The Nick Lawrence Series

by Brian Shea

  “Good luck with that.” Nick shook his head, punctuating the truth in his statement and then continued, “So, back to what I was saying. You need to come clean on this if you want any semblance of court consideration.”

  Richard Pentlow let out a long breath and sat silently with his arms folded. Nick waited patiently, allowing the quiet of the room to add its own pressure.

  His arms unfolded and Pentlow rubbed his moist hands on his jeans. He looked up but barely made eye contact and said, almost in a whisper, “Okay. I’ll tell you everything. Just please help me.”

  Nick wondered if that little girl had pleaded with him while she was tied to the bed in the motel. He swallowed hard, suppressing his overwhelming desire to hurt the man seated across from him. He didn’t give way to this emotion, knowing that it would only stall his chances of finding the men responsible for selling those girls. Nick clicked his pen and waited for Pentlow to begin.

  10

  Rusty Harrison slumped against the side of his Ford Crown Victoria as Jasper lapped at his Evian-filled bowl. He repeatedly ran his fingers through the soft hair atop his partner’s head. The dog’s ears flickered with each pass. Rusty’s eyes were vacant, and he used this quiet moment to try to clear his mind. Seeing the lifeless girl had rocked him to his core. He could still feel her blood on his hands even after rinsing them three times. He looked down, wondering if they would ever feel clean again. He’d seen bad things before and was aware of the aftermath, knowing that feeling would stay with him for a long time to come.

  “How are you holding up?” Jones asked, with genuine compassion.

  The dark humor of the police had a line that would not to be crossed and dead children topped that shortlist.

  “I want a part in this,” Harrison said, looking directly into the eyes of the investigator.

  “You’ve done your part. And I really appreciate your help,” Jones said.

  “You can use me any way you see fit. I just want to be there when we grab the guy who did this. Jasper has a hankering for assholes like him,” Harrison said through the tension in his jaw.

  “I’ll see what I can do. It would be nice to have a dedicated K9 asset.”

  Jones’s phone chimed, and he pulled it from his pocket, pressing it to his ear as he stepped away from Harrison.

  “Did he talk?” Jones asked.

  “Yes. He gave me what he knew, but I think we might get more specifics when we hear back from Digital,” Nick responded.

  “Let me guess. Some website with a number and a cash exchange?” Jones said, knowing the pattern for these types of deals.

  “Pretty much. It sounds like the description of the handler is close to that given by the manager for the Jose Torres guy who’d rented the room. Pentlow claimed that it was the first time he had done this. A lie, but I do think this is the first time he used this particular service provider,” Nick said, knowing that by the time a pedophile was caught there was typically a long line of undocumented victims.

  “Why do you think this was the first time he used this girl’s handler?” Jones asked.

  “When I explained that the girls in that motel room were probably being managed by very dangerous people, he was terrified. The fear of reprisal seemed to really shake him,” Nick replied. “He told me that the Torres guy took a picture of his driver’s license.”

  “Makes sense. These girls are definitely not locals. It looks like Pentlow’s perversion might’ve crossed paths with an organized trafficking group,” Jones said, stating the obvious.

  “Yup. How long until your digital guys have something back?” Nick asked. He was prepared to offer the Bureau’s services but knew that Austin had a comparable unit.

  “Top priority, especially with the latest,” Jones responded, realizing he hadn’t yet relayed the information about the dead girl. An oversight, understandable under the situation.

  There was a morning breeze and the plastic covering her body flapped, making a rustling sound. A sad reminder of the small child who lay lifeless underneath it on the concrete rise behind him.

  “Huh?”

  “There was an eighth girl. We ran a track to find her,” Jones said, slowly bleeding out the information. “I called you but realized you were probably at the jail. No cell reception.” Jones knew Nick wouldn’t feel slighted but added it anyway.

  “How old?”

  “My guess is between nine and eleven,” Jones said, quietly.

