See Them Run (Lucy Kendall Thriller Series #2): A Lucy Kendall Mystery Thriller (The Lucy Kendall Series)

by Stacy Green

  Chris was out of his car now, casually leaning against it, looking like a stupid model in the falling snow.

  Preacher’s knocking grew louder as he took out his cell phone and made a call. I couldn’t hear what he said, but judging from the short amount of time he spoke, he left a message.

  The door remained locked.

  Finally, Preacher shrugged, pulling up the collar of his coat, and headed back in the direction he’d come from.

  I followed, motioning for Chris to stay across the street and mirror us.

  Past the coffee shop and the organic food store, around the corner and past the local art gallery. Preacher’s strides were more meaningful now. He was angry. He wasn’t used to being stood up.

  He headed for the subway station.

  I glanced at Chris, still across the street and keeping pace. He shook his head.

  Of course he didn’t want me to go on the subway with Preacher.

  And of course I was going to do it.

  I checked the route. This was the Broad Street line, taking us into North Philadelphia. The subway stop wasn’t even four blocks from the Rattner hotel.

  My phone rang as I bought my ticket. I hit end and boarded the car. It smelled vaguely of stale sweat and fried food, but it looked relatively clean. And packed. Preacher took a seat next to an older woman, and slumped down with his knees apart in the slouch typical of today’s youth. My phone vibrated in my pocket as I wedged my way toward Preacher. Forced to stand, I grabbed the rail nearest him.

  Up close, I saw his blue silk tie and his gold watch. His nails were nicely manicured, his fingers flying across his phone.

  I slipped my fingers inside my hat and pulled out a few blonde tendrils of the itchy wig I wore. Assuming Sarah had told Preacher about me, I couldn’t take any chances. Pushing my glasses up on my nose, I made my move.

  “Nice watch.” I pitched my voice higher than my usual husky tone.

  Preacher barely glanced up. “Thanks.”

  “And your suit. A man with good taste.”

  He shrugged. I twirled the blond lock of hair around my index finger, cocking my hips to the right. “I usually hate riding the subway, you know? But this is one of those days I’m grateful for it. Is that why you’re riding today?”

  Preacher finally glanced up. His eyes were a pretty shade of hazel, with long lashes. Nose a little too squat for his long face, his features slightly off-kilter but not unpleasing. “What?”

  Now that I had his attention, I gave him my best smile. “This is my usual route, and I don’t remember seeing you. And I’d remember.”

  His turn to analyze me. Still in my early thirties, I looked close enough to his age to warrant his interest, but old enough for him to feel flattered at my interest. “I only make this trip once a month. Business.” He said it with pride, his chin rising a notch.

  “Oooh.” I licked my lips, still twirling my fake hair. “A successful businessman at such a young age? Impressive. What do you do?”

  “Human resources.”

  The words were spoken so smugly, layered with condescending humor at an inside joke Preacher believed only he understood, that I struggled for my next response.

  “Like hiring and firing people?”

  “Something like that.”

  My phone vibrated again in my pocket. I ignored it. “That’s very cool. I always thought it would be awesome to have that kind of power. Instant respect, you know?”

  “Damn right.” He gazed at me again, brazenly looking me over from head to toe. “What about you?”

  “Me?” I tried to sound surprised he’d ask. “Nothing special. Just a working girl trying to make ends meet.”

  He grinned and sat up straighter. “Working girl, huh?”

  “Oh God, not like that.” I wished I could blush on command. “I just meant I don’t have a career. Nothing like you. I’ve just a got a job that barely pays the bills.”

  He waited.

  “Cashier.”

  “Honest work,” he said. “But not exactly middle class.”

  “I wish. I still gotta live at home with my parents. It’s embarrassing, but it’s where I’m at right now. Some days I think I’d do about anything to get out.” I looked down at my boots, pulling my shoulders up toward my ears. I didn’t know why I’d led Preacher this way. I needed to get his name, find out where he lived. If I was lucky–or really stupid–I’d get him to invite me over for a drink.

