Little Girl Lost (Georgiana Germaine Book 1)

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “Manuel, I’m Detective Germaine. I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  He stared at the floor and nodded.

  “It’s no big deal, Manuel,” Lenore said. “Answer her questions, and she’ll go on her way.”

  “Manuel,” I said, “were you aware Jack ... I mean Doctor Donovan, was murdered a couple of nights ago?”

  He shook his head, but his hands told a different story.

  They were shaking.

  “Have you been sending emails to Doctor Donovan?”

  “No.”

  “Someone lit Doctor Donovan’s office on fire last night,” I said. “His office assistant, Shane Curtis, is dead.”

  Lenore slapped a hand over her mouth. “I ... I can’t believe it. Why didn’t you say anything when you got here? What happened?”

  “We’re not sure yet.”

  “We may have had our issues with the doctor,” Lenore said, “but Shane was one of the sweetest boys we’ve ever met.” She elbowed Manuel’s arm. “Right? Tell her how much we liked him.”

  Manuel’s face was so flushed it looked like it was about to erupt with a downpour of emotion. He knew something I didn’t, maybe something Lenore didn’t know, either. If I pushed a bit more, it may have been enough to tip him over the edge.

  “Manuel?” I said. “Whatever you can tell me, no matter how big or small it seems, helps. Is there anything you want to say?”

  He wiped a hand across his sweaty face, looked at his wife, and said, “I’m ... so ... sorry, Lenore. We didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident.”

  “You didn’t mean for what to happen?” I asked.

  “Manuel,” Lenore said. “What is going on? Did you do something you shouldn’t have?”

  “I mean, I kinda did,” he said.

  Lenore smacked him on the side of the head. “Whatever it is, spit it out.”

  “What the doctor did ... what he put us through ... it wasn’t right,” Manuel said. “We lost our little girl, and then we lost the lawsuit. No one cares about us or our family or what we’ve gone through.”

  Lenore grabbed Manuel by the shoulders and shook him. “Look at me, Manuel. What did you do?”

  “I mean, I didn’t do anything,” he said. “I just ... I ... I helped. I didn’t know anyone was going to get hurt.”

  “Helped how?” I asked.

  Downstairs, I heard a loud crack.

  I glared at Manuel. “Who else was involved? Franko?”

  Manuel lowered his head.

  He seemed so frail and harmless, more of a mouse than a rat. It was hard to believe he’d done anything, even though it was clear he had.

  I raced downstairs.

  Lenore chased after me.

  She proclaimed her brother was innocent and begged me to leave him alone.

  There was no one in the basement when I got to it. A metal floor lamp had been tipped over onto the ground. The glass lampshade on top of it was broken and had chipped off a quarter-size piece of tile floor upon impact.

  “Franko,” I called out. “Where are you?”

  There was no reply.

  I turned to Lenore. “How many rooms are down here?”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, Detective. You don’t even know the whole story yet. I’m sure my brother can clear all of this up.”

  “How many rooms, Lenore?” I said. “And which one is his?”

  “Two rooms.” She pointed down the hall. “He’s staying in the one on the right.”

  I barreled down the hall and looked behind door number two. It was empty, but the window was open, and the screen had been yanked from the frame and tossed onto the bed.

  Franko was gone.

  I called for backup and told Lenore and Manuel to remain inside the house while I surveyed the neighborhood. The street was wide and littered with houses. Franko could have been anywhere. I slid inside the Jeep and drove down the road, hoping I’d catch sight of him. For several minutes, I saw nothing of note. Then I got lucky. A man I assumed was Franko, dressed in a neon-yellow shirt, bright enough to see on the foggiest of days, made the mistake of exiting through the front gate of a yard at the end the Navarros’ street. He turned toward the Jeep, saw me see him, and ran down the middle of the street in the opposite direction—a rookie mistake.

  I assessed my options.

  Option one.

  Pull over and chase him.

  Option two.

  Slow him down by shooting him in the leg.

  Option one was less desirable, and option two was careless on several levels, including the fact I was in a populated neighborhood.

  I exercised a third option and decided a love tap was in order. Not a big one. I didn’t want to cause serious injury. I just wanted to stop him. I pressed on the gas pedal until the front of the Jeep caught up with him and then tapped him in the buttocks. He launched a few feet into the air and came down on his chest.

  Ouch.

  The tap had been a bit more forceful than I’d expected. Still, it achieved the desired effect. I threw the door open, exited the Jeep, and walked over to him. He turned toward me and yelled something in Spanish. I didn’t know Spanish. I did know whatever he’d just called me, muchacha loca, couldn’t have been polite.

  “Are you Franko?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “You can answer me, or this can get worse,” I said. “Up to you.”

  His defiant eyes showed little concern for his own welfare, but I knew he cared. Everyone always did. I lifted my shirt enough for him to see my hand resting on my gun.

  “Doctor Donovan was my bother-in-law,” I said. “He’s dead. Someone killed him the other night and then abducted my niece. You know what I think? I think there’s a chance that someone was you. You can either tell me where she is, right here, right now, or I’ll end your life.”

