Isabel's Run

by M. D. Grayson

  “First things first,” Toni said. “Let’s focus on finding her for now. Then we’ll worry about where to take her.”

  I nodded. “Good plan. Let’s do it.”

  So we started hunting for Isabel.

  Chapter 2

  “JEEZ—THIRTY-FIVE yards? I can barely see that far,” Detective Goscislaw “Gus” Szymanski said as I recounted the story. Gus and his boss, Lieutenant Dwayne Brown, were treating Toni and me to an early birthday lunch. I was a week away from turning the big three-oh.

  “That’s right,” Dwayne agreed. “Thirty-five yards—that’s why God invented sniper rifles with big scopes.”

  “How long did you have?” Gus asked.

  “Two seconds,” Toni said.

  “Holy crap,” Gus said. “Takes me longer than that to move my coat back just to reach my gun.”

  “We didn’t have to draw,” Toni said. “We got to start from low ready.”

  “Still,” Dwayne said, shaking his head. “That’s crazy fast for that distance.”

  Dwayne heads up the SPD’s Special Investigations Unit, and Gus is his partner and assistant. They work a variety of cases—mostly those that SPD brass deems politically sensitive. Dwayne and Gus make an unlikely pair. Dwayne’s a forty-something, good-looking black man with more than twenty years on the Seattle force. He’s a sharp professional. The fact that he’s naturally smooth in front of a television camera makes him a good representative for the police department in touchy situations. I’ve known him for six years—we used to work together from time to time when I was with the U.S. Army Sixth Military Police Group (CID) stationed at Fort Lewis in Tacoma. Dwayne was a detective at the time, and we found ourselves assigned to the same cases on four or five occasions. Although the years had caused Dwayne to become a little less lean than he used to be, he was still an impressive figure, not to mention a very slick dresser.

  Gus—now Gus was a different story. Toni and I had met Gus last summer when we worked on the disappearance case of Gina Fiore. Like me, Gus served in the army as a grunt before going into law enforcement. He was with the First Infantry in Desert Storm in Kuwait and Iraq in the early ’90s. Dwayne and Gus are a picture in contrasts. Dwayne is refined and classy-looking. Gus usually looks a little disheveled–he'll never be accused of being either refined or classy, no matter how hard he tries. And, more than most, he’s completely smitten with Toni.

  “And you went first?” Gus said to Toni.

  “Yep.”

  “And you hit the target?”

  “In the chin. Just below actually—in the neck. A seven-point shot.”

  Dwayne whistled. “That’s damn good,” he said. “Damn nice shooting with a handgun at long range. You beat the clock?”

  “One point eight seven.”

  “Son of a bitch,” he said. “That’s awesome. You shoot what—a Glock, right?”

  “Glock 23,” she said.

  “That’s the .40-cal?”

  “Yep.”

  Dwayne held up his hand, and Toni happily high-fived him. “Damn good shooting,” he said again. He turned to me. “And you?”

  “I went next.”

  “No shit. I figured that out all by myself. What happened when you went next?”

  I didn’t say anything. Finally, Toni stepped in. “What happened is deadeye here raised his gun and fired in almost the exact same motion. Hit the target right between the friggin’ eyes. One point zero four seconds.”

  “From thirty five yards?” Gus said with appreciation. “Head shot—right between the eyes, no less—from thirty-five yards? In one second?”

  “One point zero four from beep to boom,” Toni said. She shook her head. “I knew I was screwed when I missed the center mass ten ring. I left him an opening.” She glanced at me. “He doesn’t need much.”

  “Well,” I said, “I wouldn’t exactly call your shot a miss. Your guy wasn’t walking away.”

  “Yeah, but I liked the way you rubbed it in. You could have played it safe and shot center mass for a relatively easy ten. But noooo. Instead, you pop the target right between the eyes. Show-off.”

  “Damn,” Gus said.

  “Well,” Dwayne said, setting his Coke down, “I don’t know about you, Gus, but I feel much safer knowing that these two sharpshooters are around. Bad guy’d be a fool to take us on now.”

