by Keene, Susan
“Okay, Marsha, is there anything else you can tell me about Sasha? Do you have a current photo?”
She handed one across the desk. No ordinary eighteen-year-old here. There would be no problem picking her out in a crowd. On her face, there was a tattoo of a fairy. It began at her neck and ended just under her right eye. A tattoo of a red and black chain circled her neck as far as I could see. It put an unwanted label on an otherwise pretty, redheaded girl with flashing green eyes.
“Is Sasha an only child?”
“Yes, she’s the only family I have left. My husband, Matt, died when Sasha was five. I didn’t remarry.”
“So you raised Sasha alone?”
“Yes, and things went well until she reached high school. Suddenly, she didn’t want to fit in. She did everything in her power to make herself stand out. She started staying out all night and hanging out with kids who were already out of school. She put streaks in her hair, pierced places God didn’t mean for you to have holes, and got the tattoos you see in the picture. There are more on her arms. They are all fairies of one sort or the other. One is Tinkerbell.”
I tapped my pen on the notepad. “I see. How did Sasha pay for this body art? It doesn’t come cheap.”
“Her grandmother left her money for college. She said she didn’t intend to go and began spending it. I tried to stop her, but she turned eighteen at the beginning of her senior year. There was nothing I could do.”
“Okay. Don’t worry. We’ve been finding people for a long time. I have several ideas about where to find your daughter. You go home and try to get some rest. We’ll keep you updated until we find her. Marsha, I can probably force her to come home once, but the police are right. You can’t make her stay. Have your best argument ready when she comes through the door. It might be the only thing you can do.”
“Thanks, thank you very much. There is one other thing. What do you charge for your services?” she asked.
“We charge by the hour plus expenses. I don’t think there will be expenses, and it won’t take much time. Don’t worry about it. We can bill you and we have a payment plan. The important thing is to bring Sasha home. Amy will show you out. Try not to worry. Everything will be okay. I have a feeling Sasha is trying to spread her wings. With any luck we can clip them again.”
Amy left to show Mrs. Sloan out and came immediately back.
“I know,” she said, “find the tattoo parlor that specializes in fairies and knows guys who drive red Camaros. I’m on it.”
Amy never took her hand off the doorknob.
I smiled.
We worked well together.
CHAPTER 3
C ases like Marsha and Sasha Sloan’s paid the rent. Many cases came to us because of our Clayton address. Clayton was the county seat of St. Louis County. It was upscale and thought of as the best place to hire an attorney or a private investigator. We talked about hiring a full time receptionist but never got it done. Amy liked office work and her organizational skills were ten times better than mine were.
I had more things on my desk than in it and more clothes on the floor of my closet and the top of my dresser than hanging up or in the drawers. I always had several strands of unruly red hair that refused to stay in the scrunches I used to keep it out of my face.
Amy went to college in Southern Illinois, moved to Chicago, and went through the police academy there. She worked two years for the department, but never made detective. A young man she chased into an abandoned building, after a burglary, raped her. She quit the force and moved to St. Louis. She never left a stone unturned or a case unsolved. I was a fly by the seat-of-your-pants sort of gal. Together, we got the job done.
Amy came back to my office in record time with all the information we would need to track Sasha. Camaro boy turned out to be Camaro man. His name was Randy Davis, a twenty-one-year-old who had a petty criminal record a half-mile long. It would be easier to persuade the Sloan girl to go home when we pointed out her boyfriend preyed on young women. He surely would see the light when I offered to give his name to the police and suggested he began his relationship with the girl before she turned eighteen. I didn’t know for sure, but I had a hunch Sasha would be safely tucked in her own bed tonight.
My apprehension about and for Lizzy grew with each moment. At this point, I couldn’t do anything.
Amy was ready to work. “When do you want to start hunting Sasha down?”
I stood, opened my desk drawer and took out another ammunition clip for my Glock. I slipped it in my back pocket.
“After I go by Lizzy’s apartment and take a look around.”
“Want help?”
“Not right now? Where’s Digger?”
Amy’s dog, Digger, usually stayed right beside her. She and that Yorkie were inseparable.
“He’s at the groomers. I need to pick him up by five.”
“Okay, you get the dog, I’ll make a sweep of Lizzy’s, and then we’ll decide what to do from there.”
“Sounds good. Maybe we should head to Corner 17 before we go snake hunting. I hate to be so close and not eat there.”
“Great plan. When is Jake coming home?”
“Jeez, I forgot about him. He’ll be in about five. Mind if I bring him to dinner? He’s only here until Thursday. They have a break before they head for Tulsa for a best of five with the Drillers.”
“No, I love when Jake’s around.”
Jake Moore, baseball catcher extraordinaire. He played for the Springfield Cardinals and came to see Amy every chance he had. Amy never talked about love or commitment but Jake had been around longer than anyone else I knew. It had been over a year now.
Amy seemed to thrive in the relationship. He came home enough to satisfy her urges and stayed gone enough so she could work, cook, shop, and do all the things she wanted without having to answer to anyone.
When Michael was alive, we loved to be together--I didn’t need to start thinking about that now.
