Pocket-47 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller) (2 page)

Leitha,
You are so fucking mean. I can’t live with you anymore.
B

“Well,” I said, “she certainly knows how to get to the point. Sounds like you got yourself a runaway all right. Can you afford to hire a private investigator?”

“You look different with the glasses on. More intelligent or something,” Leitha said.

I took them off. “What do I look like now? A moron?”

“Come on, Mr. Colt. I mean Nicholas. You’re good looking and you know it.”

I kept chanting rule #3, the lust part. “You trying to butter me up?” I said.

“Is it working?”

“Maybe. The thing is, I can’t work for free. I wish I could, but I can’t. You didn’t answer my question. Can you afford a PI?”

“I talked to an agency in Jacksonville. They were going to charge me a hundred an hour. I can’t afford that. Plus, they said they could try to locate her, but that the police would have to actually pick her up. As I told you before, I don’t want that if there’s any way to avoid it. They gave me your name, said you could probably do it for less. They said you specialize in runaways.”

“What agency?”

“Brett Hershey and Associates.”

“Ah. Brett. All the beat cops call him ‘Candy Ass.’ Did you visit his fancy office downtown? That’s why Brett charges a hundred an hour. He’s right about the cops being the pickup guys, though. Most PIs won’t pick up a runaway.”

“Why not?”

“We really don’t have any authority to use force. Say I pick her up and she alleges abuse or something. Runaways don’t want to be caught. They’ll lie through their teeth to get revenge. You could sue me.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“If you want me to pick her up, I’ll need you to sign a contract giving me twenty-four hour custody rights.”

“Okay. How much are you going to charge?”

“So, Brett sent you down here to Hallows Cove, to me, the remainder bin, the clearance rack. You drove forty miles down here thinking you’d get a bargain, right? I like you, so I’m going to do something I never do. I’m going to give you a flat rate. Thousand bucks, win, lose, or draw. If it takes me two hours to find her and bring her home, I make five hundred an hour. If it takes me two weeks, I make twelve fifty an hour. If I haven’t found her after two weeks, we’ll renegotiate. Can you live with that?”

“What’s your hourly rate?”

“Hundred dollars.”

“But you don’t have a fancy downtown office.”

“Yeah, but I’m good. I have the right connections when I need them. Plus, I dedicate myself to one case at a time. Like Brett told you, I specialize in runaways.”

“I’ll take the flat rate, I guess.”

“Fine. Do you know where Mark Toohey lives?”

“Yes. It’s only a few blocks from our house. I went over there and talked to him, but he says he hasn’t seen Brittney.”

“Does he have a job?”

“He delivers pizza for the Domino’s in Springfield.”

“I’ll talk to him. What about school?”

“She was supposed to start tenth grade last week. Didn’t show up for any of her classes.”

“Friends? Anybody she might have gone to stay with?”

“She spends a lot of time on the computer. Facebook and all that. I really don’t know of any friends.”

Leitha dug in her purse and produced a plastic ID card. I looked it over. Stanton College Preparatory School. Blue eyes, sandy blond hair, 5′3″, 105 lbs. I knew a little bit about Stanton. It’s a public school, but you have to apply to get in.

“She must be smart,” I said.

“She’s very bright. She struggled for years with dyslexia, but seems to have it under control now. We were so excited last year when she got accepted to Stanton. I can’t believe she’s throwing it all away like this.”

“She drink or do drugs?”

“I’d kill her.”

“Medical problems? Any psych history?”

“She’s healthy. We’ve both been to counseling but, you know, she’s not crazy if that’s what you mean.”

“What about hobbies?”

“She reads a lot, and plays on the Internet. She swims. Oh, and there’s tennis. Her last foster parents were big into tennis. They gave Brittney lessons. She played on the JV team at Stanton last year.”

“How long did she live with the tennis people?”

“Almost two years.”

“Did she like them?”

“It’s a doctor and his wife. They were planning to adopt Brittney. They still pay for her tennis lessons. Every Saturday morning Doctor Spivey picks her up and takes her for her lesson. They usually have lunch, and then he brings her home.”

“But you said she didn’t come home after her lesson a week ago Saturday. I assume you’ve talked with the Spiveys.”

