Beneath the Bleak New Moon

by Debra Purdy Kong

  Prentiss looked at her. “You also seem to know a fair amount.”

  “From Danielle, which reminds me, she’s gone out with another Roadkill racer named Dominic Mancuso a couple of times. I don’t know where he lives, but I know what he drives and his plate number. The purpose of these dates was to pump him for information about Roadkill. Mancuso might have figured that out and tried to stop her.”

  A cop emerged through the bushes by the fence, carrying something in a plastic bag. Casey heard him say he found a cell phone. Her heart pounded as she turned to Prentiss. “I know what Danielle’s phone looks like.”

  “Stay here.” Prentiss walked toward his colleague.

  Casey waited, ignoring Richie’s stare. She didn’t give a damn what he thought. Why had Danielle called him as well, especially when he didn’t drive? Was his parents’ restaurant nearby?

  After a quick consultation, Prentiss returned and showed Casey the evidence bag.

  Casey’s stomach flip-flopped. “It’s hers.” Had Danielle taken off, or had she been abducted?

  Another officer approached them, carrying a large black bag. “I found this farther down the fence.”

  Casey spotted the picture of the hang-gliding woman and the Born to Fly caption. “It’s Danielle’s.” She began to shiver. “God, she really is in trouble.”

  “We’ll find her,” Prentiss said. “She’s been gone, at most, maybe forty minutes.”

  It was enough time to die. Guilt curdled Casey’s insides. She should have gotten here sooner, and now she had to make things right. The cops would hate the idea of her poking around, asking questions. As far as they were concerned, security officers were civilians with toy badges, not that they’d be too far wrong this time. Mainland didn’t train staff to find missing people, but this wasn’t job related—this was personal. As Casey’s colleagues knew all too well, personal crusades brought out the best, and the worst, in her.

  SEVENTEEN

  AS THE STOPLIGHT TURNED RED, Casey braked and rubbed her bleary eyes. Waiting for her suspension to end had been tough, but waiting for news about Danielle’s disappearance was complete agony. Unable to sleep last night and desperate for information, she’d called Denver at 3:00 AM, knowing he’d be at work.

  “Any leads?” she’d asked.

  “None. Her editor at the Vancouver Contrarian said she was supposed to have submitted an article this morning but missed her deadline. Her photo’s being circulated, but so far no serious tips have come in.”

  “I’d like to show Danielle’s photo around too. Maybe I’ll run into someone you guys missed.”

  “Fine, but stay away from racers. Let me know if you learn something.”

  Fifteen hours had elapsed since Danielle’s disappearance. Instinct and common sense pointed to someone in Roadkill. Those guys needed questioning, and the safest place to start would be with their most vulnerable contact, Richie Kim. She’d bet a year’s pay he knew more than he’d told the cops last night, and she had to figure out a way to get to him. First priority, though, was a visit to Danielle’s parents. She’d called the Carpenters an hour ago and spoken to the mother.

  “I know who you are, dear,” Mrs. Carpenter had said. “I wrote your name on a cinnamon bun.”

  The woman had sounded shaky, but she’d agreed to let Casey come over to collect a photo of Danielle. Casey pulled up in front of a narrow three-story house and peered through the windshield. The Carpenters’ sooty wood-framed home had long passed its prime. Faded gray paint had chipped off the porch steps. Moss had invaded most of the lawn and filled cracks in the cement walkway leading to the steps.

  Casey got out of her car and scanned the quiet residential street. She hadn’t heard any souped-up engines on the way here, but she wasn’t about to let down her guard. Except for a large picture window, all second- and third-floor window blinds had been drawn.

  The steps creaked under her feet. She knocked and waited for what felt like a long time before the door opened and a much older and wider version of Danielle appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. Her pale skin and red, puffy eyes made Casey realize that her worry was nothing compared to this woman’s anguish.

  “Mrs. Carpenter? I’m Casey.”

  “Come in, dear, and call me Ivy.”

  Casey stepped onto a dark blue welcome mat and removed her shoes while inhaling the intoxicating scent of cinnamon, yeast, and sugar.

