Book Read Free

Girl, 11

Page 21

by Amy Suiter Clarke


  Her best friend hadn’t answered the phone last night after everything happened. Knowing Sash probably didn’t want to see her, Elle had sent Martín to check on her, but even he got turned away by a police officer at her front door. Elle had sat up on the couch all night, alternating between sobbing and staring at the wall, hoping for a call that would let her know Natalie had been found.

  None came.

  Conversation rumbled inside Sash’s house, as though a meeting or a cocktail party was underway. A peek through the sliver between the window and the curtain indoors showed a room full of people wearing formal clothing and grim expressions. It looked like a wake.

  Raising her hand, Elle knocked on the front door. A moment later, someone answered—a young man with thick dark hair slicked in a cresting wave on top of his head. “Are you here for the prayer service?” he asked.

  Interesting. As far as Elle knew, Sash never put much stock in religion, but maybe she had started getting into it to support Natalie’s interest in the Bible. Of course, if there was ever a time to pray, it was now.

  Without a word, Elle nodded. The man gestured her inside, and she followed, unsettled at being led by a stranger into a house she knew so well. When they rounded the corner into the living room, Elle’s eyes widened at the sight of her best friend surrounded by at least twenty people. They all had their heads bowed, and one woman wearing a pink sweater was praying out loud, her left hand raised and extended toward Sash. The man who had answered the door grabbed a chair from the kitchen and set it down in a silent offer. Elle smiled at him and sat, joining the staggered circle.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Sash’s voice cut through the middle of the pink-sweater woman’s prayer. Everyone’s head seemed to lift and turn toward Elle in one fluid susurration of movement.

  “I . . . I came to see how you’re doing.”

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Elle flinched but did not look away from her friend’s burning gaze. She ignored the murmurs and awkward shifting of the other people around them. “I’m sorry for what happened, Sash.”

  “You’re sorry? My daughter called you. You were supposed to be there for her. You promised you would be there for her. But you were too busy investigating your stupid serial killer.” A bitter laugh bubbled from her lips. “In fact, you’re still too busy investigating him to do what’s best for Natalie.”

  This time, Elle did look away, staring at the green carpet with its worn pink flowers—left over from the previous owner. Natalie used to call it their “jungle floor” when she was little. Maybe Sash was right. Maybe she had let herself get sucked into this case, despite the years of preparation and practice it took to get here. If her obsession with finding TCK had caused Natalie harm, she would never forgive herself.

  “What do you want me to do?” Elle asked.

  Sash reached out to a woman sitting next to her, clasped her hand tightly, and looked at Elle. Her nostrils flared and tears welled up in her eyes. “I want you to find her. And I want you to bring her home to me like you promised you always would. Until then, I don’t want to see you.”

  Elle licked her lower lip and nodded, forcing down her own tears. Unable to think of anything else to say, she stood up and walked out of the room.

  Outside, the sun bounced off the snow with a blinding glare. Elle zipped her coat and looked up and down the street. She half expected to find officers searching for more clues, but they must have been satisfied there was nothing else to find. Slowly, she walked home, eyes on the icy ground as she went, just in case she saw something the others had missed. There was nothing of Natalie left behind, though—only grit and ice and salt.

  When she got to her front door, Elle put the key in and paused. She couldn’t face the idea of sitting in an empty house all day. Martín had gone to work, hoping to keep his mind occupied. All that awaited her inside was a studio full of notes and tasks she had no interest in sorting through.

  If she was going to fulfill her promise and bring Natalie home, her best bet was to work with Ayaan. If she could convince the commander her suspicions about TCK were a momentary lapse in judgment, brought on by fatigue and heightened emotions, maybe Ayaan would let her keep helping with the investigation. There must be something she could do, even if Ayaan wouldn’t allow her in the field. She’d do paperwork, review security camera footage—anything so long as it wasn’t sitting here in this house.