  “Is she willing to talk?” Nick asked, with an air of optimism.

  “Can’t. She’s dead,” Jones said. Silence followed. The two hardened men knew there were no offerings to be made. No ease could be given to the harsh reality of the girl’s death.

  “How?” Nick asked. Any trace of his previous hopefulness was dashed from his tone.

  “Stab wounds. Multiple.” Jones drifted away, deep in thought.

  “Jesus. I’m in my car. I’ll meet you out there in a few.”

  “Don’t bother. Homicide is here. Their techs have already started processing the scene. It’s still our case, but they want to ante in on the body.” There was a discernible annoyance in Jones’s voice.

  Nick had worked with Jones enough to know that having another detective unit poking around his case was cause enough to send the rotund investigator into a brisket-eating frenzy.

  “Well, it’s still our case, right?” Nick asked, somewhat rhetorically.

  “Of course,” Jones said.

  “Then let’s work the shit out of it and find the bastards that did this!”

  Nick was rarely animated, but this case hit his hot button. He was fired up. Never good to be on Nicholas Lawrence’s bad side.

  11

  “What do you plan to do with her now?” Bill Parsons asked.

  “She needs rest. I’m going to bring her to my office. I’ve got a small bedroom that comes in handy for situations like these.” Anaya paused, her mind drifting back to when she had been in a similar circumstance.

  She’d always wished somebody had shown her the same kindness. It was one of the many reasons she had chosen the path she was on now.

  She snapped out of her momentary lapse and back to the present. Anaya continued, “Mouse will probably have more to say once she recoups a bit. Sleep is a magical thing, when it comes to recovery.”

  “Mouse?” Parsons asked, raising an eyebrow at the social worker’s comment.

  “Yup. Mouse. That’s what she told me to call her. I like it. And I like her,” Anaya said, softly.

  “Don’t go getting too attached, you hear? You know that as soon as ICE gets involved, they’re going to send her back,” Parsons said. There was an odd combination of sincerity and cynicism in his comment.

  Anaya could not tell from Parsons interjection where he fell on the immigration debate. Nor did she care. Politics were for politicians. Her concern was for people. And right now, the only person who mattered to her was Mouse.

  Mouse slept for the entire drive to the Child Protective Services headquarters building. Anaya watched as she trailed behind her like a child being marched off to bed. Anaya’s office space was quaint. She spent most of her time out of it, doing fieldwork. She’d always felt that she could do more good being out with the people she was trying to help rather than hiding behind her computer, as many of her coworkers did. She’d realized this was why she was an island of isolation. It had always been that way for her both professionally and personally. She hoped the latter eventually changed, but so much of her was invested in the children she worked with that little time was left for anything else. An unbalanced life, her last attempt at a boyfriend had taunted.

  “I know it’s not much, but it’s pretty comfy. Trust me. I know,” Anaya said to Mouse, as she opened the door adjacent to her desk.

  “Thank you,” Mouse said. She entered and plopped onto the cot. It barely creaked under the minimal weight of her tiny frame.

  Mouse rolled away from the open door. Away from Anaya. And curled into a
ball, making herself seem even smaller. Anaya lay a soft blanket over her and retreated, pulling the door shut.

  Mouse lay still. Her eyes flickered but sleep would not come. The darkness of the room lifted as her vision adjusted. No furnishings but the bed and a few paintings. It was better accommodations than she’d had in a long time. Too bad I won’t be staying long.

  “She’s sleeping. She is going to need time. I don’t know. Maybe she will never talk about it. Just give me a little bit before you make any calls. It’s not like she’s a fugitive on the run for murder. She’s a kid.” Anaya spoke quietly, but the thin walls did little to mask the words.

  It was obvious to Mouse that the nice woman must be speaking on the phone because no other voice could be heard. Who was she talking to? Probably the cop. And Anaya was wrong about one thing… I am a killer.