  He crossed his long legs, still studying me. My skin crawled, my muscles rippling with the urge to walk away from his scrutiny. I’d been ogled by plenty of men, but Preacher’s brazenness had a feral quality that set my nerves on edge. I forced my mouth into a tight smile and managed to maintain eye contact.

  Preacher nodded. His pink tongue slid across his bottom lip. There was a freckle on the corner of it. “Anything, huh?”

  I glanced down at my shoes, tucking a lock of the wig behind my ear. “Pretty much.”

  “I might be able to help you.” He glanced down the aisle and then stood up. He was taller than Chris, and I found myself staring at the knot on his tie. It was perfect. “Here.” He handed me a generic-looking business card that read Meretrix Consulting, with a local phone number. “My company is thinking about expanding into a new market. Different age bracket.” He smiled. “I think you’d do nicely.”

  My mouth felt as if I’d eaten sand. I wondered how many of his contacts knew the name of his alleged consulting firm was Latin for prostitute. “Really?”

  “Sure.” He touched his index and middle finger to my chin and turned my head to the right. My blood pressure sky rocketed not with fear but with fury at his audacity. He was checking out his potential merchandise. I kept perfectly still. If I moved, I’d end up laying him out on the dirty subway floor.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You’re just about right, with some training.”

  The car slowed. We were stopping in North Philadelphia, and my gut told me Preacher would exit.

  He dropped his hand. “You decide you want some extra work, you call me. You could make some real money.”

  “I didn’t get your name.”

  “Ryan.”

  “Ryan what?” I fluttered my eyelashes and tried not to puke.

  “Ryan’s enough. What’s yours?”

  “Lily.” Shame at using my dead sister’s name flared. At least the blush on my neck would play off as attraction.

  Another wide smile from Preacher as the car stopped. “I think I’ll be hearing from you soon.”

  He strutted off the train and onto the platform. As the doors snapped shut, I caught site of a familiar face waiting to greet Preacher: Riley, the fifteen-year-old prostitute. Still looking cold, she gave Preacher a careful hug, as if she were afraid of dirtying up his suit. He patted her back, and she held out her hand. He grinned so arrogantly I nearly charged off the bus, and then he handed Riley a few bills. The young girl with the wispy black hair and cheekbones a model would envy gazed up at Preacher with adoration. He motioned for her to walk, and they headed down the street just as the train jerked into motion. He was the pimp she wanted information for.

  Nauseated, I sank into his vacated seat. During my years with CPS, I saw the same thing over and over again. Teenage girls, and sometimes young women, brought in for prostitution. None of them trusted me or the police, and all of them wanted to get back to their pimp. In their muddled heads, he was the only ally they had. It didn’t matter if he beat them or didn’t pay them. He gave them a place to live, and he played their vulnerabilities until they were in his control. It wasn’t a whole lot different than a domestic violence situation. The battered wife just wants to stay with her husband, and the beat up prostitute wants her pimp.

  Without talking to Riley, I had no idea if Preacher had coerced her or kidnapped her or she’d stepped willingly into the life. I knew she wouldn’t want to talk, but I had to find a way. If she was that close to Preacher, she’d know more about his life than Sarah.
r />   My phone vibrated again, and I shook myself, pulling my phone out of my pocket. Three new voicemails and two nasty texts from Chris.

  I asked him to pick me up at the next stop.

  He didn’t look at me as I dropped into the warm Audi. I said nothing, instead watching the fresh snowflakes fall. Chris jumped onto the interstate, the scenery changing as we drove toward the higher-income areas of the city. My mind wandered, wondering what Preacher was doing right now. Did he treat the boys like he’d treated me? Did girls like Riley realize how degrading Preacher’s actions were, or did they see him as the good guy? Or was he like the street pimps, demanding obedience through physical threats?

  What would he expect of me when I made the inevitable call?

  The car slid to a stop, and I realized we were in front of my building. Chris hadn’t spoken a word. I unfastened my seatbelt. “Listen, I did what I had to do, okay?”