  Taking her key from the lock, she turned around and went to her car, grateful Ayaan had gotten one of the officers to drive it back from the station last night.

  The station was as hectic as Elle had ever seen it. Several officers milled around the kitchen, pouring cups of coffee and trading stories over a box of muffins. Probably from Ronny, the receptionist. His husband owned a bakery down the road. A few of them offered her a polite nod, one extending a paper plate with a pastry on it, which she waved away. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, but she wasn’t hungry. Sam Hyde stood by the sink, stirring milk into a cup of coffee, and his gaze was curious when he looked at her. She ducked her head, hating herself for looking like a dog with its tail between its legs.

  Through the glass walls of Ayaan’s office, Elle could see the commander leaned over a stack of papers. Ayaan raised her head when Elle knocked. For a moment, she just stared at her; then she tipped her chin to the side, a faint gesture to come in. Elle opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Elle, how can I help you?”

  Ayaan didn’t invite her to sit, so Elle stood behind the chair and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the cases. I know you have reservations about me right now, but I really think I can offer some insights as to who the kidnapper might be.”

  “Kidnappers.”

  Elle froze. “What?”

  “As far as we know, these are two separate incidents.”

  “Ayaan—”

  “The victimology is completely different. Amanda is a child of a dual-parent household. She went missing in the early morning performing her normal routine—waiting at the bus stop. The event was orchestrated so that her mother would be distracted at the precise time Amanda was taken, which shows careful planning. A witness saw the abductor, but whoever kidnapped her was obviously brave enough to do so anyway.”

  Elle clenched her fists.

  Ayaan continued. “Conversely, Natalie is from a single-parent home. She went missing late in the afternoon when doing something out of character that made her vulnerable—walking home alone. Nobody apparently saw or heard anything, which suggests she didn’t scream or make any loud noise. It was likely a crime of opportunity. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and someone took advantage of her vulnerability.”

  Elle shook her head, but Ayaan lifted her hand. “Elle, you’re blending your podcast investigation with these kidnappings, but there is just no evidence they’re connected. It’s understandable, though; I’ve gotten confused and seen connections between my own cases before. It happens. But Natalie is like your own child. There’s no way you could be involved in her case. I think it’s best if you take a step back for now. I spoke to the Jordans, and they have agreed. Sam’s caseload is light at the moment, so he is assisting me.”

  Somehow, the idea of Sam taking her place was an extra twist of the knife. Elle bit back her arguments and tried to force down the panic rising inside her. “But, Ayaan, I . . . I have to do something.”

  Ayaan’s eyes were wide, gleaming with pity as she said, “I know you want to help.”

  “I do.”

  “But you clearly have blinders on when it comes to TCK, and it stops you from thinking clearly. I can’t work with you anymore. I’m sorry; it’s too risky.”

  With that, the last bit of hope flickering inside Elle vanished, a burning wick drowned in hot wax.

  * * *

  While she was waiting at the elevator doors, a man’s voice called Elle’s na
me. She turned to see Sam walking toward her from the other side of the security doors, one hand out.

  “Hold up,” he said.

  The bell dinged, and she was tempted to just get on and leave. The last thing she needed was another rant about how she was an armchair detective who got in the way of real police work. But she paused with her hand on the open door, knowing he would just follow her downstairs if she fled.

  He came through the lobby and nodded at the elevator. “Can I ride with you?”

  She looked between him and the open doors, confused. Then she shrugged. “Sure, why not.” They got on together, and she pressed the button for the first floor before turning to face him, arms crossed. “What do you want?”

  He glanced away from her. It was the first time she’d ever seen him look anything but cocky and smug, and it was a disconcerting shift. “I know you’ve been working that kidnapping case with Ayaan, but I was just wondering if you had found anything further on Leo Toca. You know, about what he was going to give you on TCK.”

  She studied him, waiting for the punch line, but his expression didn’t change. He was actually asking. He must be really stuck. “I don’t know, I’ve been pretty busy doing my fake master’s degree and talking to all my fake witnesses while doing my job as a fake detective.”