Amy and I walked out side by side and headed off in different directions. Lizzy lived off the Delmar Loop. I loved the Loop, a six-block area of vibrant shops, restaurants, and entertainment, actually in University City, which sat on the western edge of St. Louis.
Amy lived in a three-story brownstone on the Southside.
Lizzy’s apartment was bigger than most homes. It boasted a coveted bottom floor in Vanguard Crossing. I rang the bell, waited a reasonable amount of time, and then used my key to let myself in.
The place made me catch my breath each time I saw it. The walls in the living room displayed slightly different shades of green, getting lighter as it went around the room. An original Lizzy Smith painting hung on each wall. The walls in all three bedrooms held more of her paintings. Her room sighed sunshine and roses as I walked in. The second bedroom served as a studio and the third, a guest room.
The kitchen was big enough for a full size washer and dryer, an island, a breakfast booth, and a dining room near the patio door. I once counted forty people in there and it didn’t seem crowded.
The three full baths, one off each bedroom, screamed luxury. The place looked intact, clean, yet lived in.
I saw no sign of Lizzy. Her purse and car keys were not there and no light flashed on her answering machine. The cell phone charger lay on the dresser. Nothing looked out of place.
I sat at her desk and opened drawers. I didn’t find an appointment book, only a flyer for the new gallery showing which began in four days. I walked around and thought of Lizzy. We shared a room at Northwestern. I studied crime and the criminal mind. Lizzy studied color, sculpture, and the arts.
She loved art history and excelled in it. She said she always wanted to be able to walk into a museum and identify the period, the painting, and the artist. She had accomplished her goal, and so much more.
I considered Lizzy an old soul. She walked closed up. That was an odd thing to think, but I always felt she kept her hands too close to her body at all times, as if she didn’t want her body
exposed to the world. Even though her hair laid in perfect curls down the back of her neck, she checked it with her hand every couple of minutes, as if it might all of a sudden become a tangled mess and she would not realize it.
The only time she seemed relaxed and animated was when she sat at an easel to work. She painted with abandon.
My heart hurt at the thought of her in danger.
I flopped down on the couch and closed my eyes. I had the time to think about all the events of the day. I had the uncanny ability to recall each movement and sound that accompanied an event. All I needed was complete stillness and time. Today, neither of those things seemed to present themselves until now.
Within ten minutes, I had zoned into the events that began at three-fifteen a.m. I was at the point where Ryan walked me to my car when the doorbell rang.
I jumped two inches, stood and drew my gun. Someone turned the doorknob. They tried it. Had I locked the door behind me?
No.
I took several steps to my left so whoever came couldn’t see me. Someone stepped in, took a couple of tentative steps in my direction, and then called out in a familiar voice “Lizzy? Lizzy? Are you home?”
I holstered my weapon and walked toward the voice. “Ryan, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question?”
I sat down again, relieved and aggravated. “No, you couldn’t.”
“Why’s that?
“Because I’m a cop, and I have a key.”
“Kate, you’re not a cop anymore.”
“By my own choice. Stop avoiding the question. Why are you here?”
“I’m looking for Lizzy. After I saw you this morning, I stopped by the new show. I found out no one had seen Lizzy. The paintings are still in the warehouse.”
“You said you’d call. Did you go to the warehouse?”
He leaned against the arm of the couch. “I did call. I talked to Amy. The paintings are sitting by the door. They’re wrapped, numbered, and packed.”
“How did you get in the warehouse?”
“I donate the space to her and I used my passkey.”
“Humm.”
Ryan moved around to the front of the couch and sat down. “So where is she?”
“I haven’t a clue, but I called Roger and he is getting her cell phone records and any credit card transactions or bank withdrawals made since yesterday. In the morning, Amy and I’ll start a door to door here and near the Gallery. Until then, all we can do is worry and wait.”
“Would you like to wait and worry together over dinner?”
“Oh, my. I forgot, I’m supposed to meet Amy at Corner 17.” I looked at my watch. “Is there any way to delay the opening without saying Lizzy is missing? If she is in danger, I don’t want media attention just yet.”
“I agree. I’ll stage something at the gallery that has nothing to do with Lizzy but will cause a delay in opening.” He winked. “Leave it to me.”
“Thanks. You can join Amy, Jake, and me if you’d like.”
“Can I drive you?” he asked.
“No. Amy and I have a case we have to handle after dinner. I need my car.”
Ryan walked me to my car, opened the door, and ushered me in. “How long have you been driving this thing?”
I sighed. “You know, you ask that question every time you see it. It’s a BMW, I love it.”
“But it’s a 1978 BMW.”
“Dad gave it to me. I can’t bear to part with it.”
I grinned and he walked over to his shiny black Ford 150, four-by-four quad-cab and climbed in.
I followed him about nine blocks to the restaurant. Had we been on a looser schedule, it would have been a great evening for a walk.
Amy and Jake already ordered for them and me. It didn’t involve brain surgery. We always had the same thing, the house special with homemade noodles. My mouth watered.
Ryan flagged down the server and simply said, “One more.”