  He closed his eyes, shook his head. “See you.”

  That’s all I was going to get. I sighed. I’d call and try again later.

  10

  I’d rather be at home in pajamas, eating a can of Spam with the cat trying to sneak a bite, than sitting in my mother’s dining room. But she’d been nagging at me for a family dinner, and the exhaustion of playing Preacher’s game finally broke my will.

  My mother’s identity was wrapped up in her public persona, which meant her house must be full of beautiful things and be perfect at all times. Dirty dishes weren’t allowed to sit in the sink, nor could there be any clothes waiting to be laundered. Much less children with sticky hands or muddy feet or soiled faces. What would the neighbors think if any thing or person in Joan’s life was less than pristine? Why, that would make her look bad.

  Sitting in one of her ornate and expensive and miserably uncomfortable dining room chairs, I banished the diatribe I’d listened to my entire life. Dwelling on things did nothing but make me even more bitter. I had enough of that to go around.

  And my stepfather had me worried. Once a solidly built, ruddy-faced general contractor, his retirement had brought nothing but health issues. Atrial fibrillation was the latest issue, combined with high blood pressure. And the man was shrinking, I was sure of it. Once over six feet, he’d lost at least an inch in height and more in girth. Even worse, his skin had the waxen, gray cast of someone sliding toward the grave.

  “Mac.” I nudged his outstretched foot with mine. Somehow he’d never quite fit into my mother’s immaculate presentation. He slouched when he wanted, put his elbows on the table, and walked around in day old socks. His arms were dotted with the scars of skin cancer removal–a hazard of too many years of hard labor in the sun–and he was missing the ring finger on his left hand from a gruesome electrical accident. When I first met him, he insisted he’d lost it picking his nose. I was a miserable high schooler with little use for my mother’s latest boyfriend, but something about the earnestness of Mac’s face and the cocky lift of his chapped lips endeared him to me. That and his licking his fingers instead of using the dainty napkin my mother handed to him.

  “You look tired.” I bobbed my head in the direction of the kitchen where my mother toiled over something that probably tasted like sand. “Joan of Me-land wearing you down?”

  He chuckled at the dig at my mother. She’s a tad self-absorbed at times, Mac always said. Because I loved him and felt immense pity for anyone living with my mother, I didn’t argue that she was a Class-A narcissist who couldn’t see past her own issues. “Your mother’s been real good to me these past few months. I get tired so easy lately, and she don’t complain nearly as much as you’d expect.”

  My forced smile made my cheeks hurt. Inside, I sank into a familiar drowning pool. My mother’s skill at making a person grateful for her faults was second to none. I should know because I spent years searching for the problem within myself before finally realizing the truth.

  Arguing the point with Mac wouldn’t change things, so instead I focused on him. “What’s the doctor doing about your lack of energy?”

  “Says there’s not much we can do if I want to keep my heart regular. He’s got it slowed way down so it stays steady. But that means I don’t have no get up and go.” He shrugged. “But only sometimes. Good days and bad days, and that’s part of life, isn’t it? Just have to find the positive and keep going.”

  I rested my hand on my chin. Mac couldn’t be more different from my mother. With his cheery outlook in the middle of a shitstorm, he reminded me of Kenny. My mother was all downers and criticism. Despite her self-obsession, she excelled at identifying a person’s flaws and weaknesses.

  A shudder slithered down my tensed back. I’d done that very thing to Sarah. A skill learned from Mom.

  I couldn’t be like her. I refused.

  “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” My mother breezed into the dining room looking like a modern version of June Cleaver. Not because it came naturally, but because June was the perfect hostess, mother, and wife. Traits my mother was deluded enough to believe she shared with the fictional character. The navy scoop neck dress she wore boasted a large, white bow in the center of the chest, and its knee length skirt was hemmed in matching white. Very cute and far too sweet for my mother.

  “It smells delicious,” Mac said.