  “Let’s hope it never comes to that,” I said. “I sure don’t want to have to shoot anyone.” I meant it. I had enough of that in Afghanistan and Iraq to last a lifetime.

  “True,” Gus said. “Still—better to be able to shoot and not have to than to have to shoot and not be able to. Here’s to sharpshooters!”

  None of us were drinking alcohol, but we still touched glasses.

  “And you want to know the really amazing thing?” Gus said.

  “What’s that?” Dwayne answered.

  “This hot-shit shooting is coming from a guy who’s nearly thirty years old!”

  Dwayne and Toni laughed. “That’s right!” Dwayne said. “Next thing you know, you’ll be needing glasses—bifocals even. Happy birthday next week.”

  “Hear, hear!” Gus added.

  We clinked glasses again.

  “Thank you, guys,” I said. “I feel older already.”

  “Yeah,” Dwayne said. “’Bout time you settled down.”

  I smiled.

  “Damn straight,” Gus said. “Clock’s tickin’.” He looked at Toni, then back at me. “Speakin’ of which, now that the two of you are together . . .”

  “Something that makes me very happy, I might add,” Dwayne said.

  “Me, too,” Gus added. “Although you know my door’s always open, darlin’,” he said to Toni, “’case this guy here does you wrong.”

  “Good,” Toni said. She looked at me and smiled. “I may have to hold you to that.”

  “Right,” Gus said. “Anyway, now that the two of you are together, what’s next? Any plans?”

  I shrugged. “I’m happy,” I said. I turned to Toni. “Real happy. You happy?”

  “Not counting you outshooting me? Again?” she said. “Other than that, yeah, I’m happy.” She leaned over and kissed me. I get a little light-headed whenever she does this. People always look at Toni—men and women. But when she kisses me, or even holds my hand, then they look at me, too. And then they must say, “I don’t get it.” I admit, it’s a pretty heady experience. I kissed her back, and then I turned to Gus.

  “There,” I said. “See? We’re both happy.”

  “I can see that,” he said.

  “Plans will take care of themselves,” Toni said. She smiled at Gus. “But I appreciate the offer of a safety net.”

  Gus beamed.

  “Guess we’re all happy, then,” Dwayne said.

  I thought about it and realized I’d never been happier—not even close. Toni and I had “crossed over” from friends to something much more than friends the previous Saint Patrick’s Day when I was laid up in the hospital with a concussion. Up until that point, we’d been classmates, and then friends, and then working associates. And the four years up to that point had definitely been hands-off between us, out of respect for the doctrine of separation of work and romance. That’s the way I was taught in the army.

  Of course, all that changed on Saint Paddy’s Day. Something about lying in a hospital bed—coming to grips with your own mortality—makes you understand what’s important and what’s not in your life. Lying there, hooked up to all those machines, a light had suddenly gone on, and I had realized then that Toni was the most important thing in my life. Being mortal, I didn’t necessarily have unlimited time to get my ass in gear and let her know. I realized then that my own “no fraternizing” rule was bullshit, and it was going to cost me the best thing I’d ever known. Thank God I came to my senses and broke free. Life is short, and it’s best not to waste time.

  So Toni and I may have been hands-off before then, but we’ve damn sure been hands-on ever since. I glanc
ed at her. She looked back and smiled—a real heart-melting, reserved-only-for-me smile that made my heart flutter. Yeah, I was happy. I was damn happy.

  But the question of plans was an interesting one. What was supposed to happen next? No doubt, things were good between us. Yes, I’d taken what for me was a pretty big step by initiating our relationship a few months ago after literally years of status quo—a “one giant leap” kind of thing. And yes, we were both happy. Cool. But did that mean I was supposed to keep the relationship moving forward? Or were we now entering the next round of status quo? And if so, how long should I expect it to last? Years again? Or was I already supposed to be taking another step?

