Reluctantly, I swung my feet over the side of the bed and pulled on a robe, hoping to shower and guzzle coffee before running to Kenna’s. The kids had everything they could conceivably need, including outfits, and I hoped they were getting dressed and brushing their teeth, preferably after Kenna’s invariably sweet breakfast.
I set the coffeemaker, hopped in the shower, and brainstormed about what to wear that wouldn’t stand out. Maybe jeans (not too tight), a gray t-shirt, and old sneakers?
I remembered a set of scrubs I’d worn for Halloween once, pretending to be a nurse. That would stand out, but hopefully in a non-threatening way. Kenna and I often attended neighborhood Halloween parties together, so she had a pair too. They might enable us to talk with more residents, especially if we came up with a pretext (a fancy PI word for “lie”), such as doing a “health survey.”
I settled on the first outfit and decided to bring the scrubs along. We could start by canvassing in street clothes, but wear the scrubs if needed. Certain medical professionals were illegal to impersonate, so we’d have to be careful with our approach.
I checked Kat’s Twitter account, which was quiet, and ran a quick background check on Shawna. She had some financial trouble and an assault and battery conviction, which was anything but reassuring. One cup of mocha java later, I crossed my yard and knocked on Kenna’s door, thinking how nice it was to have a partner, especially when looking downtown for a suspected pimp and drug dealer. My stomach lurched unexpectedly at the thought. What if something happened to us? Mothering was our first priority by far. Did it really matter that I felt called to do more serious investigative work? I fought the urge to run home and start cold-calling businesses about basic pre-employment investigations.
Kenna opened her door and held a finger to her lips. “Andy’s sleeping.”
“Late night, as usual?”
“Yeah, and I don’t want him talking me out of anything. He’s not happy with this arrangement.”
“Sorry.” I really was. “Where are the kids?”
“Kitchen,” she said. “Watching TV. Are you driving them to school?”
“I am. What time do you think you can hit the road?”
“Andy’ll be up by ten. I’ll come right over.”
“Okay. Do you still have those scrubs from Halloween a long time ago?”
“I think so. Why?”
“We might need them. Bring them just in case.”
“I’ve got a stethoscope too. Want me to bring it?”
“No. I think that would be overkill.”
Seeing the kids gave me peace and panic.
As they loaded themselves and their backpacks into the car, I acted cheerful and excited about the day.
“What specials do you guys have today?” I asked, using the school’s catch-all term for awesome classes like P.E., art, and music.
“I have P.E.,” Sophie said. “We’re playing kickball.”
“I have art,” Jack said. “We’re gonna make piñatas.”
“Cool. What are you going to fill them with?”
“I have a form about it. The parents are going to send stuff in.”
Ugh. I adored their school, but sometimes the paperwork, donations, and volunteering felt like an expensive part-time job. Every time a new request arrived, I took a deep breath and reminded myself how lucky I was to participate. For many parents, it wasn’t an option.
“You guys are buying lunch today, okay?” I said. “You have money on your accounts.”
They both cheered, and I hoped the school’s vegetarian options would be more varied than ice cream, tater tots, fruit, and cookies. Life’s small details distracted me momentarily, but nothing eliminated the nervous pit in my stomach. Did other parents with risky jobs, like police officers, soldiers, and firefighters, feel guilty about going to work? If not, how did they accomplish that?
I sifted through practical answers (family, friends, life insurance) and abstract ones (“Follow your passion!”), but I ended up deciding I’d be miserable if I wasn’t making a difference the only way I knew how. That wouldn’t be good for my kids, would it? Then I envisioned my will and other emergency paperwork. Kenna was the kids’ primary alternate guardian. Fantastic. So I was putting my best friend and backup plan at risk. Back to square one.
“One day at a time,” I told myself.
I pulled into the elementary school carpool lane, where a teacher helped each kid out of the van.
“Bye, Jack. Bye, Sophie,” I called. “Have a great day. Love you!”
As usual, they were already in another world, navigating throngs of brightly clad students making their way to the school’s wide entrance.
For the millionth time, I wished the van doors closed automatically (an option we hadn’t been able to afford), so I asked the teacher to help me out.
“Sure thing,” she said, giving the handle a tug, probably an expert at the maneuver. “Have a nice day.”
That’s what I wanted for all of us.
Kenna and I started at the Beaker Motel, where the maid, Nina, had parked her cart in front of room 205. A peek around it revealed a middle-aged woman in a traditional light-blue uniform and thick-soled sneakers. She tucked auburn strands behind her ears before lifting a mattress to replace its fitted sheet.
“Excuse me,” I said, hoping not to startle her.
“Yes?” She dropped the mattress. “You need some supplies?”
“No, thank you,” I said, wondering how often her cart was raided. The toiletries, cleaning supplies, and towels were valuable, especially in this neighborhood. I made introductions, explained that the owner had referred us, and held Kat’s photo over the cart.
