Blood and Roses

by Douglas Pratt

  We turned on Summer Avenue and drove over a viaduct that skirted traffic over a collection of warehouses. Now, we were in an area that never seems to sleep. People meandered the sidewalks, watching intently as the police cruiser drove past. When Rogers turned on Lester Street, my ears pricked up. The only things on Lester were three motels that had a reputation for renting rooms at hourly rates.

  Currently, the Island Motel, the Sunset Inn, and Siesta Motel were operating there. The names and owners changed regularly as the city cracked down on drugs and prostitution along the Summer strip.

  However, I hadn't ventured over to this area much, except to visit a taco truck a little farther east on Summer. The Taco Man made authentic tacos from just about any part of any animal. I prefer to assume that he sticks with chicken, cow, and pig, but there aren't many stray dogs running loose around his truck. Still, the tacos were delicious as long as too many questions weren't raised.

  The cruiser bounced up the drive of the Siesta Motel. The lot was filled with several police cars flashing blue lights, a crime scene van, and an ambulance. Rogers came to a stop, and Wilson let me out of the back.

  “Who died?” I asked again.

  “Come with me,” Wilson ordered as if my question wasn’t asked.

  While I followed him, my mind started through a list of people I knew that might have been killed in a seedy motel. My friends' list doesn't include many people like that anymore.

  A heavyset, balding African-American man approached us.

  “Detective Terry,” Wilson said, “this is Sawyer.”

  He gave Wilson an appreciative nod. “Mr. Sawyer, thank you for coming down here.”

  I shrugged as if it was no big deal. “Detective, what's going on here? I don't mind being cooperative, but I don't like being left in the dark.”

  “Fair enough” he started. “Can we begin with where you were last night?”

  “Sure, I was at a friend’s apartment all day yesterday and last night.”

  “This friend can confirm this?”

  I nodded. “Yes, now why don't you tell me why I am out here at this ungodly hour?”

  “Do you know a Nathan Clements?”

  My brow furrowed. It was a name I hadn't thought about in a long time.

  “Yes,” I said. “Well, I did. We went to college here together.”

  Terry asked, “When was the last time you spoke to Clements?”

  Shaking my head, I tried to remember before I answered, “At least ten years. Where is he?”

  “I'm afraid he was found dead here a few hours ago. Looks like an overdose of heroin.”

  “Heroin? That doesn’t sound like him.” I was confused. “I didn't think Nathan lived here.”

  Nathan and I met during my first year at college. He was a junior and in charge of the floor in the dorm where I lived. Nathan enjoyed a good party, and he was old enough to keep several of us stocked up with beer and cheap vodka. The two of us drank a lot of beer and Jager together until he graduated.

  The last time I recalled seeing him was one night, maybe ten years ago or more, at an informal reunion. We barely spoke more than a greeting that night, not for any reason except there were quite a handful of people to see.

  “Is there any reason why he called you last night?” Terry asked.

  I felt a confused look cross my face. “What?”

  “According to his cellular service, the last phone call he made was to you.”

  The missed call last night, I realized.

  “I never talked to him. I had a missed call from a number I didn't know. Not to mention, I was a little preoccupied.”

  “Why would he call you?” the detective asked.

  “I can't say. I didn't know he had my number. We really haven't spoken in over a decade.”

  Terry looked as if he were making a mental note.

  “Detective, why do I think you are treating this less like an overdose and more like a homicide?”

  “The room was wiped down except for Clements’ prints which were all over the syringe still sticking in his arm. He doesn't look like a user, either. I know, a lot of folks can OD their first time out, but it's unlikely.

  “If he hadn't been in the system from a public intoxication charge when he was 19, we wouldn't have an ID on him yet.”

  I listened, “No wallet?”

  “No nothing,” Terry said. “He must have used his last dollar to rent the room.”

  “Or someone took it when they left,” I commented.

  “This isn't exactly the hotel you visit alone.”

  “Or one that worries with such heavy cleaning.”

  Terry nodded. “I don't suppose Clements left you a voicemail.”

  I listed my shoulders. “I don't know. My phone is dead, and I never checked the voicemail.”

  “Do you mind if we take your phone and check it?”

  “I don't mind at all, if you have a warrant, that is.”

  Terry sighed.

  “What about the cameras?” I asked looking at two cameras mounted near the office.

  “Owner says they don't work.”

  “Convenient,” I said. “Probably no willing eyewitnesses either.”

  “No, Clements appeared to be the only guest.”

  “Detective, I don't know how I can actually help you. I haven't spoken to him in forever. Maybe he would've called to grab a beer but not to hang out in a hooker hotel.”

