she was, her wrists stuck out from the sleeves. There were faded remnants of a sticker adhered to the material. Maybe Miss. Rogers had put it there long ago when life had still carried some hope for Molly. In faded script it said ‘Good job’. Connell swallowed the lump in his throat. When she slipped her small hand into his, he let out the breath he’d been holding.

He stooped, picked up the small pile of books she’d begun to diligently stack on the floor next to her nest
, and passed them to her. She gripped them tightly with one small arm as if she held a precious doll against her breast. Connell bit his tongue, wasn’t sure what to say and found himself immeasurably moved by her behavior, though he had no experience of children other than Joe and no idea of what to do to put things right.

He squeezed her hand gently
, and when she glanced up, he winked. “Come on then, kiddo. Let’s go see if we can fix things.”

After leading the way to the basement door, Connell drew back the bolts and was about to step out into the all
ey where he’d parked the rental when he felt her tug at his hand.

“Hey, it’s okay
, sweetheart. Don’t be scared. We’re just going to take a ride in the car.”

She shook her head determinedly, pulled her hand from his and stepped ahead of him, pausing on the step to scan the alley carefully. He watched her, this tiny scrap, as she stood between him and the unknown. She was fearful of the alley
; he could see it in her pale face, her wide eyes. She had seen something and it had scared her enough to think it might happen again.

He recalled the strange feeling he’d had the last time he’d stood out there, the feeling that something bad was afoot. Maybe she felt it too.
Or, more likely, she’d been witness to the murder of Detective Scott.

Oh God. T
he thought she may have watched as a man had his guts torn out made Connell’s stomach tighten. No wonder she was all screwed up. He took her hand again and crouched down in front of her so she had no option but to look at him.

“Molly, listen to me. I’m not going to pret
end that I know what’s going on because, to be honest, I’m just trying to work it all out. But hey, kiddo, I promise I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. You’re safe now with me. Nobody can hurt you.”