  “I didn’t do it!” he said. “It wasn’t me.”

  “You are Franko, though, correct? You’re Lenore’s brother?”

  “I am.”

  It was a start.

  I told myself I wouldn’t have shot him.

  I was a better person than that, a better detective.

  I was fair, and I was just.

  But if his demeanor had indicated he’d taken Lark, I wasn’t certain what I would have done. I bent down to scoop Franko and his injured derriere off the ground so I could zip-tie his wrists. At that moment, Harvey rolled by me so slow I could see the shocked expression on his face as he assessed the scene and realized what he thought I’d done. I’d known him for so long I assumed nothing I did would shock him.

  I was wrong.

  He pressed a hand to his forehead and mouthed something like, “Oh, no. She didn’t. She wouldn’t.”

  But I had done it, and given the same situation, I’d do it again, even though I knew there’d be hell to pay.

  Lenore, Manuel, and Franko were taken to the police station and put into separate rooms. Manuel and Franko were questioned first. Afterward, I was convinced they hadn’t taken Lark, and they hadn’t murdered Jack. Manuel and Franko may have been idiots, and they may have been guilty of arson and the murder of Shane Curtis, but they had no information about Lark’s whereabouts.

  The interrogation revealed days earlier Lenore and Manuel had received a call from their lawyer. Their lawyer had spoken with Jack’s lawyer, and he was almost certain Jack would be found innocent of any wrongdoing in their daughter’s death. The Navarros’ lawyer agreed, which meant there would be no reckoning for Jack, and there would be no payout. A day after the devastating news, Franko came to town. He filled Manuel’s ear with ideas of revenge, a way to get back at Jack without going through court. A plan was hatched to teach Jack a lesson he’d never forget. No one would get hurt, and no one did at first, until their plan fell apart.

  The night before, Manuel and Franko had parked their car across the street and waited for Shane to leave the office. Shane locked up a few minutes after five and drove out of the parking
lot. Then amateur hour began.

  Manuel and Franko walked behind the office, busted a window, and climbed through it. Before they had the chance to torch the place, the front door to the office opened, and Shane walked in. He’d forgotten his cell phone. Shane reached for it, saw Manuel and Franko, and froze.

  Shane offered to take his cell phone and go, no questions asked, but a paranoid Franko grabbed a crystal paperweight off the desk and bashed Shane on the side of the head. Shane fell to the ground. When the reality of what had just happened set in, Manuel decided to abort the mission. He suggested they place an anonymous call to the police using the office phone and get out of there. At first, Franko appeared keen to go along with the plan. Manuel slipped back out the window and looked back, expecting Franko to be in tow. What he saw instead was Franko light a match and hold it over the office curtains.

  Manuel yelled, “Nooooo,” which Terry and I had heard.

  But it was already too late.

  Distraught, Manuel decided once he got home, he’d call the police and turn himself in. Then Franko had said, “Lenore has been through enough. She just lost her daughter. What do you think will happen if she loses you too?”

  He didn’t know what she’d do. But thinking about it had been enough to keep him quiet until now. I wanted to believe Manuel would have done the right thing in the end. I wanted to believe he would have confessed. Maybe I gave him the benefit of the doubt because he’d been through so much already.

  I didn’t know.

  What I did know now was who sent the emails to Jack from Lenore’s account. Firestarter Franko.

  It was Lenore’s turn. I entered the room where she had been waiting and explained the details we’d learned from her husband and brother. She didn’t want to believe it, even though she did.

  “Manuel and Franko both said you knew nothing about their plan to burn Doctor Donovan’s office down or what had happened when they did,” I said.

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “If I would have, I would have stopped them. Even if Shane hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have wanted them to take it as far as they did.”

  “You went a bit far when you vandalized Jack’s car.”

  “I know. It was stupid. And now I can’t help but wonder if what I did led to what they did last night.”

  “You may have started it, but they made their own choices, and I imagine they left you out of the loop because they knew what you’d say.”

  She stared at the table and frowned. “What will happen to them?”

  “They’re being booked for arson and felony murder. Your brother initiated it all, so odds are he’ll face more prison time. Hard to say until it goes to trial.”

  She pressed her face into her hands and sobbed. “What do I do now? I’ve lost everything.”

  “I know what you’ve been through is rough,” I said, “but there is life after this, even after all you’ve faced. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t know it was true.”

  “How could there be? I have nothing left to live for anymore. I have nothing and no one.”

  Right now, she needed someone on her side, someone willing to fight for her.

  “Hang tight for a minute,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I walked to my office and grabbed a business card out of my desk drawer. I had no intention of helping Franko. He needed to pay for what he’d done and do his time for the life he took. But Manuel didn’t deserve to share his fate.

  I returned to the interrogation room, held the card out to Lenore, and said, “Here’s the name of someone who can help.”

  Lenore wiped her tears on her sweater, took the card, and stared at it. “Tiffany Wheeler. Who’s she?”

  “An attorney. A good attorney.”

  “I already have an attorney.”

  “This isn’t a lawsuit. You need a criminal defense lawyer. Tiffany’s the best I’ve seen. She’s tough, and she’s fair. She’s who I would call if I were in your position.”

