I smiled and regretted not scanning the menu.
“They have veggie quesadillas,” Kenna offered.
“Perfect. I’d love that.” I added a water and slid my credit card into the reader.
I gave the clerk time to finish the transaction and hand me a numbered receipt.
Then, since we had a few minutes and no one was waiting behind us, I folded back the cover of my binder and displayed the photos of Kat.
“Matt,” I said, noting the clerk’s nametag, “we’re looking for this young woman, and I’m curious if she looks familiar to you.”
“Sure,” he said, looking back and forth between me and Kenna. “She used to come in a lot. Why? Is she in trouble or something?”
“Oh, no, not at all. We just need to talk to her. When’s the last time you saw her?”
“I don’t know. A few weeks ago? Maybe a month?” According to what Corey had told us, that was about when Kat had turned eighteen.
“What do you remember about her?” Kenna asked.
He squinted. Kat was about his age and pretty, so I was hopeful.
“Well, she wore the same thing a lot.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“Boots, jeans, and a leather jacket. All black. It must have been, like, her thing.”
Or maybe she didn’t have much money for clothes.
“Was she alone or with other people?” Kenna asked.
“Alone, I think. She usually got stuff to go.”
“Do you remember if she paid cash or credit?” I asked.
“No. Sorry.”
I asked a few more questions and ended with, “Anything else you remember related to her?”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
In my experience, not really could mean yes or maybe (even with kids), but another customer had arrived, so I gave Matt a break and planned to return after chatting with other patrons.
The teens were too young to interview without parent permission, but when I asked the older man about Kat—purposely within earshot—they chimed in and said they went to her high school, but they didn’t know her either. They also mentioned El Toro was a popular hangout spot for juniors and seniors, who were allowed to go out for lunch.
When our numbers were called, I took our bags and smiled at Matt.
“Did you think of anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Before we go, can you show these pictures to the guys in the back? Maybe they know her.” I nodded toward three cooks working over a hot griddle. Matt sighed, and I kept smiling. I also glanced at the tip jar by the register. “It would mean a lot.”
He took the binder and held it up to each of the guys like a meal order, and they all shook their heads.
I dropped five dollars in the jar, took the photos and a takeout menu, and thanked him again. I also handed him several Sky Investigations cards, just in case anyone thought of anything else.
As the door swung closed behind us, four young women tumbled out of a two-door sedan.
“Hi,” I said cheerfully, making eye contact with the one with the biggest smile. I introduced myself and Kenna and made sure they were of age. Then I held up Kat’s photo. “Do you guys happen to know this girl?”
They peered at it and then at each other.
“Is that Kat Burke?” one said to another.
“It is,” Kenna encouraged. “Do you know her?”
“Yeah. She graduated last year,” the driver said. “We weren’t friends, but is she okay?”
“I doubt it,” another said quietly.
Apparently, we’d be staying for lunch.
Three
Although the students hadn’t known Kat well, they remembered she was a tough foster kid who had been suspended for punching another student—a football player who had insulted her. He hadn’t reported it, but others did, and the school’s cameras had caught it on video.
“I think she lived in Crescent Hill,” the driver said, referring to a nearby apartment complex. I’d been there several times and always felt slightly on guard. The area wasn’t crime-ridden, but it had its share of negative newsworthy events, including an armed robbery at a convenience store and an unsolved sexual assault. “She hung out with this one kid a lot.” She looked at her friends. “Joey Byrd, right?” A few nods confirmed it.
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No, but he’s probably local. Not to be rude or anything, but I doubt he went to college. He was always carrying a guitar and talking about being in a band. Maybe he stuck around to play in it.”
No one knew the group’s name, so I brought up Kat’s Twitter and Instagram followers on my phone. The teens verified Joey’s photo, and when it seemed unlikely we’d learn more, I thanked them and passed out business cards.
As we walked away, we heard whispers about meeting “real” private investigators.
“They’re like Charlie’s Angels,” one girl said.
“The blond one, at least,” another answered.
I was used to comments like that. Kenna and I were thirty-nine, and she was still considered “hot.” When we’d met in middle school, the “hot” versus “cute” comparisons hurt, but I’d learned to live with it. Plus, curvy, petite brunettes were finally getting their props in the media. (Thank you, Kardashians!)
“I’m pretending I didn’t hear that,” I told Kenna.
“Hear what?”
“Exactly.”
While navigating the van to Crescent Hill, I coached Kenna on how to search Joey’s social media feeds for clues.
The optimist in me was hoping we’d get lucky and find him in the apartment complex. The pessimist in me (a whiz at scaring myself with worst-case scenarios) was already making escape plans in case we ran into trouble.
“Do you think we should separate?” I asked Kenna.
“I don’t know. Why? To save time?”
“Yeah. Also, splitting up means fewer people will recognize us later if we have to come back, especially undercover.”
“True, but the fun part is working together. And all this stuff is new to me.” She looked at her phone. “Hey, wait. This guy Joey works at the animal shelter. He posted a picture from there two weeks ago.”