  He crossed his arms. “Come on, give me a break.”

  “Why should I?” They arrived at the first floor and the doors opened. She stepped out into the building lobby. “You can’t suddenly decide you want my help after telling me to butt out of your case.”

  Sam scratched the back of his head, eyes flashing. “I’m sorry, okay? I just . . . I’m at a dead end right now. I’ve interviewed the people he worked with, looked into his phone records, even called his parents in Mexico. I went to Stillwater and tried to track down Luisa, but I didn’t have any luck. I’m not even sure who she was seeing there. Duane is still looking good for the murder, but I don’t like that I can’t find Leo’s ex. I’ve got a BOLO on her car, but so far no hits. Then Ayaan basically handed me the Amanda Jordan case because she’s treating it like a homicide, so I’ve been reviewing the notes and tips all night.”

  “Wait, what?” Elle’s stomach sank the way it did when she looked down from a tall building. “Did you say Ayaan is treating Amanda’s case like a homicide? Like, officially?”

  For a moment, Sam blinked at her. Then he swore and looked around, as if checking to see whether there were any witnesses. They were alone in the lobby, though. “I thought you knew. She’s been missing for four days, with no sign of life. There’s a very good chance she is dead. That’s why I’m assisting her now.”

  Elle shook her head, pushing down a wave of anger. It was understandable that Ayaan would hold information back from her, but it still felt like a betrayal. She had never been a part of this investigation, not really. Then she realized something. If Sam was following her, asking for help with his murder investigation, he probably didn’t know yet that Ayaan had removed her from the Jordan case. This might be her only chance to get some more details on its progress before he found out she was persona non grata at Minneapolis PD.

  “Were any of the tips from the composite sketch promising?” she asked.

  Sam let out a frustrated breath. “Not really. One person thought they saw a van matching the getaway vehicle’s description heading north on Snelling a few days ago, but that’s it. Now, can you help me with the Toca case or not?”

  “Not.” She thought for a moment, then her gaze flicked to Sam’s face. “Or maybe so. You know what’s on Snelling, don’t you?”

  He stared at her for a moment before his eyes lit up. “The auto shop. Let’s go.”

  “Me too?” she asked, trying not to sound excited.

  “You gonna wait until I change my mind?”

  “Nope.”

  While Sam drove, she scrolled through the news on her phone. All the local papers had an article about Natalie, although they barely gave her name a cursory mention. To everyone else, she was simply another young girl goes missing in the southern suburbs of Minneapolis. Elle blinked tears away, pushed her worry for Natalie into the dusty compartment in her mind she had developed when she worked at CPS. That was where she put all the rage and terror and pain until she could breathe again, focus again. It had been the only thing that made the job bearable. She knew Martín had one too—as did everyone who worked in jobs that dealt with the worst of humanity.

  At Simple Mechanic, Duane Grove stood outside in front of the massive garage door that looked like it could accommodate a semitruck. His bristled cheeks were flushed, and he had a scowl on his face when he saw Sam and Elle step out of the car. No smile necessary. Not customers.

  “Hiya, Duane,” Sam said, his tone chipper.

  “What are you doing here?” Duane looked back and forth between her and Sam. “Hey, aren’t you the lady who—”

  “Yeah, I’m the one who found you with Leo’s body.”

  His face reddened further. “Detective, me and my guys answered all your questions last week. You had our shop closed for almost a whole day, made us lose a few grand in business. I told y’all, I had nothing to do with his murder, and I don’t know who does.”

  “I’m not here about Leo.” Sam looked at Elle and then back at Duane. “We are here about a car. A van, actually.”

  Duane sighed with a little growl behind it, looked over his shoulder, and then gestured them toward the inside area attached to the garage. They followed him, and Elle relished the blast of heat as they entered his little fun-size office. There was barely enough space to walk around the desk, but Duane squeezed past with a practiced ease. Elle sat in the only other available chair, letting Sam watch the door.