  The problem surfaced—if only in my mind—every time she came over. We were “together,” but we didn’t live together, nothing like that. She had her place; I had mine. She stayed over from time to time—that was nice (damn nice, actually), but eventually, she always ended up going home—to her home, that is.

  All these questions—questions I never even dreamed I’d be considering until a short while ago—were starting to weigh heavily. Then again, I was approaching thirty. Clearly, I was in uncharted territory.

  * * * *

  After lunch, Toni and I went back to the office where I spent the next half hour answering e-mails and returning phone calls. I entered a few invoices into our accounting system—as a business owner, I wear many hats. As I looked over the check register and checked my bank balance, it became pretty clear that Logan PI was going to be needing some work pretty soon—the kind of work that paid. I’ve long since come to understand that the business’s cash position doesn’t grow in a nice steady line. Far from it, actually. It bounces up and down in a wild sawtooth kind of way. Fortunately, most times, it trends up. When we get ahead of the curve, I draw funds out and stash them into my savings reserve. That’s the good news. The bad news is that with four employees on the books plus the office rent, the overhead is relentless—the meter never stops ticking. We need to keep this machine busy, that’s for sure. Looking at the computer screen, I could see that if we didn’t start pulling in some paying jobs pretty soon, I’d have to tap the reserves. I thought back to the couple of times in the past four years that I’d had to do that. Going backward leaves a bad taste. I hate it.

  My phone rang, startling me back to the here and now.

  “You ready?” Toni asked over the intercom.

  “Yeah, I’ll be right out.”

  Speaking of non-paying jobs, we’d decided to make a quick run up to Isabel’s house in Lynnwood. Her mom worked swing shift at a nearby hospital, and we hoped to catch her before she left for work. If we could spend a few minutes with her before her husband got home, we hoped she might answer some questions for us. I grabbed my keys and a notebook, and we hit the road. We slogged our way through Lake Union traffic and twenty minutes later, we were on I-5 headed north.

  “What do you think we’ll find?” Toni asked as we crossed Portage Bay on Lake Union.

  I thought for a second. “From what Kelli told us, my guess is we’ll find a pretty dysfunctional family.”

  Toni nodded. “Safe guess. Do you think the woman will talk to us?”

  “Hard to say,” I said. “Remember, we’ve only heard one side of the story—and that second hand to boot. What Isabel said to Kelli is a serious charge, to be sure. But just to be safe, I don’t think we should be jumping to any conclusions as to whether or not it’s true—at least not until we talk to some of the other people involved. We don’t have enough information yet.”

  Toni nodded again. We drove north for ten minutes or so without talking, listening to more of the new Brandi Carlile album.

  We had just passed the Edmonds ferry off-ramp at Highway 104 when Toni turned to me.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  I glanced at her. “For what?”

  “Thanks for taking the time to look into this.”

  I smiled. “For you? Anything.”

  “That’s nice, but this job doesn’t pay, and I know we need some paying jobs.” I hadn’t gone over our financial picture with Toni, but it didn’t come as any great surprise that she’d been able to figure it out. She’s quick, and she doesn’t miss much.

  I shrugged. “We’ll be fine,” I said. “We have some things coming up.”

  She was quiet for a few seconds, and then she said, “Well, thanks, in any case. You don’t have to do this.”

  I smiled. “I want to. It’s important to you. And if it’s important to you, it’s important to me. Besides, I’d probably be all over this anyway—runaway abused teenager and all. That’s not really something you can say no to. Let’s just do a little checking around and see if there’s anything there.”

  * * * *

  We got off the freeway at the Alderwood Mall Parkway exit in Lynnwood. I hung a quick left on 196th and three minutes later, we pulled up in front of Isabel’s house on 192nd Street. The neighborhood was a subdivision of single-family homes that looked to have the inexpensive, low-detail style that was prevalent in the early ’70s. Still, the landscape was mature and, for the most part, the homes were well kept. Isabel’s home at 4268 was one of a handful of exceptions—it was definitely in need of repair. The brown paint on the two-story home was faded to a grayish tan. The white trim was peeling. The door, also white, was worn and scuffed. The front lawn had more holes and weeds than lawn.

