by R. A. McGee
“What did the police say?”
“Not much. They came down and took a report. Kept asking where her parents are,” Miss Leona said.
“They asked you that because when a child goes missing, it’s usually a parent. Detectives like things that are easy and make sense. If you don’t mind me asking, where are Danny’s parents?”
“I’ve always been more momma than granny. I’m all Danny’s ever had. Her father was a deadbeat. Never around, in and out of prison. My daughter got caught up with him, caught up with a certain kind of life. She’s been gone for several years.”
Porter didn’t press to find out what that meant. “What did the detectives say when you told them about Hector?”
“They looked at me like I was simple. Wanted to know what proof I had that Hector took Danny. I told them I just knew.”
“I’m sure they weren’t too convinced by that,” Porter said.
She laughed. “No, baby, they weren’t. They sure weren’t. Kept telling me I needed proof.”
“Yeah, proof is a big thing.”
“I guess so. They didn’t help,” she said.
“What else did you do to try to find her?” Porter said.
“What didn’t I do? I walked around looking for her for hours, you know, after I talked to the police. I didn’t even put my real shoes on, I was still in my slippers. I looked for her all night long, had me a flashlight and everything. My feet were bleeding the next morning. I didn’t know what else to do. I asked Jamal and his boys if they had seen anything. They hadn’t, but they helped me look for a while.”
“Nice of them.”
“They felt bad. A little girl from their side was gone. I told you, deep down, they really are good boys.”
“Apparently.”
“I tried everything. I put up flyers, I took out an ad in the classifieds of the newspaper. A friend helped me put something on the face-thing that all you kids use. Nobody knew nothing.”
Porter nodded. “Tell me about the billboard.”
“It was the last thing I could think to do. The company donated the space for me to use. I didn’t get my medicine for two months to save up that reward money. I hoped someone would come forward.”
Porter didn’t have the heart to tell her it was a pittance. The world wouldn’t care that she was a broken-hearted woman who’d sacrificed her health to scrape the money together. No one would care that it was the most valuable thing she had to give. Seven hundred and fifty dollars wouldn’t be enough to get anyone to take her seriously.
“Thanks for talking with me. I think I have a better understanding of everything. Just a couple more questions before I leave?”
“Anything, baby.”
“What’s the name of the detective you’re working with?”
“Detective Turnbull. I call him every week. He barely answers, and when he does, he doesn’t have any information he wants to give an old woman. I haven’t even been able to get a hold of him for a few weeks. I have his card on the refrigerator, just one second.” She got up from the couch and flip-flopped her way into the kitchen. She reappeared a moment later holding a worn business card, and handed it to Porter.
“Thanks,” he said. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of the card. “Last question.”
“Sure.”
“What’s the name of the preschool Danny went to? I want to have a talk with the bus driver.”
Six
The preschool was ‘Precious Adventures in Learning,’ and Miss Leona took a few minutes to brag on her granddaughter. “Four years old and already reading. She loves books about princesses and knights. Loves ’em. She’ll dress right up and pretend to be a princess right along with them little cartoon girls.”
The police had already spoken to the bus driver, and had told Miss Leona he didn’t know anything. Porter assured her he got better results when he asked people questions.
She was silent as she walked him to the front door. Porter was used to people asking questions about the process, or what he planned to do. Sometimes they would flat-out ask, “Are you going to find my so-and-so?” Miss Leona did none of that. When they got to the doorway, she pulled him down to hug him. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and said, “I’ll see you when you come back.”
That was it.
Porter nodded and stepped out of the house.
He’d only gotten a few steps off her stoop when he saw Keith walking towards him. It made sense that Jamal wanted someone to keep an eye on him as he was leaving. Jamal couldn’t know for sure that Porter was on the up-and-up. He could still be a “corny-ass bill collectin’ nigga.”
“Keith, huh?”
“You still call me Little Man.”