  Plastic storage drawers and containers were stacked floor to ceiling against the wall to Elle’s right, so close one brushed her elbow when she set it on the armrest. The small patches of carpet she could see were gray with years of ground-in dirt and sand. Smudges of motor oil streaked the surface of the light brown desk where Duane rested his clenched hands.

  “All right, what’s this van?” Duane asked. He pulled his beanie off, rubbing a hand over his shaved head.

  “I’m working on a case,” Sam said. “We have a blue 2001 Dodge Ram 1500 van, no plates, fleeing the scene. Seen anything like that around here lately?” Sam took out his phone and showed it to Leo. Elle could see the same security footage she and Ayaan had reviewed a couple days ago on the screen.

  Pushing his lower lip out pensively, Duane shrugged. He barely glanced at the photo. “Do you mean, have I changed oil for a car like that lately? Probably. I see about thirty cars a day in here, sometimes more.”

  Sam laughed. “Oh, Duane, you might not be a murderer, but you and I both know you’re not a mechanic either. Or at least, that’s not all you are. I’ve looked into you the past week. Talked to some of your friends locked up in Hennepin County, and it seems like you run a pretty lucrative ‘car part repurposing’ business in here.”

  Duane’s expression did not change, but he said nothing to argue. Sam continued: “I might not be able to get you for Leo’s murder, but I’ve heard some interesting stories. Now, I’m happy to bring my findings to the Robbery Unit and see what they might have to say about it, or I could write your buddies off as jailhouse snitches that would say anything to get a deal. It’s really up to you.”

  After a moment, Duane licked across his teeth and jerked his head toward Elle. “Seriously, man, what the hell is she doing here?”

  Elle’s teeth came together as Sam said, “Never mind that. What can you tell me about this van?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Sam smiled. “I would like to know if anyone drove a blue 2001 Dodge Ram 1500 van into your shop in the last four days, and if they did, I would like you to take me to it right now.”

  Duane looked at Elle again, but she just glared back. He sighed. “Okay, yeah. Someone brought a van like that in here the other night.”
<
br />   “Which night?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t know? Like, three nights ago, I guess.”

  Elle jumped in. “Which night? Monday or Tuesday? Where is it?”

  “I don’t know! It’s . . . it’s not here anymore.”

  She slammed her hands down on the armrests and slid to the edge of the chair, ready to strangle him. “What do you mean, it’s not here anymore?” Then she paused, horrified. “You . . . you stripped it already, didn’t you?”

  Duane didn’t even have the sense to look ashamed. He jutted his chin out and crossed his arms. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “Arrest me?”

  “Not us.” Sam crossed his arms to match Duane’s. “We’ll let the Robbery Unit take care of that.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on.” Duane held up his hands, palms out. “I might not have the van anymore, but I can tell you who brought it in.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  Elle scoffed and cut her eyes to Sam. “And he’s not going to tell us without some kind of deal. Guess this is what we get, asking a sleaze-bag like him for help.”

  Duane shrugged, a cocky smile slicing through his ruddy face. “You know what they say: careful what you wish for.”

  “You know the guy who brought it in? You’re sure?” Elle asked.

  “Don’t even bother trying to lie your way out of this, either,” Sam cut in. “You’re not that hard to find if your lead ends up being a dud.”

  “Are you kidding? I’d never lie to a fine, upstanding detective.” Duane’s eyes flicked to Elle’s face and he gestured at her. “And the nosy armchair detective with a radio show.”

  Before Elle could respond, Duane continued. “That’s right, I knew I recognized your voice. Leo used to play your shit all the time in the shop. Fake, bleeding-heart crap. Maybe if you hadn’t gotten him all riled up, thinking he could play detective, he wouldn’t have gone and got himself killed. You’re no investigator; you’re just a cocky bitch with a microphone and nobody to tell you when to shut your mouth.”

 

‹ Prev