  A light blue, ten-year-old Nissan sat next to an old pickup truck in the driveway. The primer-covered truck clearly hadn’t moved in quite some time—if the dirt and cracked windshield weren’t enough of a giveaway, the fact that both tires on the right side were flat was. The truck had a definite list and appeared to be banking like a motorcycle into a gentle right sweeper.

  “Home, sweet home,” Toni said.

  “It’s a shithole,” I agreed. “But I’ve seen worse.”

  Toni nodded. “I believe it.”

  We got out of the Jeep and walked to the front door. I rang the bell.

  A few seconds later, an attractive woman opened the door. She was a couple of inches shorter than Toni, and she had dark, wavy hair. She was dressed in business clothes—royal blue blazer, a green skirt with a white top. She looked to be perhaps forty years old.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said. “Are you Marisol Webber?” Kenny had looked up the property owner records before we left so that we had full names.

  As soon as I spoke, the woman’s eyebrows arched, and she sucked in her breath.

  She nodded. “Are you police?” she asked. “Are you here about Isabel? Did something happen to her?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said, shaking my head. “We’re not the police.” I handed her my business card, and Toni did the same. “We’re private investigators,” I said. “But you’re right—we are here about Isabel. We wondered if we might be able to ask you a few questions about your daughter.”

  “You’re not police?” she asked again. She studied our cards carefully. I shook my head. “No, ma’am.”

  “We’re here because a friend of Isabel’s contacted us,” Toni said. “She said Isabel is missing, and she’s concerned about her. We were asked to look into things.”

  “Who?” Marisol asked. “Who hired you?”

  We didn’t want to reveal Kelli’s name to Isabel’s mother, and especially not to her stepfather. “I’m afraid we’re not able to say,” I said. “Our client asked to remain anonymous. At least for the time being. They want to protect their privacy, but they are very concerned about Isabel. I’m sure you understand.”

  She looked at me, confused.

  “Would you mind if we came in and asked you a few questions?” Toni said.

  Marisol hesitated. She glanced up and down the street quickly. “Okay,” she said. “But just for a few minutes. I have to go to work.”

  “Thank you,” Toni said.

  Marisol led us inside to the living room. The home was clean and neat. Toni and I sat on an overstuffed, floral-print sofa. Mari
sol sat in a chair across from us.

  “Marisol—,” I started to say.

  “Please, call me Mary,” she said. “I’m not used to Marisol anymore.”

  I smiled. “Okay, sorry, Mary.” I opened my notebook. “Can you start by confirming for us that Isabel is missing?”

  She stared at me for a moment. “She’s not home, if that’s what you mean.”

  I cocked my head. Word games? C’mon. “Alright. Let me ask it another way,” I said. “Do you know where Isabel is?”

  She looked out the living room window for a second and gathered her thoughts before turning back to me. “She left,” she said. “Isabel ran away from home—maybe a month ago now.”

  I nodded. “Thank you. That’s our understanding as well, but I needed to confirm it with you.”

  “During that time, have you heard from her?” Toni asked.

  “She called once and left a message on my voicemail,” Mary said. “She said she was okay and that she’d call back later.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “A couple of weeks ago.”

  “And has she called back since then?”

  Mary shook her head. “No. Not yet.”

  “Does she have a cell phone?” I asked. I knew she did, but I wanted to hear what her mother had to say.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you tried calling her?”

  “Yes, of course. It just goes to voicemail. Isabel doesn’t call me back.”

  “Have you filed a missing person report with the police?” Toni asked.

  Mary stared at her for a moment. “No,” she said.

  “Why not?” Toni asked.

  “I can’t control her,” Mary said. “She’s sixteen. She’s making her own decisions now.”

  I arched an eyebrow and then shook my head. “I’m not sure the law’s going to look at it the same way you do,” I said. “Matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that the law would say you’re supposed to file a missing person report if your minor child disappears.”

  She said nothing, and the quiet began to grow in intensity.