  “Guess not,” Terry said. “I will need the name and address of the friend you say you were with.”

  I recited Angela's name and address to him. “Can your boys give me a ride home?” I asked.

  Terry nodded, “Give me a couple of minutes.”

  Terry directed me out of the way. I lingered near the car that Rogers and Wilson had been using. They were not anywhere in sight. Several people that I assumed to be crime scene technicians were moving in and out of room 14.

  By now, the sky toward the east was on fire with hues of red, orange, and yellow as the sun rose. With only my thoughts to occupy me, I wondered about Nathan. He was in real estate or insurance, I think.

  Guilt. That’s what was washing over me. Not shock, I really didn’t know him enough to feel shocked. I felt some guilt that I didn’t really know what his life was like. There was some guilt that had I answered my phone last night, then maybe this would be different right now.

  I crouched down, as my center of gravity seemed to spiral out of control for a second. My hand touched the asphalt. The blacktop was still cool from the night, but the hot July sun would soon heat it to scorching temperatures.

  Inhaling deeply, I stood up, a little stronger once the wave of vertigo passed me. My gaze turned toward the open door of room 14.

  3

  It was another hour and a half before the two officers drove me back to the Preservation Building. The detective had someone put me back into the rear of the cruiser while I waited. Thankfully, the officers left the car running so that I didn’t stew in the lot. The time was spent watching as the police milled around the motel. I was tired, hungry, and growing irritable. Not to mention developing a hell of a hangover. Detective Terry dragged me out here for something that had to do with more than just a missed call.

  Curiosity was always my downfall. Now, I wondered exactly what his motive was. Questions just kept popping up in my head as I waited.

  When the officers finally dropped me at the curb in front of the Preservation, I told myself I should go inside, grab a glass of milk, and crash in the bed. I hated mornings. In fact, if I could get up around noon every day, I’d be a much more enjoyable individual. Of course, if I didn’t stay out cavorting all night, then mornings might come a little easier. I’d rather not chance it though. Some things are worth the sacrifice.

  Despite the fact that I knew I needed rest, I came into the condo feeling like sleep was far from happening. Leo snored on the couch. I walked lightly into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee.

  While the coffe
e maker gurgled, I plugged my phone into the charger. It powered up slowly, and the battery icon flashed with a small lightning bolt. There was no voice mail notification. Nathan left no message.

  I opened up the Facebook app, something I don't use much. I’m not opposed to it like some people; I just don’t do much with it.

  Three new friend requests appeared. Ignoring them, I typed Nathan’s name into the search bar. His profile appeared at the top of the page.

  Once his tiny face blew up to engulf my phone screen, I started scrolling through his timeline. A post at the top, dated over a year earlier, showed a smiling young blond girl with blue eyes and freckles that were beginning to fade with maturity. She looked to be 12 or 13. However, guessing kids’ ages was never a strong talent of mine. I could tell she was over ten and probably under 16.

  A long paragraph under the picture only helped to add to the mystery. Nathan begged for help in his post. His daughter, Naomi, was missing. The picture must have been the most recent picture of Naomi. She had been dropped off at a mall to see a movie with friends on a Friday. She met her friends, but after the movie, they were separated. Naomi hasn’t been seen since then.

  The post continued expressing how much she was loved and missed, and while her family did not think she had run away, they begged her to return to them.

  I scrolled through the nearly 3000 comments. Most were offering prayers for a safe return. A few were brazen enough to scold the parents for letting their daughter go to the mall alone. None seemed to offer any clues to Naomi’s whereabouts. The most recent comment, offering up thoughts and prayers, was only a few days ago.

  The coffee maker hissed as the last bit of steam escaped the pot. Pouring a cup, I stared at the picture of Naomi. I couldn’t imagine what Nathan and his wife had felt. It had been over a year. How long does hope last like that? What happens when you lose that hope?

  I searched through his list of friends. Several of his were noted as mutual friends of mine, old college classmates. I didn’t know who his wife was. Never met her. I didn’t even know if he was married. The fact was I didn’t know him at all. The man on the screen was a stranger. Neither of us were the same people we had been sitting on the third floor of our dorm doing shots of vodka from Taco Bell cups. The man on the screen had a daughter and lost her.

  A chill ran up my spine. A man who lost that much might be inclined to do anything.

  So, why did he call me?

  Typing in the search bar, I wanted to try a different angle. I searched for Naomi Clements. A slew of posts appeared. Several were friends posting about how much they missed her and how they prayed that she was safe. Nathan’s post came up near the top; however, the first post was from Alison Darby. Alison appeared to be Nathan’s wife, or rather his ex-wife. The post was another tearful plea for her daughter to come home. Alison rehashed the same details as Nathan, adding only that she had a text from Naomi asking her to pick her up a little later. She ended by asking for anyone with information to call a number for an organization helping missing and endangered teens.