  “Let’s talk in the kitchen,” Ivy murmured. “My rolls are ready.” She tiptoed across the worn broadloom, as if worried about making noise.

  Casey spotted a large photo of a young man in a high school graduation cap and gown. Tea candles in crystal holders surrounded the portrait. To the right, a narrow silver vase held a single red rose. A wooden crucifix hung above the picture. Ben Carpenter couldn’t have been out of high school long before he flew through the windshield and broke his neck. Danielle’s grad photo was perched farther down the mantelpiece, without candles or a rose, just a crucifix. Her eyes and broad smile were filled with a mischievous spirit. Had the picture been taken before Ben’s crash?

  In the bright lemon kitchen, Casey spotted two beautifully decorated cakes on an oak table. A stainless-steel oven, granite countertops, and halogen lights made the room look fifty years newer than the dingy living room. Ivy removed large, puffy rolls from the oven.

  “Are you a professional baker?” Casey asked, trying not to salivate.

  “Goodness, no. I just like to make things for my church and for the needy. Sometimes, I sell a few treats at craft fairs for pocket money.”

  Casey glanced at the embroidered words, IN GOD WE TRUST, hanging above a window.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Ivy asked. “I was going to make a fresh pot.”

  “Thanks, but I’d like to start showing the photo around as soon as possible.”

  Ivy put the rolls down. “I’ll get it for you.”

  Casey wandered around the spacious room and gazed at a display of decorative plates. A glass case held a collection of at least thirty silver spoons. Ceramic animals were perched on top of cupboards. Every one of them gleamed as if new.

  Behind her, someone coughed. Casey turned to find a bald, round-faced man in baggy pajamas peering at her.

  “Hi, I’m Casey. A friend of Danielle’s.”

  His hunched shoulders straightened. “Do you know where my little girl is?”

  “Not yet, but I’ll keep looking.”

  The man, whom she assumed was Danielle’s father, pointed a trembling finger at Casey. “You find her.” His voice trembled. “She’s my little girl.”

  Ivy reappeared. “Alvin, what are you doing? Go back to bed, dear.”

  She handed Casey a photo of Danielle standing before a birthday cake adorned with elaborate pink and purple roses and the words HAPPY TWENTY-FIRST. “That was taken a month ago.”

  Ivy hurried to her husband and placed her hands on his shoulders. “You need your rest.”

  Their foreheads nearly touched as they whispered together. The couple looked old enough to be Danielle’s grandparents, but trauma and grief did that to people.

  After Alvin headed upstairs, Ivy’s mouth quivered as she said, “He’s so upset.”

  “I understand.” Casey slipped the snapshot into her handbag. “I should be going.”

  “Wait, I want to give you something.” Ivy hurried to the counter and placed two fresh rolls in a paper bag.

  “It’s not necessary,” Casey said.

  “I know, but I want to anyway.” Ivy handed her the bag. “Few people have offered to help search for Danielle.”

  “Thank you.” Casey started for the door. “Are there any particular friends she might try to contact?”

  “I used to know her high school friends, but not her college friends, or the people she meets through work.” Ivy’s dark eyes blinked a couple of times. “She thinks she’s all grown up. Comes and goes when she wants. Doesn’t tell her mother anything.” She paused, glancing at
the staircase. “There is someone. A girl who lives not far from here. Her name is Virginia.”

  The girlfriend. “Do you know her last name?”

  “No. She’s probably in Danielle’s address book.”

  Which was likely in the Richmond RCMP’s possession. If Virginia was listed, they would have called her by now.

  Ivy’s gaze drifted to the graduation photos. “My beautiful children,” she mumbled.

  Casey gazed at Ben’s photo. His vibrant eyes were filled with humor. “Yes, they are. Danielle doesn’t look much different than she does now.”

  “Her photo was taken four years ago, and Benny’s six years ago.”

  “Danielle told me a little about him.”

  Ivy nodded, her mouth downcast. “Danielle adored her brother; everyone did. Benny was so full of energy, and smart too.” Ivy smiled. “He wanted to be a scientist . . . loved blowing things up.” She chuckled. “Friends dropped by all the time. I was always feeding somebody, which drove Alvin crazy.”