“Yes. Doctor Spivey said he dropped her at the house and waited to make sure she got inside. I was at work at the time. The
Spiveys are very worried about Brittney. They wanted to call the police, but I talked them out of it.”

Ordinarily, that would have raised a red flag. But I understood why Leitha didn’t want the police involved. She didn’t want Brittney forced back into foster care.

“Can you give me the Spiveys’ address and phone number?”

Leitha wrote it on the back of the paper Brittney had used for her note. The address was in Ponte Vedre. Rich people.

“I’ll talk to the Spiveys,” I said. “Who was giving her lessons?”

“A pro in Ponte Vedre named Kent Clark.”

“Kent Clark?” I laughed. “Like Superman, only backward. Any reason to believe she might have been involved with him? Other than the lessons, I mean.”

“I don’t think so. He’s old, like forty or something.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. “Does Brittney have any scars or tattoos? Piercings?”

“She wears earrings. That’s all.”

“She got a cell phone?”

“She’s on my plan. Here’s the bill from last month.”

I took the phone statement and put it with the note. “I want to get started right away,” I said. “I’ll need the money up front.”

Leitha wrote me a check. I wrote my cell phone number on the back of a business card and handed it to her. “As of today, my cell still works. I leave it turned off most of the time, so leave voice mail and I’ll get back to you. Call me right away if you hear from Brittney or if she comes home.”

Leitha nodded. She rose and offered her hand again, then moved toward the door.

“Will you be home later?” I said.

“I have to work tonight. Why?”

“I’d like to take a look at Brittney’s room.”

“I’ll be home from work around eight tomorrow morning, if you want to come then.”

“I’ll be there,” I said. “Any questions?”

“Just one. How—”

She hesitated, but her eyes and facial expression spoke volumes. I finished the thought for her. “How does a world-renowned blues guitarist with homes on both coasts end up as a PI working out of a camper? I ask myself the same question every day.”

She stepped out into the August heat, avoiding further eye contact. I stood in the doorway and watched her drive off in the Bic.

Bud barked and chased her a quarter mile down Lake Barkley Road. He finally stopped and sneezed a couple of times, from all the dust she had stirred.

After Leitha drove away, I shuffled through the pile of bills on my desk, putting them in severity-of-delinquency order.

My answering machine had one message on it, from yesterday before Ma Bell shut down my landline. It said, “Hey sweetie. Don’t forget to meet me for lunch at Lyon’s Den tomorrow. Love you.” It was from Juliet Dakila, my girlfriend. I’d saved the message so I wouldn’t forget our date.

I have an amazing memory, but I’m absentminded as hell. Juliet knows this about me, so I’m sure that’s why my cell phone rang shortly after I played the message.

“What’s wrong with your home phone?” Juliet asked.

“I was a little late paying the bill. I’ll get it turned back on today or tomorrow.”

“You need money?”

I skip-traced a guy one time who made his living sponging off girlfriends. Loser. I’d borrowed from Juliet before, always paid back every penny. Didn’t like to make a habit of it.

“I’m all right,” I said. “We still doing lunch today?”

“Of course. Among other things.”

“Other things like what?” I asked. I had a feeling I might be in for one of her famous shopping trips. Juliet would live at the mall if they let her. She has to stop at every store, look around, try ten things on, and finally remember what she really wants is on sale at Penney’s. Here’s my idea of shopping: You know you need something, some paint for example. You know the type, color, and quantity before you ever leave the house. You walk into the paint store,
tell them what you want, pay for it, leave. Shopping done. Juliet, on the other hand, will spend two hours picking out a pair of shoes. It’s not one of the things I love about her, and I don’t know why she ever asks me to tag along. I get grouchy after about ten minutes.

I was trying to think of excuses not to go shopping with her when she said, “You’re going to meet my mother today.”

“Sure,” I said. “We’ll just hop on a plane to the Philippines and—”

“No, silly. She’s here. I told you she was coming to stay with my sister for a while, remember? To help with the kids.”

“Oh, yeah. How could I forget that?” Joy. I suddenly wished for that shopping trip I’d been dreading only seconds earlier. Misery is always relative, and relatives are always misery.