  The door to the office closed and Mouse could hear the clack of the kindhearted Anaya Patel’s shoes as she walked away. She knew she would not see her again, and for some reason, the thought made Mouse sad.

  She sat up and gathered the extra clothes Anaya had laid out for her. She put them into the black backpack that had also been gifted to her and slid the straps over her slight shoulders. She crept out into the office, leaving behind the first bed she’d slept on in weeks. The office door was unlocked. Opening it cautiously, she scanned the surrounding cubicles. The few people around did not seem to notice or care. They were busy going about their routine.

  Mouse moved quickly but smiled as she passed the other workers. They must have been accustomed to small children walking around the office area because they smiled back and continued about their business. She heard Anaya’s voice coming from a break room. The smell of burnt coffee filled the air as Mouse shot past the open space and headed directly for the elevator. No halt command came from Anaya. She’d navigated past without detection. It would hopefully be a while before Anaya realized Mouse was gone. She’d heard her tell the person on the phone that she needed rest. That would give Mouse an opportunity to get some distance between her and the police.

  The small girl stood outside the white concrete exterior of the Child Protective Services building and allowed her eyes to adjust to the bright afternoon sunlight. Mouse didn’t want to be found and sent back. Or worse, found and killed.

  She had her mother’s promise to keep.

  12

  Nick saw Jones pacing in front, pulling hard from the cigarette in his lips. He parked the Jetta and walked to him.

  “Those things will kill you,” Nick called out, half-joking.

  Jones chuckled. “Gotta die of something. At least I’ll enjoy myself until the end.”

  Nick didn’t really judge the man. He’d smoked overseas. It had been in contradiction to his fitness regime, but in war the rules didn’t apply. It was a way of passing time. He’d grown up listening to his father’s story, told repeatedly, about his youthful days as a chain smoker. His dad would then finish his retelling in dramatic fashion, stating that on one particular day the surgeon general announced that smoking cigarettes could cause cancer. He told Nick that he quit that day. Never took another drag. His father’s strong will had been instilled in him. Nick had heard his father retell that story too many times to count. As a young man he used to roll his eyes, but now that his father was gone, he’d give anything to hear it one more time. Nostalgia gave way to reality and he walked with Jones to the building’s front doors.

  The doors opened and the two were overwhelmed with the familiar scent. Four employees were busy with a mop, the tendrils of which were soaked a dark red. A sloshing sound could be heard as it brushed over the surface.

  “Now, this is where we will break this case wide open,” Jones said, slapping Nick on the shoulder.

  The familiar tingle trickled down to Nick’s fingers.

  Nick smiled wide and said, “I like the way you think. But if I worked every case with you, I’d probably be medically retired.”

  “Let’s do this,” Jones said, moving into the threshold of The Salt Lick and past the round stone-encased grill.

  A pitmaster’s mop slapped against a large rack of ribs, sizzling as the hot embers took on the excess.

  The two sat on a bench in the seat-yourself-style restaurant. Nick got the pulled pork, and Jones ordered enough brisket and burnt ends to feed three people. This case had obviously pushed Jones’s BBQ intake to an all-time high, especially with it turning into a homicide.

  “Where are we at with this thing?” Nick said, bringing the focus back.

  “Like I said on the phone, Homicide is going to work the body. Better for us so we can stay on the move. The detective in charge of that side of it is Roger Williams. He’s good. No ego. He’ll keep us in the loop throughout. No pissing contest and backstabbing with him,” Jones relayed.

  “That’s good news,” Nick said, thankful at the prospect that office politics would not interrupt the flow of their investigation. He added, “All right, so they’ve got the body. Based on what you saw, how much do you think they’re going to be able to get from it?” Nick asked.

  He knew every scene told a tale, but unlike the movies, it was sometimes an elusive one.

  “Not sure. Time will tell, but if I was a betting man then I’d guess there won’t be much in the way of usable evidence,” Jones said. “Especially if we’re dealing with pros.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and some morning jogger or reluctant witness will call in with a description of the doer. I doubt it, but wishful thinking,” Nick replied.