“Nope. Keith’s a good name. I think I’ll use it.”
“Whatever.”
They turned the corner of the last cluster of buildings and Porter saw Jamal, Terrell, and his Yukon. New to the group, and leaning on his truck, were two guys he hadn’t seen before. The newcomers were dressed like Jamal and Terrell, with khaki pants sagging low on their backsides. The larger of the two was black as night, with dreadlocks down to the middle of his back. He had no shirt on, displaying a powerful torso. The shorter man had lighter skin and struck Porter as Hispanic, maybe Puerto Rican. He had a green bandana tied tight around his head and tattoos showed on any skin that wasn’t covered by his comically large white t-shirt. Porter had never understood the fashion, and figured it must be a hindrance to move around in. He walked up to Jamal and Terrell.
“Friends of yours?” he asked.
“Not me. They roll with the other side. And you on their side of the street,” Jamal said. Terrell was as silent as before, with his arms crossed in front of him and his eyes on Porter’s Yukon.
“Fair enough. I’ll go say hello.”
Porter walked the few yards to Palmetto Avenue, looked both ways, and then approached the two guys lounging on his truck. “Hey, guys, I’m taking off. Mind getting off my truck?”
Dreadlocks stood up straight and spoke first. “This your shit? I was wondering who it belonged to. I asked my man Jamal why his people was parking on my side of the street. He said you ain’t with him. So if you ain’t with him, and you ain’t with us, then you don’t belong, homey.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Feel free to move so I can get the hell out of here.”
“You can leave. Follow the Avenue all the way out this bitch. Car’s mine now,” Dreadlocks said.
Porter saw Tattoo get off the truck and move to the right of Dreadlocks. The two new guys were close to each other, with Porter a few feet in front of them, his momentum carrying him closer. He felt the familiar weight of the Glock in his waistband, but was sure he wouldn’t need it.
“See, douchebag, here’s the thing,” Porter said, with his hands open and up near his face. “That’s mine.” Porter closed the last step quickly and grabbed Deadlocks by the throat. He found that people often made a mistake when they tried to grab a person’s throat. Your hand can’t get good leverage on the entire neck; it’s just too large. The front half, where all the soft areas are? Much better.
Dreadlocks was strong, but Porter was stronger. He squeezed just enough to keep him under control. Dreadlocks grabbed and pried at Porter’s hands, but it was no use—he wasn’t going anywhere. Out of the corner of his eye, Porter saw Tattoo pulling up the front of his giant t-shirt.
Only one reason for that.
Porter had been shot before, and he didn’t plan on letting it happen again. With one final squeeze, he released Dreadlocks, who fell to the ground fighting for air.
Porter took a quick step sideways and smacked Tattoo’s hands. He was still fumbling in his waistband. When Porter slapped at his hands, Tattoo’s eyes went from the front of his shirt up to Porter. Porter rewarded him by opening his hands wide and boxing Tattoo’s ears with a thunderous clap alongside his head. Tattoo shrieked in pain and brought his hands up to grab Porter’s, which were still alongside Tatt
oo’s head. Porter squeezed Tattoo’s head like a basketball to secure the man, then slammed a half-dozen knees to Tattoo’s face. When Porter released Tattoo’s head he collapsed like wet paper, his face freshly altered.
Porter pivoted back to Dreadlocks, who by this time had managed to roll over onto his hands and knees, though he was still having trouble breathing. Porter took two steps and punted Dreadlock’s face like a football. It was a solid kick that lifted Dreadlocks off of his hands and flipped him over onto his back, unconscious. Porter stole a glance back at Tattoo, then took several steps away from the pair.
“Man, I did not see that shit coming,” Jamal crowed.
“I did,” Porter said over his shoulder. “They should have, too.”
“That shit was good, man. Shit made my whole day. Them fools needed that. I would do it, you know, but we supposed to be getting along.”
“As long as you’re having fun. Glad I could help.”