Her expression softened, and she bustled toward us. “She was very clean,” she said. “No messes. No problem. She left a while ago. Why are you looking for her?”
“She could be in danger,” I said honestly. “Do you remember anything that could help us find her? Maybe someone who visited her? Or something you saw in her room?”
Nina rested a hand on her hip. “She didn’t have much, but right before she left, there were shopping bags on the floor. Lots of them. She asked me for laundry detergent to wash the clothes. I was happy for her.”
My heart sank. I’d read that some pimps use shopping as a way to “groom” young women into feeling cared about, as if they’re choosing a better life. Kat hadn’t come from money, and it might be easy to impress her.
“Where were the bags from?”
“Oh, I don’t remember. I’m sorry. There was some new makeup on the counter though. It looked like it was from a department store. Not the cheap stuff I get at the drugstore.”
“That’s what I get too,” I said. Kenna wisely stayed quiet. She sprung for the fancy stuff. “Do you remember if Kat tipped you?”
“Yes, because tips are rare these days, at least here. She left a dollar every day. I was sad to see her go. Not because of the tips, but because she was nice. Never a problem, you know?”
“Did you talk with her much?” Kenna asked.
“No. I’m not supposed to bother the guests. But when I saw her shopping bags, I told her congratulations. She said she got a new job. I don’t know where.”
We questioned her more, including about other guests and visitors, and—with many reassurances about privacy—the owner and his daughter. She said the place was rife with creepy characters, but she didn’t recall anyone especially scary or suspicious lately. She also wasn’t familiar with Daddy B.
“I don’t live around here,” she explained. “I come in the mornings, and I leave as soon as I can.”
“Do you remember anything else about Kat or her belongings?” I asked.
“She liked to sleep late, so I cleaned her room last.” She thought for a moment. “Oh, I remember something. She bleached her hair. The box and gloves
and things were in the trash when she left.”
“How did her hair look?” I asked.
“It was blond at first, and the box was platinum, like Marilyn Monroe.” She looked at Kenna and tilted her head. “Much lighter than yours.” She glanced at the room behind her. “I better get back to work.”
“Thank you for your time, Nina,” I said. I set money on her cart with my card. “Please call us if you think of anything else. Anything,” I emphasized. “At any time.”
“I will,” Nina said. “I hope you find her.”
After calling the motel owner’s daughter, who had nothing helpful to add, Kenna and I strolled along Fifth Street, glad we’d dressed down. We’d gone without makeup and hair products, and it was a good thing—certainly not for our confidence, but definitely for the task at hand. Our cell phones were stowed in the oldest purses we could find.
At each local business except the barbershop, we politely purchased something while showing Kat’s photo. We didn’t show Daddy B’s picture, not wanting to tip him off if possible. No one admitted recognizing Kat, but one convenience store employee, a pale woman who appeared in her thirties, was especially concerned.
“Is she missing?” she asked. “Because this isn’t a good area. I hope she’s not here.”
I’d checked a mapping site that tracked crime, and I knew the area, including the convenience store itself, had seen plenty of violence.
“Sort of,” I explained. “She’s an adult. But she’s a young adult, and her family is worried about where she is. We think she might be with someone who goes by ‘Daddy B.’ His real name is Danny Braxton.” The clerk’s eyes narrowed, but she was silent. “Do you know him?”
“Hm…” She looked around. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“I understand,” I said, feeling protective but hopeful. “We won’t tell anyone what you told us.”
She stared at her feet and spoke quickly. “Check The Crest apartments three blocks east, okay? I hear there’s a lot of trouble over there.”
Another customer entered, and Kenna changed the subject. “I’d like a pack of Marlboro Reds and two lottery tickets, please. Easy Pick.” She wasn’t a smoker or a lottery player, but she was believable. “Maybe today will be our lucky day.”
We stopped at the van, drove three blocks down, and parked on a side street. Neither of us wanted to canvass The Crest apartments, but it had to be done.
“I’d rather not separate,” I said. “But it’ll be faster, and if one of us sees something or someone that needs follow up, the other can go back later and do it.”
Promising to keep in touch, we began knocking on doors and asking residents about Kat while peeking into their apartments. If we actually came across Daddy B or someone suspicious, we’d say we were at the wrong apartment while stalling and taking a good look around.
About half an hour in, Kenna called, and I picked up right away.
“What floor are you on?” she whispered.
“Three,” I said. “Where are you? And why are you whispering?”
“Come up to 401. Actually, no. Just meet me at the elevator on four.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just get up here. And hurry.”
Seven
I hustled to the elevator, jammed four, and was relieved to see Kenna when the doors opened.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I saw something freaky. The door to 401 was open, so I looked in.”
“And?”
“And I saw feet. And legs.”
“What?”
“Like someone lying down or passed out.”