“Really? That’s great. And remember? Kat loves puppies.” We smiled at the play on words. “Can you look up the shelter hours? We should stop there too.” I glanced at the clock. We had to be home for our kids by three.
“It’s open from ten to six,” Kenna said. “We have time to stop by, depending on what we find here.”
That was the thing about investigations. You never knew what was next, and work didn’t stop just because the school bus was coming.
To save time, I went online to check where the Crescent Hill school bus stop was. I figured neighbors in close proximity might be more likely to recognize kids who lived there. I also retrieved a clipboard and paper from my trunk so we could note which residents we met and avoid duplications if we came back later.
The first fifty knocks yielded no-answers and can’t-help-yous. Plenty of people had noticed teens in the neighborhood, but Joey and Kat didn’t ring any bells. I was relieved that instead of wanting to give up, Kenna shared my hope that each door would be “the one.” It felt like gambling, but in a good way that required sneakers and stamina.
“Stairs getting to you?” Kenna asked when I exhaled loudly.
“Kinda. I guess it’s good you’re forcing me to work out,” I said before she could.
“We’ll look at the gym schedule later,” she said. “I’ll help you pick the best classes, and your kids will love Jenny in the child care center. She’s super positive, and she exercises with them too.”
“Great,” I said, dreading it.
Kenna tapped another door, and the rustling behind it got us
smiling toward the peephole.
The door opened but stopped when its chain lock pulled tight. A middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair peeked out skeptically.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes,” I said. I held out my private investigator ID, and Kenna did the same with hers. “We’re private investigators, and we’re looking for a neighbor of yours. I hope you can help.”
She squinted at our photos, released the chain, and stepped outside. I lifted Kat’s picture for her to see.
“Yes, I know her. Why are you looking for her?” I sensed protectiveness in her voice.
“We want to make sure she’s doing all right and get a message to her. I’m Nicki, by the way, and this is my partner, Kenna.”
We shook hands, and she tilted her head, locking eyes with each of us before speaking again. “Her family lives in this building. Her foster family, I mean.”
“Oh, wonderful. Do you know them well?”
“I do, but I can’t give you any information without asking them first.”
A woman after my own heart. My conscience often conflicted with my job, and I struggled to reconcile the two.
“We understand,” Kenna said. “Maybe you could call them. Or stop by their apartment with us?”
She nodded and asked us to wait while she made the call. Minutes later, she returned.
“They’ll be down in a minute. They’re not ready for company, so I said they could come here. I’m Mary, by the way.”
“Thank you so much, Mary,” Kenna said. “We’re happy to wait.”
She invited us in, and we took seats on a worn brown sofa facing a large-screen TV. She offered us water, and I accepted to fill time.
Footsteps clambered from the third floor down to Mary’s unit, and I realized we were about to talk with more than a foster parent. Mary got to the door before anyone knocked.
“Hi, Miss Mary,” a boy about four said, tackling her with a hug, while behind him, a tall black woman with shoulder-length curls and a tired-mom expression sized us up.
We stood and introduced ourselves to little Alexander and his foster mom, Brenda. Then Mary took the boy to the kitchen, which overlooked the street.
“We’re looking for Kat Burke,” I explained, “and Mary said you were her foster mom.”
“Why are you looking for her?” she asked.
“We were hired to make sure she’s safe after turning eighteen and leaving foster care,” I said. “We just want to talk with her and make sure she’s okay.”
“Someone hired you? Not social services, I assume.”
“That’s true. We can’t say who, but we believe they have her best interests at heart.”
Alexander ran up, proudly displaying a handful of Oreos. “Mary gave me cookies,” he announced.
“Please go say thank you while I finish talking about Kat,” Brenda told him.
“Kat went in a looong car,” he told us. “What’s it called?” He looked at Brenda. “A lemonzine?”
“A limousine, Alexander. A lim—oh—zeen.”
“Oh.”
Brenda looked relieved when he stuck a cookie in his mouth. “Go thank Mary, sweetheart. Remember?”
Alexander took off, and for the millionth time, I envied children’s energy.
“I’m glad someone’s looking out for Kat,” Brenda said. “But I can’t imagine who it is, and I’m not allowed to say much. I could lose my foster parenting credentials if I don’t maintain confidentiality. But I always want what’s best for my kids.” Her voice cracked, and I resisted the urge to hug her. She looked at Mary, who was across the room, giving us privacy. “Mary, we should go. You can help them more than I can, okay? Just call me after. Come on, Alexander.” She took his hand after he ran over, and I gave her a card.
“We want what’s best for Kat,” I said. “I promise. Thank you for talking with us.”
Mary showed them out and turned back to us.
“I guess I can tell you a few things,” she said. “Living below them means I’ve seen a lot. Brenda’s the best parent I know, and there’s no way I’d do anything to jeopardize how she helps others.”
“We completely respect that,” I said. “Let’s start with what you’ve observed, then. How long have you been neighbors?”