  Privacy has become a thing of the past. There is no hiding who a person is, for the most part. Social media has made researching an individual simple. With two clicks of the mouse, I knew that Alison lived in Cincinnati and had a veterinarian practice with three other doctors. She posted almost every day about her daughter. Her last post was on Thursday at 11:25 p.m. It simply read, “Hope.” Many comments begging for information, but Alison didn’t respond to any of them.

  Had Alison heard about Nathan yet? The different last names seemed pretty indicative that the two weren’t married. Divorced? Maybe co-parents.

  Looking through my contacts, I found the number of Alex Melton. Alex was one of the other resident advisers in our dorm. He was an accountant in Nashville. The firm he worked for had a branch in Memphis, and we met for dinner whenever he was in town. Nathan had been his roommate in college. I was hoping that he was closer to Nathan than I was. Maybe he could bring some more information.

  The phone started ringing.

  A voice on the line answered. “Hello.”

  “Alex, this is Max.”

  “Max,” Alex said, “how's it going?”

  “Not so great this morning,” I started. “Alex, I have some bad news. Nathan Clements died last night.”

  Alex cursed into my ear. “What happened?”

  I gave Alex the facts I knew.

  “He called you last night?” he asked.

  “Yes, I'm sick that I missed his call. I could have helped him.” I added, “I didn’t recognize his number.”

  “Listen, Max. That's not your fault,” he tried to assure me. “You couldn’t have known.”

  “Have you talked to Nathan lately?” I asked. “Did you give him my number?”

  “Man, no. We haven’t talked in a while,” Alex explained. “His daughter went missing last year. Kidnapped or something. Nathan has been obsessed with it.”

  “That's understandable. What about his wife? Do you know her?”

  “Alison? Yeah, I went to their wedding,” he said. “I didn’t know her well though, and now they're divorced.”

  “Do you have a number for her?” I asked. “I want to give her a call.”

  “Yeah,” Alex said, “she should hear it from someone who knew him.”

  He gave me her number. “Max, are you going to do something?”

  If Alex could see me, he might have noticed the imperceptible shrug. I wanted to go lie down and sleep till late this afternoon.

  “Honestly, I just feel terrible that I missed his call.”

  “But you don’t let things alone,” he said. “Might be why Nathan tried to call you.”

  “He might have just gone off the deep end. Losing a child can do that to a person.”

  “Just be careful. I know you. If you find out anything, let me know.”

  “Thanks. As soon as I know anything.”

  Alex said, “This needs to be a wake-up call for us. Life is short. We haven’t gotten together as a group in…I don’t know how long. We need to remedy that.”

  After agreeing with him and assuring him that I would stay in touch, I hung up. The blue eyes of Naomi Clements stared at me from the screen of my phone. I considered how much I hated coincidences. They do happen, but they are rare. Never to be trusted. When I first started out as a journalist, a mentor of mine advised me to never believe in coincidences. He said that everything is generally connected. There’s always a cause to the effect. Consequences to some action. Start with the consequence and work to the action. Coincidences are like the answers in the back of a math book. One just needs to figure out how it works out.

  “Coffee?” Leo said behind me, startling me.

  He stood in the kitchen, wearing his Donald Duck boxers with hair pointing in every direction.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Grab a cup. Maybe put some pants on too.”

  Ignoring my pants comment, he said, “The cops didn’t keep you, huh?”

  I shook my head.

  “What’s up then?” he asked.

  “A college friend died last night. Apparent overdose.”

  Leo curled his lip as he poured a cup of coffee. He proceeded to add six teaspoons of sugar to the cup.

  “Apparent?” he questioned. “I’m guessing a bit more if they rousted you in the morning.”

  “His last phone call was to me. I missed it last night.”

  “Damn,” he breathed out as he blew the steam from his cup. “Not your fault, you know.”

  “Yeah,” I said, half-heartedly.

  Leo rolled his eyes and took a sip. “Were you close?”

  Shaking my head slightly, I explained, “I haven’t talked to him in years. Even then it was just a brief hello.”

  Nodding quietly, Leo continued to drink his coffee.

  “He lives…lived in Cincinnati. Last year, his daughter went missing. Probably kidnapped.”

  His brow furrowed. “Where was he?”
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  “A motel off Summer. One of those places where you pay extra for clean sheets.”

  Leo carried his coffee around the counter. He stared at me with those hardened eyes. He’s seen a lot more death than I, and I’ve seen more than most people.

  “You going to do anything about it?”