“Holy crap. You didn’t check on the person?”
“It was a huge guy. I didn’t want to startle him. Maybe he was meditating or listening to music or something.”
“Come on.”
I moved quickly with Kenna trailing behind. The door was slightly ajar, and I could see a tall man on his back, his chest so muscular I couldn’t see his face.
“Sir?” I called out. “Sir?” No answer or movement. “Anyone else home?”
I pushed the door open and approached, afraid that if he had on headphones or earbuds, he was about to wear an angry expression too. Instead, his eyes and mouth were open, and my CPR training from years earlier came rushing back.
“Are you okay? Are you okay?” I asked, nudging him. He wasn’t. I pointed to a red carpet stain creeping out from under his shirt. “Oh my God, Kenna. He’s bleeding.” She grabbed one of his wrists, and I felt the other.
“I don’t feel a pulse,” she said.
“Me either.” I wasn’t confident though, and now I wished we’d worn those scrubs and brought her stethoscope.
“Call 911,” she said, shoving her purse at me. “And get that CPR mask out of my purse.” I’d forgotten that as a longtime fitness instructor, she took CPR regularly, and she had a tiny mask that created a protective barrier for rescue breathing.
Several frantic minutes of chest compressions later, an EMS crew had arrived, followed by the police, and we explained what we’d found.
“So you have no idea who he is?” an officer asked us.
We shook our heads and watched as a wallet was pulled from the man’s pocket, and a badge came out too.
“He’s Jared Funk, a corrections officer at King County Detention Center,” the officer stated.
Soon, we overheard something else about him.
He was dead, and he’d probably been that way for a while.
As investigators (and best friends) we couldn’t help rehashing everything after being questioned ad nauseam by authorities. Literally ad nauseam. We were both sickened by the experience, especially Kenna, and the hand sanitizer I kept in my purse didn’t help much. I’d always thought death investigations sounded fascinating. Now I knew they were. They could also be repulsive.
“I’m freaked out about his ribs,” Kenna confided. She’d felt them crack during CPR, but the paramedic had assured her it was common. “What if he’d been alive, and I hurt him?” she asked, her eyes searching mine for absolution.
“He wasn’t alive,” I said firmly. “And you were trying to save his life. Like the paramedic said, it’s not unusual. It’s really okay.”
The police had summoned the apartment manager, who said Jared lived alone in the apartment and hadn’t caused any problems. Once they finally let us go, we cornered the manager in the elevator and asked about Daddy B.
“He’s not a tenant,” he said after looking at his picture. “I’d know. Someone said he lives here?”
“Or just spends time here,” I said.
“Maybe he has friends here, but I haven’t seen him. People hang out behind the building, and I can’t control that. I get complaints about noise. The janitor finds broken bottles and stuff back there. It’s not the place for you. Especially after today.”
“Okay,” Kenna said. “Thanks for the heads up.” I didn’t buy her act for a second. The alley would be the first place we’d go.
The elevator stopped, and the manager politely held the “door open” button.
“After you,” he said.
I had something else in mind.
“Actually, we have one more question,” I said, holding the door and a photo of Kat. “Have you seen her around?”
“No. You said you’re private investigators, right? Who do you work for?”
“Sky Investigations,” I said, purposely vague.
“Oh.” He looked skeptical until I handed him a card. “Huh.”
“Will you let us know if you see either of these people?”
“I guess. Anything I should know about them?”
“We want to make sure the woman’s safe, and the guy has a criminal record.”
“Good to know. I’ll let you know if I see them, and yo
u let me know if they’re causing trouble here.”
“Sounds good,” I said. Not exactly a commitment. “We appreciate it.”
We all headed for the exit and said goodbye.
“There are tons of cop cars here,” Kenna commented on the way out. “It’s probably the least dangerous time to look around.”
I wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad.
In a way, we were looking for danger, and we needed to find it.
“You don’t have a lighter, do you?” I asked Kenna as we rounded the corner.
“No. Why?”
“We could use those cigarettes you bought and act like we’re smoking back here.”
“Perfect. If anyone’s there, let’s ask them for a light. It’s a good conversation starter.”
She took out the Marlboros and unwrapped the package.
“Remember the last time we smoked?” she asked.
“Sixth grade.” It was the first of our many adventures together.
“My dad was so pissed when he realized his cigarettes were missing.”
“That was the first time you got grounded. Remember? Thank God he didn’t tell my parents.”
“He probably thought he’d get in trouble with them,” she said.
I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’d thought he’d been sparing me, but she was probably right.
“I watched him smoke for so long. I can fake it pretty well if needed,” she said.
“Only if needed.”
She didn’t mind pretext, practically or ethically, but I didn’t want us inhaling toxins unnecessarily.
The stench of trash greeted us as we turned the final corner into the back alley, which held four industrial dumpsters, two of which were for recycling.
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