  “Our best bet is going to come from one of the girls. They’re at headquarters now, and CPS has already started the process. I’m going to check in with them after we get something in our stomachs,” Jones said.

  The large detective salivated at the mention of his upcoming meal and rubbed his tummy for added effect.

  “I’ve got one stop to make and then I’ll meet you over there,” Nick said, the frustration of that stop evident in his voice.

  Jones seemed to have registered this but refrained from inquiry, further distracted by the plate of food that slid into his view. Foregoing the fork, Jones grabbed a burnt end and dropped it into his mouth. The two ate in silence, replenishing their bodies for the arduous task ahead.

  Nick had done his research before making his move back to Texas. Pine Woods retirement community seemed like a perfect balance of comfort and medical assistance. His mother made the move with a dignified grace, as she’d done with all of life’s hurdles. It hurt Nick to have her leave the home where she’d spent the majority of her adult life. The place she’d raised her family. Memories of those times were fading rapidly.

  The hardship his mother endured with his brother’s suicide had been unbearable. No parent should ever have to bury their child, but she did. And she somehow managed to shoulder its weight. The loss of Nick’s dad seemed to tip the scales. He’d always felt that the dementia was her brain’s way of sheltering her mind from the terrible sadness.

  Nick’s overwhelming sense of failure was crushing. The reality was that he couldn’t give her proper care at home anymore as her mental health deteriorated. He uprooted her and hauled her out here, forcing her to leave behind any reminders of her past. Nick couldn’t help but feel wholly responsible for her current decline in behavior. Constantly he questioned himself as to whether they should have stayed in Connecticut. At least I’d have Izzy.

  “Is Doctor Whitmore available?” Nick asked of the receptionist positioned at the arced information desk.

  “Let me check.” She thumbed through a chart on her desk and continued, “Yes. Give me a second and I’ll have him paged for you. Can I have your name so I can let him know who’s waiting?”

  “Nicholas Lawrence. He’s expecting me.”

  “You can wait over there, and he should be with you shortly,” the woman said with a gentle smile.

  “Thank you.”

  He turned and eyed the lobby’s waiting area. It was a typical arrange
ment of assorted couches and chairs scattered around a small wooden coffee table. Nick drifted past the pile of magazines that covered its surface and proceeded to a Keurig set against the far wall. Even in the heat of the day, Nick never shied away from a cup. He never understood the iced-coffee craze. It was meant to be hot and that’s the only way he drank it.

  “Mr. Lawrence,” Doctor Whitmore said as he entered the lobby from the secured medical door.

  “That was quick. Thanks for seeing me, Doc,” Nick said, turning to greet the doctor.

  Nick extended his hand as the machine behind him hissed out the steaming black liquid.

  “I’m glad you made it. I know your schedule is demanding and unpredictable,” Whitmore said.

  “Today is already starting to be one of those days. I figured I should stop by during a lull because I may not be able to get back here for a few days,” Nick said. His mind drifted to the image of Room 204 and then to the thought of the dead girl.

  “I understand. Well then, let’s not waste time.” Whitmore gestured toward the white double doors that read “medical personnel only.”

  The two walked slowly through the hallway containing the advanced-stage dementia patients. Some were seated in chairs outside their doors, vacant expressions pasted to their aging faces. No signs that they registered the world around them as the duo passed. The doctor stopped outside a room containing one bed. Inside, Nick could make out the shape of a woman. She lay to the side, facing away from the door. She looked so frail. So small. Nick’s heart sank.

  “She’s fine. After her outburst earlier, she has been resting. It took a lot out of her. Not so much from the physical exertion, more as a result of the mental energy expended in her moment of anger,” Whitmore said in a calm and reassuring manner.

  “So, this is where you want to keep her?” Nick asked. A tinge of Nick’s own anger began to build inside him, but it was directed more at himself and not the doctor.