“Don’t get me wrong, you still corny, but at least I know you ain’t no bill collector,” Jamal said.
Porter turned back and stepped over to Tattoo’s unconscious body, digging under the huge white t-shirt to reach into his waistband. He pulled out a small revolver and checked the cylinder.
It was loaded.
He stepped over the still-sleeping Dreadlocks and popped the trunk to his Yukon. He opened his lockbox and tossed the revolver in, then locked the box and slammed the tailgate.
He hopped into his front seat and turned the car on. It was thick with the midday Florida heat. He rolled the windows down to vent the muggy car and maxed out the A/C. As he shifted into drive, he looked over at the men who were still conscious. Jamal was on the phone, making big gestures with his hands, punching at the air. Terrell was looking straight at Porter with a small grin on his face, and he gave Porter a slight head nod as the Yukon accelerated away.
Seven
Porter took a left out of Palmetto Acres and steered the Yukon along a perimeter street until he hit Nebraska Avenue. That would take him as far north as he wanted to go. He merged into the right-hand lane and held the speed limit. He hooked his phone up to the aux cable that hung from the display and dialed a familiar number.
“Ruas.”
“It’s me,” Porter said.
“Me? Who’s me? The only ‘me’ that calls my phone is my old lady and I’m certain you and I aren’t sleeping together.”
“That’s because I keep turning you down. You’re so desperate all the time, it’s embarrassing. Where’s your dignity?”
“Well, if you weren’t so sexy, I might be able to contain myself. You know I’m a sucker for bald guys,” Ruas said.
“I cut my hair low on purpose, but I get your point,” Porter said. “I’ll wear a hat next time I see you.”
“That’s all I ask,” Ruas laughed. “Long time no talk, brother. How’s everything? Trish?”
“She’s doing good, I think.”
“You think?” Ruas said.
“We split up a while back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It is what it is,” Porter said.
“She wanted it or you wanted it?”
Porter didn’t answer.
Ruas changed the subject. “What the hell do you want? I’m sure you didn’t find my number just to talk dirty to me.”
“I’m just trying to stay out of trouble.”
“Is it working?”
“Does it ever? Had a little dust-up with a couple fine citizens today, nothing noteworthy, but I wanted to get your take. What can you tell me about Palmetto Acres?”
“Complete shithole,” Ruas said.
“I gathered that, Marco, I have eyes. You’re the gang investigator; tell me about the gangs.”
“What is there to tell? There was one and now there are two. We can’t get much intel. I haven’t been able to find a reliable snitch down there. It’s slow going.”
“I figured as much. I might be able to fill in some of the blanks for you guys,” Porter said.
“Shit, I’ll take all the help I can get. What are you doing in the Acres?”
“Just talking to a friend. Speaking of which, I need to ask you something,” Porter said.
“Shoot.”
“Tell me who’s working a missing kid case.”
“Why?” Ruas said.
“Just looking at it for a friend. Wondered which one of you guys was on it. I have a name, but I know how work gets passed off and shuffled around. Figured it was best to touch base with someone, even if it is an idiot like you.”
“I resemble that remark,” Ruas said with a laugh. “Hit me with the name and I’ll look it up.”
“Last name Hill, first name Danisha,” Porter said.
“Danisha? The common spelling, I’m assuming?”
“Delta, Alpha, November, India, Sierra, Hotel, Alpha.”
“Got it. Wait one,” Ruas said.
Ruas’s voice went silent for a couple of minutes; through the speakers in his car, Porter heard the soft sound of fingers tapping the keyboard. He was a fan of talking on the phone using his car’s speakers. He felt it helped him hear better and he got to keep both hands on the wheel.
With no particular destination in mind, Porter took a left on Bearss Avenue. He heard a mumbling, like Ruas was reading to himself.
“Got it. Looks like Kevin Turnbull had the case, but now that it’s been over a year it was moved to the Long Term Missing Unit. Some new kid has it, name of Rivera. I’ll text you the number.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it. Say hi to Kelly and the kids for me,” Porter said.