  “You must have known his friend Richie?”

  Ivy’s face beamed. “Richie practically lived here. He’s always loved my baking.”

  How much should she be told? “I saw him at the Regency Fitness Center last night.”

  She nodded. “The police told me he was there.” The lines between Ivy’s brows multiplied. “I don’t understand why she called Richie. Danielle hasn’t seen him in three years. Not since she visited him in the hospital after the crash.”

  Danielle’s relationship with Richie was work related, and sources had to be kept confidential, even from mothers. Had Danielle called Richie because she thought he could help get answers from Harvey? Had she found Harvey’s body after that call, then panicked and contacted Casey?

  “Richie misses the old neighborhood,” Ivy murmured.

  Misses? As in present tense? A minute ago, she had said that “he’s always loved her baking.” Present tense as well. “Ivy, have you been in touch with Richie?”

  Ivy didn’t quite meet Casey’s gaze. “Let me get you a chocolate pecan cookie to go with the rolls. I made a fresh batch this morning.”

  Casey usually stayed away from chocolate because it darkened her mood, but she didn’t want to offend Ivy, or stop her from talking. She followed her into the kitchen. “I think Richie knows some of the street racers Danielle’s been writing about, and I think one of those racers took her.” She accepted the cookie Ivy handed her and placed it in her bag. “He could help us find her.”

  “Richie’s not involved with those people.”

  Casey hesitated, not sure how this would go. “Actually, Ivy, he is.”

  “No. He promised his parents and me that he would never race again.”

  “He hasn’t, as far as I know. But he does keep in contact with a group of them.”

  Ivy gave her a wary look. “How do you know this?”

  “Danielle told me. She’s been in touch with Richie for a while now, and we saw him meet with racers the other night.”

  Ivy took a small step back. Her hands swept down her apron. “Neither of them said anything to me.” She glanced around the room, as if searching for answers. “I know why Danielle wouldn’t; she’s always had her private side. But Richie? He should have told me, that bad boy.”

  Bad boy? Was she kidding? “Maybe he was afraid you’d be upset if you found out.”

  Ivy fiddled with the apron’s hem. “Danielle shouldn’t be writing about such things. There are too many horrible memories.”

  “She’s trying to stop the racing.”

  “Richie’s not even allowed to drive.” Ivy scrunched the hem of her apron in her hands. “How can he know those people?”

  “That’s something I’d very much like to ask him,” Casey replied. “Did Danielle know you’ve kept in touch with Richie?”

  Ivy stroked the apron repeatedly. “Richie wanted only me to know. He was afraid his parents would find out. Those people blamed Benny for the accident. They moved all the way to Richmond to get away from us, but it didn’t work.”

  Clearly not. Richie was obviously big on secrets.

  “Richie knows the accident wasn’t Benny’s fault,” Ivy went on. “Someone ran them off the road.” Anger flashed across her face. “Someone who still isn’t man enough to admit what he’s done.”

  “Do you visit Richie in person?”

  “It takes me three bus transfers,” she answered. “But it’s worth it to see Benny again.”

  “You mean Richie.”

  “Oh, yes. Silly me.” She giggled. “Richie, Richie, Richie. I bring him baked goods, you know. His parents never give him any treats. Such cold, unfeeling people.”

  Good lord, was Ivy all there? Apparently the whole family still had some healing to do.

  “When was the last time you saw Richie?”

  “Two weeks ago, while his parents were at work.” Ivy clicked her tongue. “That poor boy is a prisoner in his own home. They don’t understand that Richie only acts out when he’s upset. He can’t help it.” She began to smile. “Our visits are his favorite time of month, he says. Why shouldn’t I do what I can to make my boy happy?”

  Her boy? This was really getting creepy. “Do his parents’ rules make him unhappy, or are there other reasons?”

  “He gets frustrated easily, which is such a shame. Richie always used to laugh. Now he’s quiet and sad and has trouble speaking when he gets worked up about things.”

  “Ivy, may I have Richie’s phone number and address? Maybe he and I can work together to find Danielle.”

