Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel (10 page)

Somehow, as she’d watched him go through Darcy’s room, the offer had popped out in between answering his questions about items he found—none of which had provided a single additional clue, despite the thoroughness of his search. And he hadn’t hesitated to accept, using the same excuse as last night—that people might be more inclined to open up to a concerned sister than to him.

But after that moment in the kitchen, when he’d touched her hand, she suspected the reason was more personal than that.

Then again, that might be wishful thinking . . . just as their hope that Nikki’s brother might offer some helpful information had been. According to him, Darcy had rebuffed his offers of assistance with her geometry struggles, even though he’d pressed his name and phone number on her.

Too bad. He was a nice, wholesome, churchgoing kid—the very kind Darcy needed to befriend.

She was so lost in thought she almost bumped into Dev as he stopped beside a group of five overnight residents, pulling up short just in time.

“Hi, guys.” Dev drew her forward, keeping a protective hand on her arm. “We’re trying to find my friend’s sixteen-year-old sister, and we think she stayed here over the weekend. Were any of you around then?”

When a couple of the men nodded and mumbled their assent, Dev tugged the two photos of Darcy from her grasp and showed both of them. “Here’s what she looks like all dressed up and in everyday clothes.”

All of the men leaned forward. The two who’d said they’d stayed over the weekend shook their heads.

“Nah. Don’t recognize her.” A guy who appeared to be in his late thirties and dressed in ragtag clothes licked his lips, sending a shiver down Laura’s spine. “I’d a noticed her, though. She’s a looker.” He grinned, revealing teeth in desperate need of attention. Based on photos she’d seen of meth addicts while helping a library patron with a research project, this guy was into the drug big-time. She suppressed another shudder.

“The women mostly stay to themselves, over there.” A middle-aged man motioned to the other side of the room. “The staff here don’t like us to fraternize, you know?” He chuckled, but it morphed into a phlegmy cough.

“Never hurts to ask, though. Thanks.” As Dev started to pass the pictures back to her, a thin older man with long, stringy hair and a stench that almost made her reel ambled by. He glanced their way, stopped, and homed in on the shot of Darcy looking sixteen instead of twenty-six.

He reached out a trembling finger and touched the image. “Pretty, pretty, pretty.”

Laura tried not to recoil.

“Yes, she is.” Dev slipped in front of her, the photos still in his hand, and edged away from the man, keeping her behind him.

“She smiled at me. Nice smile.” The man took a step toward them, his attention riveted on the photo.

Dev stopped.

Pulse leaping, Laura moved out from behind him. “Did you see her here?”

The man bobbled his head. “Pretty, pretty, pretty. Smiled pretty too. At me, at me.”

The lanky guy with the bad teeth guffawed. “In your dreams, Balloon Man.”

Dev arched an eyebrow. “Balloon Man?”

“Yeah. That’s what everybody calls him down in Hopeville, where we usually hang out, ’cause he’s full of hot air. Loco, you know?” He lifted his hand and circled his index finger beside his ear. “Come on, Looney. Time to go to bed.” He took the man’s arm and spoke over his shoulder as he guided him toward a cot. “That’s short for Balloon Man. Cute, huh?”

“Pretty, pretty, pretty.” Balloon Man continued to chant the words—but this time he added two more. “Butterfly Girl.”

Laura’s heart stopped. Raced on.

Dev hadn’t missed the reference, either. He was already propelling her after the duo.

As the lanky guy sat Balloon Man down on a cot, Dev handed the photos back to her and addressed the younger guy. “What’s his real name?” He indicated the man who was continuing to mutter under his breath.

“He don’t answer to it no more, but I seen his ID. It’s John.”

“Thanks.”

“He don’t know nothin’. You’re wastin’ your time.”

“I’ve got all evening.”

The man shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

As he ambled back toward the tray of cookies, Dev dropped down to balance on the balls of his feet beside the older man. Laura followed his lead, photos in hand, taking shallow breaths to lessen the stench.