Mary said she’d been in the building for three years, and that Kat’s foster family had been there before her. Kat had lived with Brenda since age fifteen, and Alexander arrived two years later. Mary didn’t know much about Kat’s background, but it was obvious from the stomping, yelling, and door slamming upstairs that Kat had a temper. On several occasions, she’d seen Kat get into a limo, and its license plate, XOTC-RYD, wasn’t reassuring.
“Brenda is the kindest woman, and Kat has a good heart. They’ve been through a lot. Brenda loves Kat, but she couldn’t support her—financially, I mean—without the state’s help. Kat wanted freedom from the system, and that’s what she got.”
“Did she want freedom from social services or Brenda, or both?” Kenna asked.
“Honestly, both. She and Brenda argued, but it was normal teen stuff.”
“What did they argue about, specifically?” I asked.
“Rules. Kat wanted to stay out ’til all hours with friends, and Brenda’s strict about that kind of stuff. She runs a tight ship.”
“Too tight?” Kenna probed.
“I don’t think so. Kids need boundaries, and hers were reasonable.”
“Did Kat have plans after high school? College or anything else?” I asked.
“No. She packed her bags and left the day after her birthday. She’d gotten two hundred dollars in gifts, and I guess she thought that was enough of a start. Brenda called her cell phone every day, but she always got voicemail, and eventually the phone was disconnected. Brenda’s been crying on and off ever since.”
“How did Kat leave? Does she have a car?”
“She doesn’t even have a license. She failed driver’s ed. She never liked school. We don’t know how she left. She said she was going, and the next day she left. Alexander was sleeping, and Brenda couldn’t follow her.”
“What about her friends?” I asked. “What do you know about them?”
“Brenda checked with her best friend, Joey, and he hasn’t seen her.”
“Do you happen to know if they ever dated?”
“I don’t think so. If they did, I doubt she told Brenda. Brenda would have mentioned it.”
“Do you know Joey’s last name or where he lives?”
“Not his last name, but he lives around the corner. I can show you where.”
“Perfect. Thank you. Do you or Brenda have any idea who drives that limo you mentioned?”
“No. Maybe you guys can figure it out.”
Not maybe. Definitely.
No one answered at Joey’s door, but we noted his address and decided to come back after we’d clarified who else might live there, not to mention who owned that limo.
On the way home, we stopped at the local animal shelter and asked about him there.
“He’s not in until tomorrow afternoon,” the clerk explained. She couldn’t tell us more than that, but she recognized Kat’s photo. “Oh, that’s his friend Kat. Hard name to forget.” She smiled. “We love her. She used to come in and play with the dogs. She and Joey have a favorite, Bruno.” She pointed to a list of adoptable animals, and Bruno’s photo showed an irresistible, tiny Chihuahua.
“How long has it been since Kat was here?” Kenna asked.
“Gee. I don’t know. I think it was when Bruno first got here.” She tapped on a keyboard and glanced at a monitor. “Six weeks ago. Joey hasn’t said anything about her. Is Kat okay?”
“We hope so,” I said. “But she hasn’t been seen in a while, and we want to make sure. You said she loves Bruno?”
“Everyone does. He’s the sweetest thing.”
“Can we see him?” Kenna asked.
“Are you interested in adopting, by any chance?”
“I am,” Kenna lied, unless she meant a second baby. We needed to get home, but she winked at me, so I went along with it.
The clerk led us to a room lined with caged dogs, some of whom barked loudly, while others hung back. It was hard to look at them without wanting to take everyone home. Bruno was alert in the middle of his cage, and he gave a little “yip” as we approached.
“What happens if they’re not adopted?” I asked.
“We always find homes or organizations that will take them. Don’t worry. We never euthanize dogs unless they’re vicious or dangerous to the public.”
“Okay,” I said, relieved. “How long can pets stay here?”
She unlocked Bruno’s cage and greeted him enthusiastically. “In Bruno’s case, he’s been here about two months, so if he isn’t adopted soon, a foster family might take him while we wait for a permanent home.”
Another foster family. I wondered how Kat would feel about that.
The clerk gave Bruno soothing pats, picked him up, and led us to a small, empty room with glass walls.
“You can play with him here. Chihuahuas have a reputation for being difficult, but Bruno’s not like that. He’s easygoing and friendly. His owner trained him well, but unfortunately, the owner passed away.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kenna said. “Why do you think Bruno hasn’t been adopted?”
“There are more popular breeds. And there aren’t enough adoptive homes. Maybe you’ll be the one.”
I felt guilty for giving her false hope. I didn’t have time to care for a pet, and while Kenna did, she kept her home pristine. I couldn’t imagine a dog fitting in, even this little cutie.
I looked at Kenna and noticed she’d pulled out her phone while the clerk turned to check on other pets.
“What’s up?” I whispered.
“Pictures and video of Bruno,” Kenna said. “If he’s her favorite dog, they might come in handy somehow.”
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