“She flew in late last night,” Juliet said. “I haven’t even seen her myself yet. We’ll go over to Abby’s place right after lunch. Unless you have other plans.”

Juliet’s sister Abby didn’t have any kids until she turned thirty, and then started cranking them out once a year, sure as the first pitch in the World Series. She had three boys and one girl, and was pregnant with the fifth—another girl, according to the sonogram. I loved hanging around Abby’s house and playing with the kids sometimes, but the thought of meeting Juliet’s mom gave me an acid burn just below my heart. I’ve never been very good at meeting mothers.

“Actually,” I said, “I need to work on some research for—”

“This is my
mother
we’re talking about, Nicholas. No excuses, dude. You’re coming. Don’t worry, she’s very nice. She doesn’t know much English yet, so you won’t even have to talk to her a lot. Please say you’ll come. For me?”

“All right. I’ll come.” The things we do for love. Maybe Freud had it right. Perhaps all motivation stems from the desire to get laid.

“Awesome,” Juliet said. “See you at Lyon’s Den in a little while.”

It was just past ten, and we weren’t supposed to meet until noon, so I had time to do a couple of background checks on the
computer. I transferred my bass filets from the refrigerator to the freezer, crammed my bills into a drawer, sat down, and started with Mark Toohey.

Leitha was right about his age. Some things she probably didn’t know: Mark Toohey was born in Waterloo, Iowa, where he dropped out of school the day he turned sixteen. He’d had a variety of addresses since then, one being the state penitentiary in Starke, Florida. He served six months on a burglary charge, and still had four years of probation time left. His proud parents still lived in Iowa. I printed the data on him, including his current address and phone number, and that of his employer.

Nine times out of ten, when a young girl like Brittney Ryan has an older boyfriend, she is easy to find. Find the boyfriend, find the girl. I didn’t bother to call Toohey because, also nine times out of ten, the boyfriend will lie to protect the runaway. I planned to make a surprise visit to Mark Toohey’s place the next day, put this little job in the scrapbook.

I heard Bud barking, so I opened the hatch and let him inside. He danced around on my vinyl tile floor for a minute, gave my leg a hug, climbed on the couch and settled there with a smile on his face and his tongue out.

I ran Kent Clark, the tennis pro, next. He graduated from the University of Miami in 1986 with degrees in communications and physical education. He taught high school in Boca Raton until 1998, but his employment history was sketchy after that. He didn’t file a tax return in 2001, but did file for bankruptcy and a divorce.

I looked up the number and called Seminole High School in Boca Raton on my cell phone. After several rings, a lady with a nasally grandmother voice answered.

I introduced myself as principal Steven Gill from Hallows Cove Junior High. Gill was the principal when I went to school there thirty years ago, but I was counting on her not knowing that.

“I’m checking references on a Mr. Kent Clark,” I said. “His résumé says he taught down there from nineteen eighty-six to nineteen ninety-eight. Is that correct?”

“I’ll have to pull his file,” she said. “Can you hold?”

“Of course. Thank you.” I waited, started wondering how much collective time, the world over, is wasted on
hold
every day. Probably thousands of hours. Why couldn’t all that time be put to use somehow? What do most people do while they’re on hold? I guessed most people just sat there with the phone pressed against their heads, like I do. How many man-hours, man-
years,
are sucked into the abyss while waiting for people to come back to the phone? Someday I’m going to find out, and give everyone on hold something to do. Clip their toenails or something. I’ll probably win the Nobel Prize.

When she clicked back on, I detected some nervousness in her voice, a slight raise in pitch.

“Yes. He was employed here during those years. Anything else I can help you with today?”

“Can you tell me why he left?”

“By law, I really can’t give you any details, Mr. Gill. I’m sure you know that.”

“Right. May I speak with the principal?”

“You can, but it’s a different principal than when Mr. Clark was employed here. Do you want to speak with her?”

“No, that’s okay. Could you give me the name of the principal who was there the same years as Mr. Clark?”

“That would have been Mr. Tsirulnopolis.”

“Could you spell that for me?”

She spelled it. “Everyone called him Mr. T, because his name was so hard to pronounce.”

“Yeah. It’s all Greek to me. What was his first name?”