“John—my name’s Dev, and this is Laura, Butterfly Girl’s sister. We’re trying hard to find her and we thought you might be able to help us.”

“Little sister?” The man focused on her.

“That’s right. Butterfly Girl is sixteen.”

“Sweet sixteen, sweet sixteen. Sixteen going on seventeen.” He said the words in a singsong voice, his smile crinkling the skin at
the corners of his eyes and revealing several gaps once occupied by teeth.

“Did you talk to her, John?” Dev’s tone was steady but firm, keeping the older man on track.

“No, no, no.” He shook his head hard, then began to hum an off-key tune Laura didn’t recognize. He tilted his face toward the ceiling and his eyes lost focus.

“John.” Dev let three seconds pass. The humming continued. He tried again. “John, can you look at me?” He waved a hand in front of the man’s face.

John’s vacant eyes swung back to Dev and cleared slightly.

“Did anyone else talk to Butterfly Girl, John?” Dev’s words were slow and deliberate.

“Guitar Girl.”

Laura caught her breath. That fit with what the agent at the Greyhound station had said.

“Did you talk to her?”

“No, no, no! Not allowed, not allowed.” He waved a hand toward the other side of the room. “Girls there. Boys here. Like in school. Sister Mary Martha.” He rubbed one index finger back and forth over the other. “Bad boy. Bad boy.”

Laura watched Dev, wondering if he’d continue to press the rambling man, keep digging.

He did.

“Do you remember how many nights she was here, John?”

The man drifted again, his gaze wandering past Dev’s shoulder. “Cold night. Snow, snow, snow.”

Dev tried a different tack. “John—did you see her talk to anyone else?”

If the man heard him, he gave no indication. He began singing another tune, but she could only distinguish every other mumbled word. Something about dirt and grime and grease, plus a reference to a minute and a house. All she could clearly make out was the repetitive last line of his off-key ditty: Mr. Clean, Mr. Clean, Mr. Clean.

Taking her arm, Dev pulled her to her feet. “I don’t think we’re going to get anything else out of him.”

“I don’t either. You persisted a lot longer than I would have. But at least he confirmed she was here.”

“True.” He gestured toward an older man who was relinquishing his registration desk duty to another volunteer. “He’s the only one on the staff we haven’t talked to tonight. Let’s catch him while he’s on break.”

Once again, they wove through the cots, meeting up with the man as he arrived at the coffeepot.

While the volunteer filled a disposable cup, Dev introduced them and launched into the spiel Laura knew by heart at this point, concluding with the new information—that they had reason to believe Darcy had stayed at the shelter over the weekend. On cue, she passed the photos over, not expecting a lot when Dev asked the man if he’d seen or talked with the teen.

To her surprise, however, the volunteer—whose badge listed his name as Bill—studied the photos with more care than the others had, looking from one to the other.

“I have to say this one rings a bell.” He indicated the age-appropriate shot of Darcy. “There was a girl here on Sunday night that reminds me of her. She was more worn around the edges, though, and her hair was pulled back with a rubber band. Still”—he inspected the photo—“it might have been her. But I didn’t see her up close. I was on Monday morning cleanup duty and she was getting ready to leave when she caught my eye.”

“Did you happen to notice if anyone on the volunteer staff talked to her?”

“Yeah, that’s why I spotted her. I needed some help moving a table, and I waved at the guy who usually does registration desk duty. He and the girl were having a very serious conversation. I think his name is Mark, but I’m new here, so don’t hold me to that. And I don’t know anyone’s last name yet.”

“That’s more than we had before. You’ve been a big help.”

“I hope you find your sister.” Bill passed the photos back to her. “This is no place for a teenager—but it’s better than the street.”

“Thanks for your help.” Laura tucked the photos back in her purse. As the man moved off, she looked up at Dev. “How are you going to find this Mark guy—assuming that’s even his name? I thought the director of the shelter wouldn’t give you the names of the volunteers . . . first or last?”