“Of course. She’s gonna want to have you over for dinner sometime. I hope you don’t, because you eat too damn much.”
“I’m a finely tuned machine, I can’t miss meals,” Porter said. The men shared a laugh.
“It was good to talk to you; it’s been way too long. I know you’re gonna make me regret saying this, but I miss you, buddy.”
“See? I always knew you had a thing for me.” Porter laughed and pushed the end button on his phone.
Porter soon passed over Dale Mabry Highway, the main north-south thoroughfare in Tampa. He pulled into a fast food drive-through, then sat in the parking lot of a closed grocery store to eat. A Johnny Cash album was playing on his phone and he took a few minutes to enjoy the meal and organize his thoughts.
Danny had been missing over a year and, despite his assurances to Ross, the odds of finding her were slim. Ruas said the case had been transferred to the Long Term Missing Unit. Moving the case to the LTMU meant that it wasn’t much of a priority for the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office. There would be no active investigation on the case; the file was just sitting in a filing cabinet or old box somewhere. Every day, the detective assigned would grab the oldest case, make a couple of phone calls if necessary, and update the computer saying they’d found no new information. That gave Miss Leona no chance of closure for Danny. While that was unfortunate, Porter could live with it. Plenty of people went missing every year, and not all of them were ever found. Some families just had to deal with it.
Still, Porter had some nagging thoughts about the case. He wondered where Danny’s parents were. He wondered if the detectives had actually spoken with the school bus driver. The curious, investigative side of his brain wouldn’t stop peppering him with questions. As a favor to Ross, he should at least speak to this Rivera person. It might help him connect the dots. Once he knew everyone had done their jobs, he’d feel better about telling Ross the bad news: There wasn’t any easy way to find this kid.
Eight
The clock on the dashboard read nearly four. Porter thought about calling it a day and going back to his house, maybe see if he could finally kill off the remnants of his hangover. Instead, he decided to go to see Rivera, so he could talk to the detective in person and get a feel for where the case stood. A large chunk of the employees of the sheriff’s office worked in or near the jail on Orient Road
. Those building spaces weren’t big enough to house everyone, Porter remembered, and they had to place some people at an ancillary office off of Kennedy Avenue, close to downtown. Porter figured Rivera would be with the other detectives there. He decided to take a gamble and pointed his truck south.
Traffic was light at that time of day. It wasn’t rush hour yet and even then, most people would be heading away from downtown when they got off work. Porter made steady progress through the streets. He passed the Buccaneers Stadium and remembered the games he had gone to when he was a teenager. His dad was a sports nut. Porter didn’t follow any team that much, but he’d liked to spend time with his dad.
After a half hour, he hung a left on Kennedy Ave and drove a couple of miles to a free-standing building on his left, and pulled into the lot. The building looked like normal rental office space. In fact, other than a small stencil of the sheriff’s office badge on the glass front door, there were no giveaways that the building housed law enforcement personnel. It looked like the headquarters of a telemarketing company.
Porter parked as far away from the front door as possible. He hopped out and dug through the trunk, locking his pistol, spare magazine, and pocketknife away. He shut the tailgate and walked toward the building.
Pulling the double door open, Porter was greeted by a rush of cool air.
He took a small step in and let the door close behind him. Porter looked around the rectangular room. There were two uniformed HCSO deputies, one next to the metal detector and one behind the small table. A door with a kickplate waited on the far wall.
“Gents,” Porter said.
“Good afternoon, sir.” The deputy behind the table wore a shiny badge which read Raymond. “Is there something we can help you with?”
“I hope so, Deputy Raymond.” Porter liked to use a person’s name if he knew it. It sometimes startled people who didn’t know him, but he found it helped him seem more personable. He needed all the help he could get in that area. “I’m here to speak with Detective Rivera.”