  Ivy bit her lower lip. “He’s allowed to stay home alone on Tuesdays and Fridays.”

  This was Friday, but would he talk to her? Would he even be home? Casey had stayed around long enough to watch the cops let Richie go, but that didn’t mean they were finished with him.

  “Poor Richie,” Ivy mumbled. “He’ll be so worried about Danielle.”

  Or not. The guy had been pretty angry with her at the donut shop the other night.

  Casey retrieved her notebook. “If I could just get his phone number and address.”

  After Ivy supplied the information, she said, “Be gentle with Richie. He’s so emotional these days.”

  “I will.” She didn’t dare be anything else with the kid.

  “Are you driving there now?” Ivy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Would you take him some cookies as a special treat? Chocolate pecan are his favorite. He’ll welcome you with open arms when he sees them.”

  Somehow, Casey doubted it.

  EIGHTEEN

  CASEY PULLED UP IN FRONT of a large home with plenty of windows. The front of the Kims’ enormous lot had been paved with cobblestones and landscaped with bark mulch, trees, and shrubs. Clearly nothing was allowed to grow here that didn’t fit the plan. No vehicles were in the driveway and the triple-car garage was closed. As far as prisons went, Richie’s could be a lot worse.

  There were three ways to deal with this guy: appeal to his sense of decency for Danielle’s sake, threaten to tell his parents that he was gambling on illegal street races, or vow to tell them about Ivy’s visits.

  Cookie bag in hand, Casey walked up the tiled path toward the double front doors, which had stained-glass, geometric patterns in the upper halves. Vertical glass panels flanked either side of the doors and ran across the top. Casey was about to ring the bell, when the door opened just enough to reveal a partial look at Richie’s wary face. How long had he been watching?

  “Hello, Richie. Ivy Carpenter suggested that I come see you today.” Casey raised the cookie bag. “She asked me to give you this. Said they’re your favorite.”

  Richie squinted at her. “You’re the girl from last night.”

  “Yes, and I didn’t kidnap or hurt Danielle. I’m trying to help the police find her.” His blank stare prompted her to go on. “Ivy wouldn’t have sent me here if she didn’t want me to talk to you.”

  Richie eyed the bag but still
didn’t move. Smiling, Casey raised the cookie bag. “Fresh out of the oven.”

  A glance over his shoulder, more hesitation, and, finally, Richie stepped back. What was he so worried about? Did he have company, or was he in the middle of Roadkill business? Casey entered the foyer and felt the nervousness all around him. She gave Richie the bag.

  “Danielle called a few minutes after nine last night and asked me to come get her,” Casey said. “Her line went dead before she could tell me what was wrong. Did she say anything to you?”

  Richie looked at her feet. “You’ll have to take your shoes off. My parents don’t like dirt.”

  It seemed they didn’t like untidiness either. Three pairs of slippers were neatly arranged on a black mat, next to the welcome mat she stood on. The burnt sienna ceramic tiles were spotless. Casey slipped off her shoes, then peeked into the living room.

  “I’m not allowed in there,” Richie said.

  Small wonder. Casey counted five porcelain vases depicting mountain landscapes. The two largest sat on the hardwood floor, the other three on polished cherry wood tabletops. Did anyone ever use this room?

  She followed Richie toward the back of the house. He opened a door and flicked a light switch. They descended dark, carpeted steps. At the bottom, a sixty-inch TV screen dominated the room. Richie plunked himself onto the brown leather sofa, while Casey took a nearby chair.

  “I take it you haven’t heard from Danielle?” she asked.

  “Nope.” He opened the bag of cookies and peered inside.

  “What time did she call you last night?”

  He pulled out a cookie. “The cops already asked.”

  “I’m the other person she called, so I’d like to put a timeline together.” Casey sat forward. “Everything we say will be our secret, okay?”

  Richie hesitated. “You have to promise.”

  “I promise.” For the moment. “Do you know anyone who would want to hurt Danielle? Someone who might have been really mad about her street-racing articles? Or maybe she saw something at the donut shop the other night?”