  It did smell edible, which made my stomach growl. Mother sat down at the end of the table. Her dark red hair, once as brilliantly auburn as my own, was cut in a stylish pixie that softened the angular planes of her face. In the last few years, her once round, full cheeks had thinned, the bones more pronounced. An effect of aging, she lamented.

  “Lucy, I still can’t believe you’re finally joining us.” Mother crossed her legs and gazed at me. She still wore blue contacts, giving her eyes an unnatural glowing effect. “I’d say it’s a small miracle.”

  I grinned and matched her dry tone. “Well, I thought it was time I graced you with my presence.”

  Her smile thinned. “I don’t know that grace is the word I’d use.” She let her stony gaze slide over my jeans and cable knit sweater. The gray cashmere fitted my curves nicely, as did the jeans. “You could have dressed for dinner.”

  I looked down at the sweater. “This is name brand, Mom. And it’s comfortable.”

  She lifted her right shoulder in a half-shrug. “I suppose. But the color isn’t right for you. Are you putting on weight?”

  My face throbbed once more. Joan had always been consumed with her body, trying every new diet and exercise fad. Her obsession paid off, and her figure remained svelte even as she got older. I didn’t take it that seriously. Happy as a size ten and nursing a love affair with pasta, I wasn’t going to starve myself to make her happy. My phone suddenly vibrated; I slipped it out of my pocket and read Kelly’s text. She had new information on Preacher. I wanted to excuse myself, but disappearing now would give Joan even more to complain about.

  “Lucy.” She’d taken her affronted tone, the one she used when she didn’t have my full attention. “Answer me.”

  “Nope.” I spoke through gritted teeth.

  “Well, you need to choose more flattering clothes then.” She fingered the ends of the bow on her dress. “I wish you could get down to your college weight. You looked so perfect then. I got so many compliments on how pretty you were.”

  Now, she watched me with bright eyes, wanting an argument. Wanting me to agree and to tell her I’d watch myself.

  I didn’t engage.

  Instead, I grabbed a dinner roll and slathered it with butter. “When’s dinner going to be ready? I’m starving.”

  Joan’s nose curled, and Mac’s mouth hitched in a satisfied grin. Before she could answer, my phone vibrated. Grateful for the break, I snatched it out of my purse without bothering to look at the screen.

  “Hello?”

  The caller cleared his throat. “Lucy, it’s Detective Todd Beckett.”

  Whatever energy my nonverbal sparring with Joan had dredged up evaporated. I hadn’t spoken to
Todd in weeks, and greeting me with his official title had an ominous edge.

  “Well, long time no speak.” I kept my tone light. “How are things?”

  “This isn’t a social call.” His businesslike voice set my teeth on edge. “I need you to come to the station.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Do you know Sarah Jones?”

  In retrospect, I wished I’d said no. Bought myself some time. “Yes. I worked for her.”

  “Right,” Todd said. “She was found murdered in her salon.”

  11

  Sarah was dead. Fury sent my left eye into a maddening twitch. She’d been my best shot at getting to the source of the trafficking ring. With enough time, I could have wheedled more information out of her, perhaps even isolating her until she felt I was her only ally. She’d known more about the operation than she’d told me, and now that knowledge was gone.

  I felt very little for her as a person. The choices she’d made stripped her of her humanity, and so I saw nothing to mourn. A needling voice in the back of my mind–the one that very rarely stopped talking, even when I was supposed to be sleeping–reminded me that the same could be said of me. I chose to ignore the comparison.

  Todd Beckett. No doubt he started salivating with glee as soon as he heard I’d been employed at the salon. He believed I’d killed at least two known pedophiles, and of course he was right. Thankfully, he lacked the evidence to prove it. Sarah’s murder meant a new chance for him to dig into my business. But it was hard to feel any animosity toward Todd. He’d treated me fairly in the end, and he was a good cop. An honest one. That probably spelled eventual trouble for me, but I still admired him.

  At the police station, the desk sergeant was clearly waiting on me. I gave my name, and her eyes flashed wide for a brief second before she fixed her expression into one so stony it was obvious she knew my name and was trying way too hard to hide the fact.