He took her arm and guided her toward their coats. “He won’t. For now, we’ll go with what we have. I’ll ask him to contact anyone named Mark and pass my name and phone number along with a request to call. If that doesn’t work, there’s always pretexting.” He pulled her coat off the hook and held it up. “You ready to get out of here?”

“More than.”

She mulled over his answer as they climbed the steps and returned to his car, which once again needed to be cleaned off—though the snow had definitely diminished while they’d been in the shelter.

When he slid into the driver’s seat, she shifted toward him. “I’m curious. What’s pretexting?”

“Textbook definition? Digging for information using false or misleading pretenses.” He twisted the key in the ignition, put the car in gear, and pulled out.

“You mean like . . . lying?” She squirmed in her seat. Was Phoenix a little on the shady side after all?

“I prefer to think of it as pretending—the same thing undercover law enforcement operatives do. Is that a problem for you?” He spared her a quick look.

She suddenly felt foolish. “Not when you put it that way. From everything I’ve heard, undercover work is very risky. It’s hard to fault people who put their lives on the line every day to combat crime and keep the streets safe.”

“That’s what we do at Phoenix too. Except we take on cases that fall through the cracks of official law enforcement. And sometimes
the only way to catch the bad guys is to use their own tactics against them. Frankly, I don’t have any moral issue with that.”

He skirted some orange cones delineating an area of buckled pavement, where water company workers were toiling under bright lights amid a frozen sculpture garden.

“Must be a water main break.” Laura gave the crew a sympathetic scan as Dev maneuvered the Explorer past.

“Must be.” Dev accelerated. “If it helps put your mind at ease, in this case the pretext will be very simple and designed to do nothing more than reveal the name of the guy Darcy may have talked to. He might not know anything even if we find the right guy, but I think it’s worth tracking him down and having a conversation. We haven’t found anyone else who had contact with her.”

“I’m all for that—and watching the bus station.”

“On our agenda, starting tomorrow if the buses are running again.” He gestured ahead. “And my guess is they will be. The highway ramp is open. They must be making progress in clearing the roads.” He turned into the entrance lane. “Are you going to be at work?”

“Yes. I’m on days the rest of the week.”

“I assume your cell would be the best way to reach you?”

“Yes. I’ll keep it with me. My boss also said I can take time off if I need to.”

“I’m hoping we can wrap this up before I might have to ask you to do that.”

So was she. But as they headed west on the one lane of the highway that was open, she didn’t rely only on hope.

She also prayed.

Mark did a visual sweep of the room. As far as he could see, it was ready for its new occupant. The bed was made, a package of Oreos was on the shelf above the desk, toiletries were stocked in the small private bath/shower annex, and fresh towels were stacked on
the linen rack. The small refrigerator was filled with healthy beverages, a bowl of fruit rested on the table next to the wing chair and reading lamp, and the treadmill in the corner was in prime condition.

He just had to add one final touch.

Crossing the room, he unfurled the small banner. When he reached the far wall, he slid the stepladder from his shoulder, opened it, and pulled a roll of masking tape from his pocket. Then he climbed the three rungs and taped one end of the banner to his left, the other to his right. After descending, he folded up the ladder and backed off to view his handiwork.

Perfect.

With a final sweep of the room, he flipped off the light, shut the door, and moved to the other side of the basement, the ladder once again hooked on his shoulder. He had one more piece of business to take care of before he went to bed.

He stopped in front of the guitar, set the stepladder beside it, and expelled an annoyed breath. He should have gotten rid of it immediately, but being housebound by the blizzard had left only the dumpster in the back alley as an option. That had seemed too close to home—and too risky.

Having Darcy spot the stupid thing had been riskier, however. How could he have forgotten it was sitting in plain view? On the other hand, he hadn’t expected her to stick her nose in his basement. Fortunately, she’d bought his off-the-cuff explanation.