I didn’t think I’d be able to eat after the events of the day and worry over Lizzy. But what started out as a quiet reflective group turned into friends who ate and chatted about baseball and Lizzy.
Jake told us he had a chance to play a game in St. Louis while Yadier Molina recovered from an injury in Springfield. He tried not to make too much of it, but fidgeted and grinned while he told us. Seemed he would be in St. Louis about a week and would catch in a series against the As.
My phone beeped that I had a text. I read it once and then held my hand up for quiet. Everyone looked at me as I read it aloud.
Kate. Sorry I missed our meeting. Called out of town. Emergency. Should be back in a week or two. Sorry I worried you. Feed my cat.
In unison, we all said, “Lizzy doesn’t have a cat!”
CHAPTER 4
I texted Lizzy’s phone again, no reply. I called and left another voicemail.
Now, we knew more. Lizzy could write a message, had enough wherewithal to leave a clue, and whoever had her didn’t want this to go public. It wasn’t much, but more than we knew before. It was a start.
No one finished their dinner. Even Amy, who could always eat, spent the rest of her time moving food around her plate but never actually ate any.
We left after Ryan graciously paid the check. He said not to be alarmed when we read about the gallery. He didn’t actually say he would burn it down or anything, only that it wouldn’t open in the morning or the next few weeks as planned.
Jake and Ryan said they would be at the office in the morning to help us in our search for Lizzy. We didn’t turn down the help. I avoided looking at Ryan while Amy and Jake shared a kiss before he headed to her apartment. Amy and I left to find Sasha Sloan.
Amy said the fairy tattoos were distinctive to a parlor in the inner city, not somewhere I wanted to be after dark. I put my foot into it, and we sped in that direction. Digger went home with Jake.
When we pulled up in front of the tattoo parlor, Sasha was outside. She stood leaning against the red Camaro talking to some scuz-crud I assumed had been the one who picked her up from school.
I parked with my front bumper about six inches from his and my back bumper against a no parking sign. If he wanted out, he would have to back up. I tried to look big when I sashayed toward him. Amy walked to the back of their car. She ended up standing right behind the bad guy.
He watched her walk until I yelled, “Sasha Sloan?”
He forgot about Amy standing behind him and turned all of his attention on me. He hiked up his pants. “Who wants to know?”
The man’s voice sounded as if gravel grated against his teeth when he spoke. He took one cocky step toward me.
I opened my jacket so Mr. Davis could see my Glock. It was impressive--that size thing again.
“Are you a cop?” It was Sasha.
“Private. Your mother hired me to bring you home.”
“She can’t do that. I’m eighteen.”
I pointed to the rag-tag bum who was trying to look like a modern-day movie star. “How long have you known your friend here?”
He had enough gel in his hair hold up a blade of wilted grass and five, no six, gold chains around his neck. His billfold hung from a silver chain attached to a front belt loop. I could see a .22 revolver in his belt.
Sasha popped a piece of gum she was chewing. “About a year. What does that have to do with anything?”
Buddy-boy shifted his feet, moved his legs apart, and put his hands on his hips. I think he meant to intimidate me. It didn’t work. “Move on, little lady, we’re busy here.”
He reached for the gun in his belt.
Everything else happened fast. Amy walked forward as he reached for the gun and kicked him right between the legs. Sasha jumped down to go to his defense. I stepped in front of her.
Damn, I was a fifth degree black belt, and I wanted to show off a little. Amy took him down in one kick. I had to smile.
With my body between his and hers, I leaned down and, in my most stern v
oice, I told him the truth. “I know your name, and I know the kind of man you are. I hope this is the last time we ever see one another. If we do happen to meet again, it will be because I am testifying with my friend here at your trial for rape and who knows what else.”
He still held his manhood in both hands and writhed in pain.
I nudged him gently with my foot. “Do you get my drift?”
He couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe.
Amy took Sasha by the hand and put her in the back seat then slipped into the front and snapped her seat belt. I think the girl was in shock because she didn’t say another word.
Before I got in the car, I looked back at him. “And don’t ever call me LITTLE LADY.”
I drove to a safer neighborhood and stopped. “Sasha, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. What I do know is that your mom saved your life tonight. I don’t mean because that jerk would kill you. I mean because you can only lay and run with scum so long before you become scummy yourself.”
Sasha looked out the window and didn’t acknowledge me.
I got out of the car and opened her door so she had to listen. “Your mom is a one of a kind. She didn’t say as much, but I think she didn’t remarry because she thought you were so important, she would dedicate her youth to helping you grow up. I know nobody owes another person a damn thing, but we feel you owe your mother respect.
“That body art you have there is forever. Not so bad in the scheme of things. It’s common. However, going out looking for trouble is not cool. Are you in love with buddy-boy back there?”
She grunted a yes and looked toward Amy who had now turned around to face her.
“Well, here’s the deal. You’re going to go home, clean up, help your mother, and go to school somewhere, or get a job. If you do that for six months, and don’t go near that scum-bucket, I won’t have him arrested and brought up on charges. I can think of about six, off-hand, and that’s off the top of my head.”