  She pushed the card into her back pocket. “I love my brother, and I don’t want to see anything happen to him, but I could kill him for what he’s done.”

  “I understand his motivation. He was in pain because you were in pain. He just shouldn’t have acted on his impulses.”

  “I can’t even ... it’s all a ... I need a cigarette.”

  “Have one. You’re free to go.”

  “Can I see Manuel first?”

  “I can ask,” I said.

  “Would you?”

  I nodded and started for the door.

  “Hey,” she said.

  I glanced back. “Yeah?”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  I supposed I’d offered Tiffany’s card because I felt Lenore and I were connected on an empathetic level—one she couldn’t see and didn’t know about. There was a time when my emotions had mirrored her own. Today I’d questioned her while trying not to get swept up in problems that weren’t mine. But I had. I could feel it, the tense uneasiness fraying the marrow in my bones.

  “I’m just doing my job,” I said.

  “You’re not, though. You didn’t have to recommend a lawyer to me. Why did you?”

  “I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through and for what’s happening now. You deserve a fresh start in life.”

  A couple of hours later, I was on my way out of the police station, and Harvey stopped me.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Wheeler is in your office. He wants to talk to you.”

  Whatever Wheeler wanted, I assumed it wasn’t good.

  “How about I slip out, and you tell him I left before you had the chance to tell me he wanted to see me?”

  “He’d just ask me where you’re staying and show up at your place. Better here than there, right?”

  “How much does he know about what happened earlier today?”

  “Everything, I’d say. Franko Sanchez called his lawyer after his sister refused to let him use theirs, and his lawyer called Wheeler.”

  “Of course, he did.”

  There were few things I fancied less in life than a conversation with Wheeler. We had history, and it wasn’t good.The first time we met I was a pint-sized ten-year-old. He was my elementary school teacher. He didn’t like me then, and he didn’t like me now.

  Wheeler’s overall disdain for me began when his daughter, Tiffany, decided it was a good idea to steal a snack-size bag of Cheetos out of my A-Team lunchbox. I’d walked away to buy a carton of chocolate milk, and Tiffany seized the opportunity. She pinched my bag of chips and speed-walked away.

  I returned to the table, went to grab the chips, and realized they’d been taken. I slammed my lunchbox shut, crossed my arms, and glared at the potential offenders around me. Worried I’d place the blame on them, the two boys on the bench across from me raised their fingers in unison and gave up Tiffany and her location.

  Terrified, Tiffany shoved the chips beneath the elastic waistband on her skirt and made a run for it. The chips broke free soon after she took off. I could have snatched them up, returned to the table, and forgotten all about it.

  I could have.

  But I didn’t.

  In that moment, I no longer cared about the chips I’d lost. She’d attempted to savor a snack that wasn’t hers. If she got away with it, others may have followed suit, and I decided she needed to be taught a lesson.

  I caught up to Tiffany, made a fist, and swung, unaware of how much pack there was to my punch. Blood sprayed out of her nose and soiled the perfect pastel dress she was wearing. She looked down and screamed because she looked like she’d come straight off the set of Stephen King’s Carrie. To make matters worse, I’d broken her nose. From that day on, the kids at school called her Squirt, a name some still used to refer to her, even though we were all adults. Wheeler found out what happened to his daughter and transferred me out of his class. He told the principal he needed to keep me away from him becau
se he worried about what he’d do to me if he saw me.

  Such a grownup.

  Tiffany and I didn’t speak to each other for years. In our junior year of high school, I walked by the bleachers next to the football field and heard someone crying. I ducked beneath them and found Tiffany sitting on the ground with her head buried in her knees. An empty bottle of tequila was turned on its side next to her. The bits and pieces of coherent information she slurred in my direction let me know her boyfriend had dumped her that day because she refused to put out, and he was tired of waiting. The alcohol had been supplied from her friend Nina, who’d stolen it out of her parents’ cupboard when she went home for lunch. Nina left the bottle with Tiffany and trotted off to class, leaving Tiffany to fend for herself.

  I stayed with Tiffany for the rest of the day. When school got out, she still wasn’t sober, and she was apprehensive over the thought of going home. She was tormented over what her father might do if he found out about the tequila. So, I took her to my house, smuggled her into my room, and Paul helped me clean her up. I had her call her mother and say we were working on an assignment for school. By the time her nine o’clock curfew rolled around, I’d fed her a gallon of water, redressed her in some of my clothes, fixed her hair, and driven her home with strict instructions to say hello to her parents when she walked in, yawn like she was tired, and then head straight to bed. My plan worked, and from then on, we were friends.

  Tiffany forgave me for my crime of passion, but her father never did, which made the face-to-face we were about to have all the more awkward.

  I walked into my office and closed the door. Wheeler was sitting in my chair with his hands clasped over his sizable belly. He had even less hair on his head than the last time I’d seen him and about twice the wrinkles.

  What a difference a couple of years made.

  “You wanted to see me,” I said.

  He cleared his throat and made a humming sound like he was prepping the speech he’d rehearsed. “Did you or did you not run a man down with your vehicle today?”